Leashed

  Leashed

  Skye Warren

  Copyright 2012 by Skye Warren

  Smashwords Edition

  Sebastian is determined to save his sickly father from a painful death in a Northern mining camp. But first he’ll have to survive a night of interrogation and escape from this Ke’lan stronghold. Although it looks doubtful that either of those things will happen, as he hangs in chains—beaten but not broken. Then the handsome general arrives, offering precious water and promising to help... but can Sebastian trust him?

  Leashed is a 17,000-word M/M romance set in a dystopian world. This book contains explicit scenes of a sexual and violent nature. Not appropriate for anyone uncomfortable with these situations.

  “Skye Warren is a true mistress of dark and twisted love stories.”

  –Diana, The Forbidden Bookshelf

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

  Thanks to my wonderful critique partners and beta readers, Kary Rader, Bibliopolist and Nico Jaye, who make my work fit for public consumption and provide much needed encouragement.

  Chapter One

  Dark liquid dripped into a small puddle. Sebastian counted the time with each drop. He didn’t know whether it was dirt mixed with sweat or blood, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t enough to make him bleed out. Pity that.

  He couldn’t see much in the dark, dank room, but his future was mapped before him clear as crystals. He only had a few hours left to live. Maybe a few days, if he were unlucky.

  The methods of torture used by the Ke’lan, speculated about in hushed tones by the rebels, would soon consume him. Arrogant insurgents claimed they could withstand anything. Sebastian didn’t share their bravado, but no matter what they did to him, he would never tell a rebel secret. He didn’t know any.

  The black pool below him grew in his mind, and his heart beat louder and louder. This was the end, he thought. Over before it had begun. Thank the Gods.

  But then a creak resounded in the small chamber, and a man stepped inside. Not yet, more to bear. Another flimsy strand of hope to cling to. This was so much worse than death. Torture, pain, and the almighty fear that he would degrade himself to avoid them. May the Gods grant him dignity in his death as they never had in life.

  Sebastian felt the man’s cold regard like a wet slap, even though the shadows made it impossible to see outside the spotlight on his broken body. The slight tense of his weary muscles gave him away, sending a rattle through the chains that bound him. They had forced him to stand for hours until he feared his arms would dislodge from his body. Now his shoulders screamed in agony, as blood trickled back into fingers that had long since gone numb, but Sebastian remained silent. Even if he ground his teeth clean away, he would not give them the satisfaction.

  The man’s boots clopped like horse’s hooves on the dirty concrete, drawing closer in a slow, predatory march. Sebastian kept his eyes on the floor, not in obeisance—in defiance. Let this man break his body. It was nothing more than the Ke’lan had done for centuries. Nothing more than they’d done to his father.

  His father’s mind had cracked like the shell of an acorn, and Sebastian had grown inured to the daily beatings and the cries for forgiveness that defined his childhood. Now the man rotted away in a rebel prison while Sebastian died at the hands of their shared enemy, the Ke’lan. Neither of them had fought for the cause, not ever, but here they were, torn into halves the way a child might snap a twig and toss it aside.

  “What is your name, boy?” The rich words rolled over Sebastian like a caress. His seductive voice coated in honey, as if the man cared, but he knew that was a lie.

  His mind would not break. Whatever they did, they did to his body. He said nothing.

  Long, cultured fingers toyed with the torn hem of Sebastian’s shirt. The old, dirty fabric looked particularly dingy against the thick fingers that were obviously well-groomed. This man had access to water. He had soap. All Sebastian had ever had was a brown river in which all manner of organic and inorganic material floated.

  “Sebastian.” The man’s breath blew across the top of his downturned head. Of course it had been a trick. The Ke’lan already knew his name. They knew everything about him. Maybe they even knew that he had no information to give and were just toying with him, although he doubted they’d waste their time that way.

  “Sebastian,” he repeated softly, his deep baritone almost melodious, as if the syllables rolled from his tongue. “I am not your enemy. I want to help you.”

  Sebastian watched the manicured finger dip under the gaping neckline and touch his bruised ribs, soft enough not to cause more pain.

  “You’ve been hurt. Come, let me help. Tell me what we need to know, and I’ll take you down from there.”

  Sebastian’s shoulders shook, as if the mere thought of release prompted them to hope. He tried to block out the man’s words, knowing them to be false. He had nothing to tell, and even if he did, they would only kill him after. Freedom was a mirage.

  That finger skimmed over his chest, so lightly it really shouldn’t have sent sparks of heat into his body, then higher up his neck. They rested at his pulse, like a warning. His veins bulged against even that tiny bit of pressure. Animalistic panic clawed at his insides, ratcheting his heartbeat faster and giving himself away.

  The pointed touch turned into a caress that slipped along his jaw, and soft pressure tilted his head up. Sebastian forced himself not to betray his surprise as he looked up into the face of the most intimidating man he’d ever seen.

  He’d expected a ruddy-faced ogre with jowls, spouting threats of pain. Instead this man had icy blue eyes, an aristocratic nose, and lips that Sebastian could only call sensual. Unlike the generals with pasty skin and dandy hair, this man was darkly tanned with the shaved head favored by soldiers in the field.

  A warrior.

  “Sebastian Gabriel Marquez. I can protect you,” those sweet lips whispered. It was the fucking mirage again, promising things he knew were impossible. He would not find any comfort here. Maybe the man himself was a trick of his mind, conjured up from his sexual fantasies. A dark knight to save him, carry him away, and have his dirty way with him.

  The fact that he was even thinking about sex in this hellhole was proof enough of his lunacy. And yet, his body responded. The man’s heat, the clean, spicy smell, washed over Sebastian with a shiver of lust.

  His dick hardened. Well, that was the only part of him that could move. They hadn’t chained that down. Yet.

  Thank the Gods the man didn’t seem to notice. In fact, Sebastian would bet he had no idea of his appeal at all. He had exactly that sort of acute intelligence combined with a complete lack of self-awareness. Figured that this paragon of perfection worked for the Ke’lan. They took everything of value and twisted it for their own purpose.

  The man leaned in close and put his lips to his Sebastian’s ear. Sebastian wanted to tell him not to, that he was unwashed, but the intimacy felt too good to refuse. The cold metal and damp concrete enfolded him like a tomb, so that even the softest human touch elicited gratitude. Not that he would show that to his enemy.

  “Just tell us what we need to know.” The whisper tickled his ear and made his erection jump. “Then this can all be over.”

  The man pulled back. There was no trace of tenderness in his eyes. No gentleness in his stance. Were his words all lies? Of course they were. He was Ke’lan. The people who had stolen his family’s lands and tortured his father. People that would kill him all because he’d tried to free his father and gotten caught in an attack.

  Sebastian gathered the last dregs of saliva in his dry mouth and spit it into the man’s face.

  Those lips—lips he would probably dream about, if he lived long enough to sleep again—firmed in anger. The man reached up, and Sebastian couldn
’t help but flinch away from the impending blow. But all the man did was unlatch the suspension of his chains. Sebastian fell to the floor with a thud and writhed in agony as needles flooded his veins. The soft latch of the door and sudden feeling of emptiness cut through his pain briefly. He was alone.

  * * *

  Drake reclined in his chair and studied the prisoner on the screen. Sebastian huddled in a corner, shaking, probably not realizing he was being watched. Drake tried to harden his heart against the man’s obvious fear and his bravery, although the fact that it softened at all disturbed him.

  He’d heard that a boy had been caught in a raid. He’d accepted the assignment to question him, expecting some skinny kid who quivered at his boots. Instead he found a man, trussed up like some savage offering. A beautiful man. His body had responded in a way it hadn’t in years.

  Not since Lissa. Not ever again, he had thought.

  The insurgent’s body was lean, a figure born of years of hardship, but even so it was glorious. His clothes had been rags, and his body smelled of filth, and yet Drake could sense the tightly-leashed strength. Where another man would quake or beg or threaten, Sebastian wore his chains like jewels.

  Drake felt stirrings of lust for him, which was bad enough. Stranger still, he felt something like respect.

  Drake hadn’t always been a fighter. Many years ago he toiled the fields, foolishly believing he could stay out of the war and feed his family. His child had only been a beautiful raised belly on his wife when the rebels had burned his home, murdered his wife and child, and beaten him nearly to death.

  He had turned into a machine after that, a machine that fought for Ke’lan. He still didn’t care about the cause. He refused to attend the propaganda meetings or accept a promotion into the higher ranks. All he wanted to do was fight. To kill.

  Except tonight, when somehow, he didn’t seem to have the stomach to cause even pain. He didn’t want Sebastian to die. What was wrong with him?

  The squeak of his superior officer’s boots sounded behind him, and he felt the corpulent presence beside him. “Did you break him?” General Folsom asked.

  “Not yet.”

  Folsom peered closer at the screen. “How old is he?”

  “Fully grown.” Drake recognized the spark of interest in Folsom’s eyes and found he didn’t like it. He’d seen the men who were dragged unseeing from Folsom’s bed. The thought of Sebastian’s body being one of them made him sick. “I will manage him.”

  Folsom grunted. “See that you do.”

  After Folsom left, Drake closed his eyes against the pitiful sight on the screen. He almost hated to break the man. Strength was so rare these days. But if he failed, Sebastian would be passed along to one of the other interrogators, ones well-versed and infatuated with torture.

  Drake refused to let that happen. He would be the one to break Sebastian. He had to.

  He glanced back at the screen. Sebastian faced the wall in fetal position, still. The picture of vulnerability stirred that something in Drake, that heady mixture of lust and affection that should have died in him years ago. He would have the night to inure himself against such a weakness. Sebastian would also get to rest and recover his strength.

  Tomorrow they would battle. Tomorrow, Drake would win.

  * * *

  When Drake walked into the room, Sebastian scrambled to a stand against the wall. Far from rested, the man looked tired today. Drake knew they wouldn’t have fed him. He held the bottle of water out from his body as if coaxing a skittish animal.

  Sebastian eyed it warily.

  “Take it,” Drake said. “I brought it for you.”

  Sebastian mouthed something, then cleared his throat and tried again. “You first.”

  So, he speaks. Drake almost smiled. The distrust was an insult, but he wouldn’t hold that against a caged man. He took a swig from the bottle and held it out again.

  Sebastian gingerly took it, careful not to touch his fingers. He gulped down the entire contents, dribbling a wet line down the side of his chin. He twisted the empty bottle, made from recyclable hydrocarbons, into a ball.

  Drake raised his eyebrows. “Planning on using that as a weapon?”

  Sebastian let the crumpled bottle slip from his fingers, but as it clattered on the floor, he raised his chin. The message was clear: he may not have the means to fight, but he would not bow. Drake would see about that.

  In a minute, Drake wrestled the other man down to the floor. Sebastian struggled, a jumble of sluggish limbs and defiant spirit, but he was no match for Drake. Drake felt no victory at all. This wasn’t a fair fight. This wasn’t about fairness at all.

  “Come on, boy,” he said. “Tell me something. A new location. A supply route. You were in the rebel compound—you’ve got to have something I can use.” It didn’t matter to Drake what it was. Drake would insist it was all Sebastian had to offer and ensure he was released.

  He could see the boy’s tongue swish in his mouth, probably trying to spit at him again although the man really couldn’t afford to lose the moisture. Drake clamped his hand across Sebastian’s mouth. “Don’t even think about it,” he snarled. “I let you get away with that last night. I won’t be so lenient today.”

  Sebastian’s eyes flashed with impotent fury. His hips bucked up to throw Drake off, but he wouldn’t be dislodged that easily. The movement had a surely unintended effect, though, as Sebastian writhed between Drake’s knees.

  “Stop it,” Drake grunted. He tried to pin the man down, but that only brought their bodies closer together in a crude embrace.

  “Gods take you, stop moving,” he roared.

  Drake felt a puff of breath across his hand, and Sebastian’s eyes widened. The fury faded for a moment, replaced with shock and perhaps wonder. Sebastian rolled his hips pointedly, and Drake knew he had been found out. The hardness jutted against his pants, begging to be released. To feel that rock against bare skin. Fuck.

  Knowledge glinted in Sebastian’s eyes, and power. Drake knew the man was aware of his allure and of the effect he had on Drake.

  Sebastian blinked, slowly, deliberately. Seductively. How did he manage to imbue such a simple gesture as a blink with both sexuality and innocence?

  In contrast to Sebastian’s smooth delicacy, Drake’s body responded with all the subtlety of a sandstorm. His cock hardened to full erectness, but more than that, all his muscles, everywhere, tautened like a bow. His inner thighs were molded against the angular hips of the body beneath him. His palm was intimately sensitive to the full lips it covered. As he focused on the nerve endings there, he felt a slight curve of those lips—a smirk.

  Drake jolted back up off the floor, leaving the other man on the ground, not in a sprawl of defeat, but in a seductive pose that pulsed through Drake’s cock. “You little fuck,” he muttered.

  One eyebrow arched. “Is that an offer?” Sebastian’s accent plucked at Drake’s skin, drawing goosebumps.

  “If you tell me what I want to know, I’ll consider it,” Drake challenged.

  The man was unmoved. He pulled himself to a sitting position, all languid unconcern. “That would only work if I wanted you to fuck me.”

  Drake did not fail to notice the answering bulge in Sebastian’s well-worn britches. He flipped the smaller man over, careful not to touch his bruised ribs, and whispered into his ear. “Then maybe I should use it as a form of torture, hmm? How about I ream your ass, and then we’ll see if you feel like talking?”

  A whimper sounded below, though Drake would have sworn it was one of excitement, not fear. He wanted to be sure, so he skimmed along the man’s abs, felt them ripple at his touch. Then he delved lower, to the soft leather of his breaches and found large, hard proof that Sebastian was as turned on as he was.

  Drake squeezed gently. “Or maybe, if you don’t feel like talking, I should put your mouth to better use. What do you think of that?” The cock in his hand throbbed in reply.

  A red haze swept over Drake,
blocking out the dingy room, his sick purpose here, and even, for a moment, his pain, so that all he felt were the physical sensations of a beautiful man who wanted him back. He nibbled up the side of his neck. It tasted like dirt and sweat, for the man hadn’t washed anytime recently, but underneath it was a sweet flavor that made Drake heady with lust. He nibbled at Sebastian’s ear, took the lobe between his teeth.

  Sebastian let out a moan that left no question as to his participation.

  “That’s right,” Drake said, though it didn’t sound like him. This voice was low and hoarse and a little unsteady. “I’d let you lick me all over, over the head, sucking out the cum that’s already there. I’d let you get me good and wet, then lick at my balls, and lower to my ass. Would you do that for me, if I asked you to?”

  He didn’t expect an answer.

  “Yes, yes,” Sebastian moaned.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, rocking his erection into the sweet flesh of Sebastian’s ass. Too much muscle, too much bone, and not enough softness there, but Drake could fix that. He wanted to feed the man rich meats and sweet fruits and all the water he could drink. He wanted to wash him thoroughly with a warm washcloth and then order a hot bath for him, just for good measure. It was ridiculous. It was a fantasy, and his cock was just fine with that line of thought.

  “Please,” Sebastian whimpered. He reached a hand back, blindly searching for Drake’s head.

  Drake plucked his hand from the air and suckled on Sebastian’s fingers then trailed his tongue down between them, as if he could bathe the man with his tongue alone. When Drake swirled his tongue across the lines of Sebastian’s palm, the man cried out as if in pain.

  With frantic fingers, Drake undid the strings tying Sebastian’s placket together and felt a heavy weight fall into his palm. Hot and throbbing, it sent sparks of pleasure up Drake’s arm and into his mind where the feel of it, the memory, could never be erased.