Wolf's-own: Weregild (37 page)

"
Fen
.” A growl, and dark eyes narrowed with worry. “This isn't what you—"

"
Fuck
you,” Jacin grated, and he shoved himself in. “Always telling me what I need, what I am, what I'm
made
for, teaching me how to
fail
and nothing more, but you never really gave a shit, you only—"

"For fuck's sake—
Fen
!"

"—ever wanted someone to love you,
worship
you, but you wouldn't give any of it
back
, you never—"

"
Fen
!” A sharp shake this time, enough to rattle his teeth, then: “Who are you seeing, Fen?"

And Jacin blinked, shut his eyes tight, then opened them warily, and dark eyes had gone to old bronze again, so he looked away. “I....” Confused. Hovering on some kind of edge, and he had no idea if he should let himself go over it or not.

"Open your eyes, Fen.” Malick's hands—
Malick's
hands—slid up, fingers tangling in Jacin's hair. “
Look
at me, damn it."

The fingers tightened, held Jacin still when he would have pulled away. Instead, he opened his eyes, blinked, and squinted past the blur and distortion. Whispered, “Please,” and wished he knew what he was asking for.

"Who do you see, Fen?” Calm on the surface, but a little shaky beneath it. “Say my name."

Jacin swallowed, teeth clenched tight, because his chin wanted to quiver. Looked into light-brown eyes gone dark with concern and pain and compassion. Licked his lips and said, “Malick,” thin and reedy, “your name is Malick,” because he knew, no more blurring, no more mourning one who shouldn't be mourned, no more wishing for things he shouldn't want, and Malick's grip might have slipped, but he'd
tried
. Beishin's hand had swatted away that bright little life, Jacin's hand had failed to rise against his master—
You did this, little Ghost
—because he'd needed, and he shouldn't have, shouldn't now, but his mouth opened, breathed, “Malick,” again, because it felt necessary to make it clear. “I need to... I can't—” He sagged in Malick's grip, wilted against him, and whispered again, “
Please
."

Because it was Malick—
Malick, not... him
—and Malick had made it all go away once before.

Staring, drowning in silence, in nothing, the deadness inside him welling up into his throat and making it hard to breathe. He watched Malick watch him back, soft but measuring, trying to decide if Jacin's mind had finally snapped altogether.

Then, finally: “If this is what you need, then,” Malick whispered, and he let Jacin kiss him again, deep and heavy, as Jacin pushed in, in, in, trying to obliterate himself inside skin and bone and sinew.

Your emotions make you weak, little Ghost
, and he knew it,
knew
it—they cut him down, turned him grasping and desperate, even when he couldn't feel them, and it wasn't fucking
fair
.

"No,” Malick breathed against Jacin's mouth. “Not a ghost, Fen, understand me?” Like Jacin had said it out loud—had he?—and latched on with his teeth, sank them into Jacin's bottom lip. “You're alive, and I know you don't want to be, but you're
here
."

Talk-talk-talking, he never just
shut
the fuck
up
, but his hands were moving, sliding over Jacin's back and pulling him in until their hips met with a heavy bump. A tingle of pain flared just a little in Jacin's leg as Beishin's erection slid against his hip through rough trousers, so Jacin let him keep talking.

"You can't be alive and a ghost at the same time, Fen. One or the other. Right now you're
here
, with
me
, and you're going to
stay
here—got it?"

Who are you going to see tonight while I'm fucking you?

Sick nausea curled in Jacin's gut, and he fisted his hands in hair that wasn't quite right between his fingers. “Why d'you
care
?” he nearly screamed, but he didn't have the breath for it.

Wrenched away, and forced to look into eyes that kept sliding from dark-dark-dark to light, smoky tea. “Why don't you?"

Make a fucking decision, Fen
, so Jacin did. He angled himself away, backed up until he hit the other wall. Turned, propped himself up with his elbows, and bowed his head.

Submitted.

Waited.

"Fen,” Malick said—
Malick, it's Malick
—hesitant, and Jacin could tell he was going to balk, and he
couldn't
, because Jacin could still smell jasmine, and Malick's eyes wouldn't stop going dark and deep.

Malick had made it all go away once before.
Malick
had made it go
away
. Everything. And Jacin
needed
.

He didn't look back, he didn't move—he merely dipped his head ‘til his brow touched wet stone, said, “Trade me this,” and he didn't even care what he was bargaining for, desperate and pathetic, and he didn't care about that, either. Added, “
Please
,” again, because it was jammed up in his throat and he had to push it out.

Beishin picked her up and Malick dropped her. Joori killed her protection and Jacin killed Beishin too late. A perfect circle; perfect failure. So many ways reality could have remained whole, and yet it hadn't, it had shattered into a world where Caidi was dead and Jacin was alive and lost and drowning inside silence and not-pain, too much nothing, and, “Fucking son of a bitch, just
give me this
!"

Again, it rang far too loud, bounced around the damp stone, echoed in the blank spaces inside his head, and it was only vaguely and far too late that he realized he'd demanded it instead of bargaining for it.

"All right, then,” Malick said quietly, and Jacin wouldn't look, but he could swear he heard resignation inside that voice all at once tinged with husky seduction.

A solid line of hard muscle through damp linen at his back, and then he was shoved into the stone wall face-first, held there by a harsh grip on his nape, hot breath billowing over his ear and neck and shoulder. “You need it and you need it from
me
, Fen.” Almost a snarl, but it was low and sultry too. “You want to make it a trade, then here are my terms.” The grip on his neck tightened, and Malick pushed Jacin harder into the wall. “You'll see me and only me, Fen. You won't shut your eyes and pretend I'm him. You'll call
my
name. You'll stay
here
, with
me
."

Jacin tried to nod, but all he could do was twitch in the hard grip, shudder a little at the force of it. “Malick,” he wheezed. “You're Malick."

"What else, Fen?"

Jacin had to think about it for a moment, had to card back over the demand, before he ventured, “I'm here,” even though the words reeked of too much risk, but he didn't have it in him to panic.

A grunt was all he got this time, but the swath of heat at his back pulled away a little, let him suck in a great gasp, before slick fingers were on him, in him, twisting harshly, and he gasped again. Jasmine, choking him, and it wasn't right, it was supposed to be cherry blossoms, but pine-sage-sex kept leaking in and overwhelming all of it.

"Say it,” Malick growled, and when Jacin only clawed in a shaky breath, Malick twisted his hand again, ground himself hard into Jacin's hip. “
Say it
."

So, Jacin did, warbled, “Malick,”
anything, just make it go away
, and he was rewarded with a gentle curl of fingers that sparked shudders all up his backbone.

"More, Fen.” Malick's voice was dulcet and low this time, right next to Jacin's ear, and Malick's hand softened its grip on Jacin's neck, curled into his hair instead and stroked.

"I'm here,” Jacin repeated, the words unfurling into shapes inside him that took on sharp edges as he made them real, gave them power.
Here, I'm here
, except now that he'd said it, made the bargain, he didn't think he wanted to be.

Make it go away
, it was all he wanted, but Malick wouldn't let up, he never
let up
, breathed, “You're
here
, with
me
,” in Jacin's ear, and Jacin shut his burning eyes, clenched his teeth.

The heat left him again, but the grip never did, and it was good, it held him up, anchored him, until Malick was there again. “Hair fucking everywhere,” he muttered, pushing in, taking Jacin's breath, and he
felt
it, felt a vague emptiness filling up, pushing him into the damp stone of the wall. Chill at his front, heat at his back, and raspy words spider-walking through senses that had been dead only a moment ago. “Here. You're here, Fen. Not a ghost, understand?"

"Not a ghost.” The words left his mouth before he had a chance to think about them, realize the danger implicit in the speaking, but he pushed it away, narrowed himself down to the seed of sensation, took hold, and gripped tight.

Rocking, rocking, slower than Jacin wanted it, stretched out on a sluggish ripple of time that morphed the seed into a coal, smoldering. Smoky tendrils striating all through him, waking things from which he shied, but Malick's voice kept wrenching him back.
Say it
—and Jacin had to answer, had to let it seep through him—
I'm here
—even though he had a vague, disturbing feeling he was betraying himself with every repetition. Huffing out a thin, wheezy breath as a languid sweep of fingertips curled down his thigh, up to his hip, and then inward. Took him. Held him. Blood-hot and firm. Pulled sensation from him, and pushed it back in.

Maddeningly slow, building pressure, and Jacin gritted his teeth, pressed his raw cheek into the stone.

Say it.

I'm here.

Blind and graceless, raking and breaking him, too much, not enough, sharp awareness—
don't leave me here like this, it's all wrong, I can't, I won't, I
need—and all the while smothering in thick, viscous nothing.

The urge to push back, snap his hips—
harder, faster, please, I need
—was overwhelming, but he couldn't move, could only sway with Malick's body, submit to his rhythm—in and out, back and forth—and let Malick keep
pushpushpushing
life into him, and he'd wanted it, he'd needed it, but it was so hard to remember now why. The sluggish burn at the bottom of his skin was scaring the shit out of him, and yet he couldn't tell Malick to stop, he'd made a mistake. He could only answer, “I'm here,” and “Malick,” every time the questions were put to him.

Long, driving strokes, slow and methodical, and it was sending him somewhere too deep inside himself, where sanity lived and reality threatened, and he had no choice but to let it enwind him, bind him. Hot, searing webs that wrapped about him, wound up from his thighs and into his chest. No control, closer and closer to that edge, and a soft lazy bite to his shoulder sent sparks beneath his skin that doused him in sensation, unlocked a groan from his throat that shattered out his mouth in ragged desperation.

"Please,” he breathed, his skin too tight, suffocating him with hazy flickers of veracity and a thin sheen of sweat. The chill that wouldn't leave him before had shape-shifted into driving heat when he hadn't been paying attention, clogged his throat.

"Say it,” Malick breathed against his temple, sped his strokes on Jacin's erection and twisted his hips, growled a little when Jacin couldn't hold onto a whimper. Wrapped Jacin's unbound hair in his fist and gave it a sharp tug. “
Tell me
."

"Here,” splintered from Jacin's throat, and it
burned
this time, seared down to his gullet, and oh fuck, it wasn't going
away
, this wasn't what he'd bargained for. “Malick.” Too soft, too hoarse, too broken, and he couldn't keep it back: “Help."

"
Fuck
,” Malick rumbled, his rhythm picking up pace, driving what breath was left in Jacin's lungs out into harsh little pants that heated the stone against his cheek. “Here, Fen. Not a ghost.” His head dipped down to Jacin's shoulder, the linen of his tunic damp and scrip-scraping along Jacin's back, more sensation, more friction and heat, overpowering. “Fucking...
shit
, Fen, love you.” So soft it was almost nothing more than heat against Jacin's skin. “
Fuck
... love you, love you.” Thick with emotion unanticipated, almost unwilling, and the shaky tone of confession slid a hot knife through all the knots tangled in Jacin's chest. That cool, calm wind inside him that said
Malick
to him, like even the physicality of Malick himself couldn't do, skimmed through every sense Jacin owned, took him.

Orgasm clamped him in a hard fist, wrung him and flung him, until everything inside him jinked and snapped, tore him loose and sent him spiraling. Whited him out, took everything out of him in a long, sharp, jacksaw wave of searing
hereness
. Shoved his face in it until he couldn't breathe.

Silence—absolute and profound. Stillness so complete he could feel the sweat drying on his skin.

Inescapable
knowledge
.

Gold hair stained crimson. A tiny, dimpled fist curled loose in a lake of blood.

Failure.

Thwip-thwip-thwip.

He came to still in the shower-box, still slumped against the wall, Malick still a swath of heat at his back, panting now, shaking from his own release, but everything inside Jacin had altered and shifted about in a jumbled welter of...
everything
. All the things that had been hovering at his edges before now bunched tight in his chest, knotting and wedging behind his breastbone, spreading out like a fist uncurling.
Feeling
, agonizing life, terrifying reality, and it all caved inward, striped his soul like welts from a whip and strangled him. He couldn't push it away this time, couldn't unfeel it. It shot him up, sucked him down, and he had no choice but to let himself be battered in the rush.

Unraveling.

Shattering.

Undone. Unmade.

Pressure
—inside and winding out.

It was too much. He couldn't keep it in.

Jacin's head fell back to Malick's shoulder, breath curling out in a long, winding whimper that grew too fast into a moan then a sob. Pressing him down, crushing him with grief and rage and
too much, too much, too much
.