Checkmate, p.15
Checkmate, page 15
Evland’s nostrils flare. “And this move…” He moves the pieces quickly, reassembling what Theo recognizes to be the play on the board where Evland briefly lost his composure. “Means you wish to fuck me like a dog.”
Theo’s vision hazes as the image takes him: Evland splayed out before him, pale skin pinked from the cold, limbs long and slender, skin soft and warm. Theo groaning as he pumps his cock before sliding it between the plump flesh of Evland’s –
Theo shakes himself. “Are these messages implied in every move?”
“It’s very complicated.” Evland rearranges the board again. “See, here? Had you moved the piece like this, it would mean you are threatening to choke me on your cock. Had I replied like this, it would have meant I would be suggesting we place ourselves so we can both pleasure each other simultaneously.”
The images fly through Theo’s mind, so blindingly fast he barely has time to register – and enjoy – them. Spoken in Evland’s quick and businesslike tone, they are oddly not stripped of pleasure, but only added, like Evland has done this before and he plans on doing it again. Like he thinks he is the dominant one here. Like he is a challenge.
“And the move you made?” Theo easily recalls the way Evland responded and picks up the red Queen, turning her between his thumb and forefinger. He places the piece. “What does that mean?”
Evland blinks, gaze shuttering. “That’s – that’s a second question.” He shuffles the pieces on the board again, setting them up for the next game.
“You are greedy with your answers.”
“I think I provided you a fair enough reply.”
Theo leans back in his cushion, spreading his legs wide – as if that could alleviate the ache pulsing from his groin. He releases a slow breath, careful to keep himself from returning to the images Evland planted in his mind. Did the Siacchian do this on purpose? To throw him off his game?
“You realize,” he says, mostly to buy himself the time needed to regain his concentration. “That Ravage games usually end in the same manner.”
Evland Childes stills. His lips press together, and he takes a moment too long to respond with an overly casual, “Is that so?”
“Don’t worry.” Theo watches his prisoner from lowered lashes. “I’ve made an exception for you.” This time around.
As they begin the next match, Theo watches each move Evland makes, wondering at possible meanings. The question must be clear in his eyes, for sometimes Evland meets his gaze as he places his pieces, the challenge clear, though the substance not. Theo’s wolf rises as Evland does so, eager to meet the dare, and Theo feels himself smiling as they play, an expression caught between joy and a baring of teeth.
However, if Evland’s strategy was distraction, it works far too well. The next game concludes shortly, Theo unable to dive into the world of Ravage, his concentration lost with Evland’s every reply. The examples Evland used to explain Cesse prior did not come up in this game, though Theo had watched carefully for them.
As Theo tips his king, a low, “Mate,” escaping his lips, Evland Childes leans forward, the words jumping from him: “Tell me of those other prisoners.”
“That’s not a question.”
Evland scowls. “You know what I mean.”
“And I also abide by the rules you yourself set,” Theo replies, grin growing wider.
“You didn’t strike me as the type.”
“You’re right – but you’re also special. That’s why I make exceptions for you, Evland Childes.”
Evland runs a hand through his hair and sighs, closing his eyes as if to summon the best words to shape into a question. He finally says, “Who are the other prisoners the Kiterans are holding in this camp?”
Theo waits until the man has opened his eyes before he replies. “There is no one else,” he says. “Just you.”
Evland blinks, tension draining from his shoulders as he slumps. He suddenly looks exhausted sitting there, the dark bags under his eyes standing out in stark relief. “Just me,” he repeats, and the words sound almost intimate to Theo’s ears.
Theo nods, still holding the man’s gaze with his own. “Only you.”
They sit like that, eyes cradling each other, for an unknowable amount of time, until Theo realizes Evland is blinking with exhaustion. Theo rises, unrolling his bedroll. “Come,” he says. “We need sleep.”
“I can make do here.” Evland gestures to the dirt floor.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Theo splays out the soft furs and thick leathers. “It’s wide enough for two.” He manages to bite back the words it’s actually wide enough for three because Evland is staring at him with a slack jaw.
Theo shrugs and makes his bed swiftly, lying on his back so he can stare at the tent’s ceiling, eyes tracing the canvas and wood poles. Across from him, Evland tries to make himself comfortable in the dirt, curling on the ground like an animal, limbs stiff as boards.
Theo watches the other man’s chest rise and fall, vision sharp enough to make out that Evland’s eyes are still open. He stills with surprise when Evland meets his gaze.
“Aren’t you afraid I will run?” Evland asks, sitting up and rubbing at his back.
Theo bares his teeth. “You saw what happened to the man who attacked you. Would you like to see what I would do to someone who pushes my patience even further?”
Evland shudders, and Theo fights an odd twist of guilt. The other man lies down again, this time on his back, his arms tucked close. He shivers.
After a few ridiculous minutes of this, Theo says, “You’re being silly. I’m not going to do anything to you beyond sleep and keep you safe from any potential attackers. But I can hardly keep you safe from hypothermia.”
When Evland Childes doesn’t reply, Theo adds, “You realize our children sleep like this, pressed together, to keep warm? It doesn’t have to be… whatever it is that you’re thinking.”
Finally, teeth chattering, Evland Childes says, “I wouldn’t get hypothermia in these temperatures.”
“Evland.”
Evland freezes at the sound of his name and then shakes himself.
Theo realizes he shouldn’t have addressed his prisoner like this – so informally – but it felt so right. Before he can add the final Childes, he stops himself.
It’s better this way. This way, he will trust me more.
Evland Childes rubs his hands together as he crawls on his hands and knees, burrowing into Theo’s bedroll. He shivers as he wraps himself in the furs. Carefully, he curls, pale limbs almost flower-like as he rearranges himself. With at least an arm’s length of space between them, Evland releases a contented sigh. His eyes flutter, shoulders finally relaxing from where they have been held around his ears.
“I can’t trust you,” he whispers, almost to himself as he tucks his arm beneath his head. He looks so delicate, his hand curled beneath his cheek like that. Warmth blooms in Theo’s chest, a feeling so bright, it chases away any lingering autumn chill.
“Of course not,” Theo agrees, voice just as soft. “I’m your enemy.”
“I’m your prisoner.” Evland’s eyes close, soft exhales pouting his lips. “Your only prisoner. Because you have no others.”
“No others. No one else. Only you.”
“Only me.”
The night envelopes them, and the world steps away, leaving only the cool embrace of darkness and the warmth of the bed. Theo isn’t sure when sleep drags his eyes closed, only that before slumber finally comes for him, he spends his time tracing Evland’s fine features with his gaze.
Chapter Eleven – Luka
Fangs gleam. Hot breath fans his face. Something wet smacks his cheek. The monster is here and it will eat him if he does not escape. He opens his mouth to scream, but as he claws away to run, he finds the beast is everywhere, pressing in on all sides. It grows closer, smothering him.
His heart shakes his chest. He will die if he does not run, run, run –
His hands fly up to fight off the monster, but as he fends the thing away, he realizes his fingers have grown a terrible fur. A bright, russet color, a color like the pelts his father carries home after the winter hunt. His nails arch, claws sprouting.
The monster isn’t around him.
It is him.
He screams –
“Evland.” Hands shake him into awareness. His head lolls, smacking against his chest, and his mouth snaps shut, cutting off the whimpers leaking past his lips. Luka blinks, shoving away from the man holding him – holding him?
Not again.
Luka inhales deeply through his nose, summoning the Cesse board in his mind’s eye. The perfect black and white squares, the smooth wood, the metal pieces carefully arranged and prepared for war – he is three moves into a game when those hands start shaking him again.
“Don’t go back to sleep, Evland.”
“Don’t touch me,” Luka hisses, opening his eyes. Theodori stares back at him, hair ruffled from sleep. It might be Luka’s imagination, but he thinks he sees a brief flash of hurt wrinkle the Kiteran’s face. But it’s gone before Luka can fully comprehend it.
“Was it the same dream?” Theodori asks.
Luka nods, shivering. He’s soaked in sweat. He pulls up the furs he has kicked down during sleep, wrapping them around himself. Theodori shifts, moving as if to help and then drawing away at the last moment, instead adjusting his own covers. “At least you timed it well,” Theodori says. “It’s nearly dawn.”
Luka bites back a sigh. For over a week and a half now, he has woken his captor with his pitiful whimpers and terrifying dreams nearly every night. Theodori might not always be there when Luka first wakes though – the Siacchians have taken to sending down groups of Aiutani to make weak attempts at skirmishes, and Theodori often goes to fend them off. Luka can hear their cries outside his tent, and though Theodori tells him only a few have died from these fights, Luka imagines the walls of Cesscounthe have grown shaded beneath corpses. Despite this, Theodori tries to be by his side when Luka wakes from his nightmares. Even yesterday, a still-bleeding cut on his brow, Theodori pulled Luka from his sobbing slumber, and Luka pretended not to be concerned over the Kiteran’s superficial injury.
For over ten days now, Luka has played Ravage and slowly snuck answers from his captor, scribbling down all that he can remember on notes he leaves for his mother at the far end of the camp. And for so long now… Theodori has comforted him as he shakes into reality, wide-eyed and terrified.
Each night, before sleep drags him back into the same twisted snare of claws, fur, and death, Luka tells himself he will wake peacefully. He will wake before this man holding him prisoner so he can assess the situation; he will observe Theodori’s tent properly, take in the various parchments at the writing desk or study the letters that the man pencils when he thinks Luka sleeps.
He might even finally take the chance to observe Theodori uninterrupted and unhurried. Purely for tactical purposes, of course.
And Luka has failed each night, instead awakened by strong, warm hands. He tells himself he doesn’t like how they feel, calluses rasping across his skin. But that would be a lie.
Hands that Luka is staring at now. Luka manages to jerk his gaze away from the strong fingers, the scarred palms, and the hair dusting the length of lean, corded forearms. He instead directs his attention to the blushing sunlight streaming through the tent, turning the canvas to an almost egg-like translucence.
“Speak to me, Evland,” Theodori says, easily reclaiming Luka’s attention. “You still have that frightened rabbit look on your face.”
Luka’s jaw snaps shut. “I have never looked anything like a lagomorph.”
“Of course.”
Eager to change the subject, Luka crosses his arms over his stomach. “What sorts of tortures are you planning today?”
It’s an unfair question and they both know it; Theodori has not laid a hand on Luka since they have started sharing a bedroll and has made it clear he never would… assuming Luka follows the strict rules of the camp. Namely, Luka is to never attempt to flee and always to speak the truth.
Two rules Luka has, of course, already broken.
Theodori runs a hand through his hair. Half of his golden locks have escaped his shoulder-length braid. He is perfectly rumpled, and it fills Luka’s chest with a strange warmth to look at him. Maybe he has indigestion.
“If you want an answer to that question, you’ll have to win a game,” Theodori says, his eyes drifting from Luka’s to the board. It has been set next to the bedroll for easy access, the pieces already arranged.
Despite himself, excitement shoots through Luka – like it always does. Though he loathes to admit it, he is falling into a routine with this man.
A routine that he’s using to his advantage; he is learning everything he could ever possibly need to know about Theodori Hunter Wolf-Born.
Luka adjusts his pieces needlessly as he recites the carefully gathered facts.
First: Theodori trusts no one. Octavian is his closest adviser, but even he is not privy to Theodori’s thoughts. Careful to hold everyone at arm’s length, his obsession to control the flow of information doesn’t simply stem from strategy, Luka has determined, but trauma. Luka gleaned as much when he pressed about Theodori’s family in an effort to learn about weaknesses. Upon supplying a curt, “My family is dead,” Theodori immediately ended the game. Luka didn’t see any point in pushing the issue if it would always lead to the end of a round of Ravage.
Second: Theodori is a well-trained leader. Though his soldiers do not smile as he passes as they do for Octavian, they sit up straight and pay attention. He is not liked, but respected.
Theodori so naturally falls into a leadership role that when Luka woke from a nightmare one night, Theodori said, “If you’re so afraid of being attacked, I can teach you to defend yourself.”
Incredulous, Luka replied, “You’re teaching me to fight?”
Theodori laughed. The noise was rich. Luka wanted to hear it daily – and hated himself for thinking as much. “Come here. I’ll show you.”
That afternoon, after their daily Cesse games concluded, Theodori positioned Luka’s limbs, hands warm. “Strike here, and here,” he would say. He curled Luka’s hands into a fist, calluses whispering across his skin. Luka, trying to focus, found the following evening, as he fell asleep, he did, oddly, feel safer.
Third: Theodori is young. This tidbit Luka gleaned one night when Octavian burst into the tent and growled that the Elders are growing impatient. The Elders wanted to send not someone who had a better track record of victories – for Theo was the cream of the crop – but the leader with the longest track record.
Fourth: Theodori has a terrible sense of humor. After a particularly long match in which Luka wrangled victory from Theodori with gritted teeth, Luka pressed to learn Theodori’s most valued thing.
“Thing?” Theodori repeated, a single bushy blond brow raised. “I don’t have favorite things. There are the things I use.” He gestured to his assortment of weapons, which Luka carefully avoided looking at directly. It seemed even staring at a knife could pollute his thoughts with impure stupidity and violent desires. “But favorite thing?” Theodori stroked his chin.
After some thought, he said, “Likely Geriin. Though she is hardly a thing.”
Flabbergasted – how could Luka have missed that Theodori had a woman on the side? – Luka said, “Geriin?”
Though it took another Ravage victory for Luka to pry the answer from his captor’s full, but tightly pressed, lips, Theodori said, “My horse.”
“Your horse is your favorite thing?” Luka spluttered. “But – but –” He waved his hands.
Theodori made that delicious chuckling noise that put wind beneath the butterfly wings in Luka’s stomach and said, “What?”
“How could a horse be your favorite thing?”
“Maybe you have to meet her to understand.”
And perhaps it had been the late hour – it was well past midnight by this point, they had been playing Ravage for the entire day and nearly half the night – but Theodori led Luka outside the tent. They crossed to the edge of the camp bordering the Kiteran’s hastily built wall and drew to a halt before three enormous horses.
As a child, Luka had seen a horse exactly once: when he had joined his father on the annual fox hunts. The creatures terrified him then, and they terrified him now; easily towering above him with enormous hooves and broad backs. They twitched as he approached, eyes too wide as they raised their heads and flared their nostrils.
“Calm yourself,” Theodori instructed. “They can smell your fear.”
Luka shot Theodori a glance. You can, too, can’t you? he thought, though he said nothing, too focused on trying to calm his breathing.
Theodori approached the smaller of the three horses. She was a dark creature, made nearly invisible in the moonlight, though she bore a pale white star on her forehead. He scratched her nose and muttered something to her that sounded pure Kiteran, the words rolling from his tongue.
“This is Geriin. She is my favorite thing in this world,” Theodori explained as he ran his fingers through the horse's dark mane.
“But,” Luka began, blinking. “What about Octavian? Isn’t he your ma – er, I mean – your… your… man?”
He had not missed the way Theodori would disappear for long periods with the man in the small hours of the night and return with his braid mussed, pants undone. Or the way Octavian paid a little too much attention to Theodori’s hips as he walked or his hands as he gestured. Such sights ignited a rotten feeling in Luka’s stomach, like a festering wound that rose up and bubbled in his throat.
“Octavian?” Theodori laughed. “I wouldn’t call him my man. I’d much rather ride my horse than ride Octavian any day.”
Luka’s cheeks burned as he looked away. He had thought them lovers, and he wasn’t sure how he should feel to learn they were just… using each other for their flesh. Such acts seemed better reserved for the conclusion of a Cesse match.
