I See Myself in Your Eyes

Summary: Remy grows to maturity while a widower attends to family matters. All the while, a queen plots.


Victor poured himself another generous nip of whiskey and downed it, savoring its full-bodied burn. His face was overgrown with five days’ stubble, too unkempt to be a proper beard. His blue eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, and he contemplated more whiskey to chase away his headache and the demons that plagued his sleep. He stared into the fire, watching the flames dance like wild sprites.

The day proved a failure. Victor led his men on an unsuccessful hunt and had nearly gotten himself gored by a wild boar. All he managed to do was to spook Brutus and get knocked off the frantic, aging stallion. It was always more difficult hunting in the winter, despite the animal tracks captured by the thick, white snow. Victor longed to fall asleep that night and never wake up.

Raven left him alone, once she felt he had carried out his ugly deed. Victor couldn’t tolerate her touch or her voice, nor her smirk that she allowed herself when no one was paying attention. She was disgusted by Victor’s need to numb his pain with alcohol, late nights and flinging himself headlong into the forest on Brutus, whether it was to hunt with his men or, more unwisely, alone.

Six years had done nothing to soothe him or silence the screams in his head. Victor replayed the same cursed scenes in his mind, of Remy wearing his coat and the hateful, red cashmere scarf knotted around his slender neck, a harbinger of blood that Raven forced him to spill. Victor felt no less ashamed and damned to have spared his life, when he’d doomed him to a life so far inferior to that which he’d been born to. Jean-Luc lost his son; it was as though Victor had twisted the knife in his heart, too, as he’d have done to Remy.

“Victor.”

“So now you’ve come to rub my nose in it, too?” he slurred, glaring at Cerebra’s greenish visage. She planted her hands on her hips and sighed.

“If I were solid, I’d deck you soundly.”

“More’s the pity. I’d love a good, rough row,” he admitted. “Or a toss. Jus’ not with Raven. Heaven help me from throwin’ my lot in with that ‘un.”

“That’s an understatement,” Cerebra agreed. “But too little, too late.”

“Yer tellin’ the truth,” he groused. He took a swig directly from the whiskey bottle, and Cerebra winced at his lack of decorum and sorry state. His clothing was rumpled, buttons done up wrong and torn here and there. A soup stain marred his white shirt sleeve, and his hair was woefully uncombed, hanging in lank ropes down his back. She drank in his anguish and recoiled, but Cerebra remembered her purpose.

“Victor. Snap out of it.”

“Ain’ good fer nothin’,” he slurred again. “No good fer huntin’. Didn’…protect Master Remsss…”

“You have to protect him NOW,” Cerebra told him briskly. “I’ve been given a message. I’m passing it along to you, Victor. You must go to him. There’s evil afoot, and Remy’s in grave danger.”

“Again?” Victor scoffed. “Nay, milady…or whatever ya are,” he hiccupped. “The prince isn’t in danger. He’s dead. I killed ‘im, remember?”

Cerebra sighed. He leered at her. “Not a problem,” he offered cheerfully, even though his blue eyes were flat and dull.

She felt no pity for him when he tumbled over his seat after she split the air with a piercing, shrill scream that he felt as well as heard. It resonated through him and cut across his nerve endings like a thousand swords. Victor spasmed and clutched his ears, curling up into a miserable, twitching ball on the floor.

“Only you can hear that, Victor,” Cerebra informed him soberly. “I won’t stop until you get your arse up off the floor, take a bath, and march yourself down to the stable.”

“Mercy,” he whimpered as she assailed his ears again, more loudly this time.

“She won’t show him mercy,” Cerebra told him coldly.

“How the hell d’you know?” he grated out.

“I have my sources.”

*


Irene sat knitting in her favorite rocker while Raven napped. She tutted inwardly at Raven’s frequent need for beauty sleep. It was a redundant effort, but who was she to give her a hard time?

Her sister worried her. Raven grew more erratic lately. She behaved in a manner unfitting for a grieving stepmother, let alone a queen. Raven spent long nights journeying away from the palace, going to gaming hells, dancing, playing whist and gambling away large sums of money. She took lovers from various households and estates; Essex had appetites just as decadent as hers. Raven knew better than to scat where she ate.

Irene’s sleep was uneasy, troubled with confusing and terrifying dreams. Her visions were dark and murky, and evil shapes formed from the mist. A sinister, yellow-eyed snake slithered out from the depths and hissed a warning to Irene, and she felt herself choking until she awoke. She coughed and struggled upright in bed. She found herself alone in the chamber, as Raven was out on another romp. This didn’t bode well.

She confided to the mirror, who was surprisingly good company on a dark night. Irene bundled herself in a blanket and sat at the vanity. She stared up into Cerebra’s face as though she could see her, and even the spirit was awed at the sightless eyes that looked so canny. “I know you’re in there. Don’t be shy.”

“What can I do for you, milady?”

“Don’t milady me,” Irene said peevishly. “There’s evil afoot. You know it as well as I do.”

“Don’t trouble yourself so, Irene,” Cerebra argued.

“My dreams trouble me. Keep in mind that my dreams come true, for good or bad. I had a vision. I saw my nephew.” Irene accepted Remy as family easily enough, having lost her own at such a young age, due to such questionable circumstances. “He was staring up at me, not breathing. There were bruises around his neck.”

“Oh, my.” Cerebra paled.

“I know this isn’t a vision from the past. I only deal in the future that the Fates whisper to me. And I can’t be having dreams of my nephew dying if he’s already dead, can I, Cerebra?”

“No. Perhaps not.”

“Perhaps not. Perhaps there is something you’re not telling me.”

“Perhaps.”

“It’s time for you to be honest with me. I’m not my sister. I can handle the ugly truth.”

Truer words were never spoken.

*


Victor didn’t know why he listened to spirits, and his head still throbbed as he spurred Brutus through the woods. The horse was in better shape than he was, and he was sure-footed as he led them down a familiar trail. Brutus remembered their journey from years ago, when he carried his injured master away from the eclectically furnished cottage and its unusual occupants. He heard Cerebra’s words in his thoughts.

*Remy isn’t the boy you knew. He’s grown, and he’s changed so much, Victor. He remembers little to none of his old life, or of his old family, but he has a new one, now.*

That revelation puzzled Victor, and it chafed him. He was relieved that Remy had been living safely up until now, or so Cerebra told him. But it ached, in a way, that Remy wouldn’t be able to remember him if he saw him again, when he’d been so fond of the mite long ago.

Victor wasn’t enjoying the taste of bile on his tongue, and he took a thirsty slug of his canteen, relieved that it was just water. He lied to himself every time that he wouldn’t overindulge, but it was easier each time to lose himself in a bottle of whisky, wine, or cognac.

He came to a familiar clearing, searching himself for why it grabbed him so strongly, unable to associate a memory with it.

It came to him like a lightning bolt when he saw the tree, an aging, tall pine. By some trick of time and chance, there was a fiber of faded, scarlet yarn. Cashmere. Victor pulled Brutus’ reins, halting his steady gait. He dismounted clumsily and stalked to the pine, untangling the bit of yarn from the rough bark. He tucked it deeply into his pocket, not bothering to mull the reason for it, and leapt back onto Brutus’ back. The horse whickered at him in annoyance.

His ass began to chafe from the long journey in the saddle. Victor had spent more time cooped up in the stables or in his own room, and his muscles were beginning to atrophy slightly, making it harder to even get out of bed. Images of Remy marched through his mind, from birth to his thirteenth birthday. Victor wondered what changes time wrought, and if the lad continued to break hearts. He chuckled to himself; of course the boy did. How could he do anything else?

He regretted the life Remy had to give up, because of what Victor did. How many privileges had been denied him? What kind of education could he have received? Did the odd blue creature send him to school? He shared the house with such an odd band of misfits… then Victor remembered his peers, the offspring of Jean-Luc’s fellow regents. Victor shuddered. All of them were spoiled, entitled brats, not a sweet bone in any of their bodies. Perhaps Remy was better off, but Victor knew that didn’t let him off the hook. Because of him, and because of Raven’s damned scheming, Remy lost myriad opportunities to thrive and to rule. The cottage was pitiful; he’d left him to a life of squalor, surely…

*


“DOUGIE!” Rahne yelped as she watched the familiar wagon approach. Even from that far away, she saw Douglas Ramsey’s familiar grin and his dark, honey blond hair, no longer the curly, fair locks of his childhood. His father held the reins, and the slightly rickety wheels made a grand racket on the forest floor. Rahne changed in an inkling into her half-wolf form, looking odd in her girlish brown dress and boots but covered in mounds of russet fur. She enjoyed the speed the change gave her, and she couldn’t wait to see him.

The two remained fast friends when Henry finally found Douglas’ parents in the village. They’d been heartsick and desperate, putting up letters of notice in nearby alehouses and shops describing their son and the name he answered to. When Henry brought him back to them, Douglas’s mother nearly fainted away at the sight of the large, furry blue creature in spectacles and trousers. But they fell upon Douglas immediately, hugging and kissing him and crying rivers of tears. Rahne gave her own disappointment at having to say goodbye to her friend its full voice, sobbing and blubbering the whole time, but she was relieved for him that he found his family again. Dani’s bodice grew very wet with Rahne’s tears, but she didn’t mind. Much.

Danielle and Sam grinned and shook their heads. “So undignified,” she said in disgust.

“She learned that from you.”

“Did not.” Dani reached down and scratched her bum where it itched. Warren silently rolled his eyes.

Rahne barely let Douglas climb down before she was on him, hugging him so tightly he “oomph!”-ed and flushed bright red, but he was just as glad to see her, joy shining from his blue eyes. She changed back to normal and finally allowed him to breathe, drawing back so she could look at him.

“Och, you’re so handsome!” she cried. “You look so different!”

“You, too,” he muttered. He was still blushing, and his body was reacting strangely to her appearance and her proximity.

Rahne was stunning.

She was petite still, never growing beyond a modest five feet and three inches, and her wiry skinniness was replaced by lush curves, particularly a wasp waist that looked even narrower cinched in by the corseted bodice of brown leather. Rahne’s eyes were still the green of new leaves, and her skin was still creamy and fair, but it reminded him of peaches and cream, unblemished and dewy. Her hair wasn’t carroty anymore, but a rich, coppery titian with pleasing blonde glints, and she still wore it boyishly short, but it still suited her. Full, tourmaline pink lips wore a smug grin.

“Girls aren’t handsome, silly.”

“You know what I mean,” he told her. He backed off and rubbed his nape, eyes darting away briefly. Warren snickered under his breath. He wanted to feel badly for him, but Douglas was on his own.

“I have a new book! I need you to translate it,” she ordered, practically dragging him into the cottage.

“This place looks different,” he remarked.

“Henry replaced the shutters. And he added the loft, can’t you tell?” Sure enough, there was a second story that now boasted an attic. “We have a bit more room, now. At least Warren can stretch his wings, and Ororo can be closer to the sky.”

“Where is she?”

“In the sky,” Rahne shrugged. “She’ll be back soon.” Douglas’ father shook his head, baffled.

He eventually stayed outside to water and feed his horses. Betsy met him with a cool drink and slice of bread and chatted with him politely, and he was struck by her unusual beauty and enigmatic personality. She unnerved him slightly, but he enjoyed her hospitality.

“Where is everybody?”

“Out and about. You saw Dani. We got back from hunting a little while ago. And I picked some oranges, they were nice and ripe.”

“Hunting?” The urge to blurt out “But you’re a GIRL!” was strong, but he held his tongue. Rahne was headstrong, bold, and she would be hurt if he disparaged her instincts based on a gender role that didn’t truly apply to her. Rahne was as much wolf as girl, and hunting was in her blood. At sixteen, that much hadn’t changed.

“What’s Bobby up to?”

“Nothing but trouble,” she snorted. “And then Sam’s such a layabout.” As if on cue, Sam lumbered out into the main living room, yawning and stretching his long limbs. He wasn’t as gangly as before, and some of his awkwardness was gone, but he had a pillow crease in his lean cheek and his blue eyes were still drowsy. He gave Doug a cavalier wave and lazy grin.

“Hey, Dougie.”

“Good grief,” he muttered. Was everyone taller than him? Douglas was a respectable five and half feet tall and of a medium build, but Sam and Warren towered over him, and Dani was at least five-eight, still just as willowy as she was before, and her hair reached well below her generously curved hips. She wore two slender plaits that hung down over her breasts, and the rest tumbled freely down her long, graceful back. She was Rahne’s physical opposite, her dark coloring and firm features more compelling than beautiful. Her eyes were always full of laughter, usually at Douglas’ expense.

She came up behind him and cuffed him in the arm. “Oof…”

“Man up,” she chided him. “Sit for a spell, stranger.”

“Let me get that book!” Rahne piped up. She hurried about, hustling him onto a stool, shoving an orange into his hand, and bidding him to take off his boots, which she left beside the door. Minutes later, Douglas found himself reading a book written in Italian to her, translating it perfectly while she sat rapt, chin propped on her hands.

Warren headed back outside, contemplating a quick flight. He didn’t want to be rude, now that company was there, but Ororo had the right idea earlier, and he longed to join her.

He heard the low whicker of horses in the stable, and he grinned as he realized where Remy was. He put thoughts of a flight aside and headed to the back yard of the cottage. The stable was better fortified now, thanks for Henry’s handiwork and direction, and Sam, Remy and Bobby were his co-builders. Every year, they made improvements to their home with their meager incomes. Henry tutored children from impoverished homes, and he gave special attention to those who boasted unusual gifts and traits such as his own, who might not have the opportunity or be guaranteed the safety due to narrow minds in the village school. He was a scholar and lettered school professor, despite his bestial countenance. He was well-traveled, having performed in a circus for much of his younger years, but he learned literature, medicine and science at the knees of brilliant men, awing them with his natural intelligence and genteel demeanor.

Warren entered the stable quietly, hoping to surprise him, but he knew it was a futile effort. Still, it was entertaining just to watch him. Satisfying, to see him in his element. Remy headed outside to the stable to clean the stalls, his chore for the week. They all rotated them according to Betsy’s stringent schedule, and Warren scoffed that Remy got stuck with shit-shoveling duty, but Remy ruined his fun by being fine with it.

The day was brisk, and there was still snow on the ground here and there, but it was shrinking down to smaller patches with muddy slicks of new grass in between. Remy skipped wearing his heavy jacket, settling for his simple muslin shirt. Ororo warmed the air over a five-mile radius surrounding the acre of land the cottage sat on for Douglas’ visit, which suited Remy just fine. It was a perfect day to work outside.

He spent the rest of the day currying and grooming the horses, trimming some burrs from Daisy’s tail and brushing her coat. He murmured to the horses, sharing their breath and giving them oats and stubs of carrots from his pockets. His shirt clung to him because he’d worked up a sweat, and tendrils of his hair were plastered to his neck, working their way free from his fraying plait. Ororo kept his hair braided and neat, unknowingly taking up the chore from N’Dare; it was a simple pleasure to just sit and brush his hair, chatting by the fireplace after dinner or at her vanity before he said goodnight.

Even though Warren didn’t think he made a sound, Remy addressed him without even facing him. “Think you’re slick, don’t you?”

“Drat.”

“You know better.”

“You’re still weird.”

“Part of my charm.” Warren smiled at the irony of his words. It was.

Remy’s ability to read emotions had intensified and sharpened as he matured. He also had the ability to project the emotions he took in from others, or even to influence how others felt with mere vocal suggestions. He merely had to get them to focus on his eyes, on the inflections in his voice, and to reach out with his mind to gently stroke their psyches. Henry often worried about the potential for trouble or heartache that such a gift carried with it, but Remy obeyed Henry’s injunctions not to abuse it, and he was an innately kind, sensitive young man.

That knowledge had come at great expense to both men, and Remy had never stepped out of line with his gift since.

*

Remy’s first few months at the cottage were rough, marked with more outbursts and tears, both from him and his adoptive “siblings.” Nightmares swamped him when he slept, and he always pushed himself throughout the day, trying to exhaust himself enough to sleep, but he would lie awake, hearing the screams at the Painted Lady. Betsy had dampened his memories, trying to blunt the traumas he’d suffered and leave him less scarred, but Henry warned her away from meddling with his young, developing psyche.

He was frequently standoffish and didn’t always trust affection, at first. But Henry had a strong rapport with him from the moment they met, despite Henry’s frightening countenance. He felt safe with the honey-voiced, blue-furred creature who was, indeed, a man, and a kind one at that.

Remy was fascinated by him, frequently staring at Henry while he attended to chores or minute tasks. Henry often felt those unnerving yet beautiful eyes on him, following him around the house. He chuckled at him once while he filled his pipe by the fire.

“You’re too young for tobacco, so don’t even ask.”

“I didn’t want it.”

“What’s eating you, lad?” He didn’t realize how like Victor he sounded when he asked that question, using that wording. Remy frowned at him, unsure of why it bothered him.

“I just…I can’t sleep.”

“You’ve earned it. Today was a long day. I’m proud of the work you did in the stable, Remy.”

“Well…I’m glad you like it, but…I lie down, and I can’t close my eyes.” He looked upset as he sat at the other end of the couch. Henry grunted and puffed on his pipe thoughtfully. Then he set it down on the small saucer, carefully keeping the ashes from littering Betsy’s nice table.

“Remy, what do you see when you lie down?”

“Faces. Mean ones. They just keep staring down at me and laughing at me, and I feel hands holding…me down…” His voice broke and faltered, and his eyes filled with tears. Henry nodded.

“It’s all right. Tell me. Don’t hold it in, son.”

The endearment opened the flood gates. Remy launched himself at Henry and burrowed into his arms, which he only thought to open at the last minute. He patted Remy as he sobbed, feeling awkward but wanting badly to comfort him. “It’s all right.”

Many of the occupants of the house had cried into his fur at one point or another; it wouldn’t hurt anything to be a little wet again now, either. Henry held him and rocked him, worried at how Remy clung and his hectic gasps, how cold his hands felt. He rubbed his back and patted his hair. “You can’t help what was done to you.”

“I saw blood. He was covered in blood. I was so scared.”

“It wasn’t your fault. Of course you were frightened.”

“I still am.”

“I know. It’s all right. I’m here.”

“Don’t make me go back to my room,” Remy sniffled into Henry’s shoulder. His hand was absently combing through the lush fur at Henry’s nape while he continued to rock him.

“I won’t yet.”

They talked into the night, and Betsy was politely rebuffed when she came to ask if he wanted help getting Remy to bed. Remy’s eyes were drifting shut, but he was fighting sleep.

“I wish you’d let me fix this.”

“You can’t fix this. He needs to heal from it all, Elizabeth.”

“What if he can’t?”

“I don’t believe in ‘can’t,” he growled at her.

“Please…don’t do anything to me,” Remy begged her, turning glistening eyes up to her. Henry had adjusted himself slightly on the couch to accommodate Remy, and the boy’s body was sprawled against him, head cuddled against his furry chest where his robe gapped open. Betsy remembered sharply how difficult it had been to cross Remy’s psychic barriers, and she nodded humbly, backing off. That left them alone.

“She wouldn’t hurt you, Remy.”

“They wouldn’t leave me alone,” Remy admitted. He yawned heavily and stretched against Henry, who was drowsy from the boy’s body heat and the way he was plastered against him by the fire. Henry nuzzled his temple absently, liking the scent of his hair.

He felt his arousal cramp and rise uncomfortably when Remy’s palm settled over his chest, grazing his nipple where it poked up through his indigo fur. Henry’s eyes snapped awake, and he fumbled, to disengage himself from the prince’s embrace.

The conversation had clearly exhausted Remy again, because he was snoring before Henry could tell him that their reclining repose was inappropriate. Henry gratefully picked him up and carried him to his room, walking sideways when he reached the corridor to handle his long legs and keep his feet from bumping into the walls. He settled him in his own bed and pulled the covers high, and he crept from the room soundlessly, heart pounding at the could-haves that raced through his mind.

Damn it. Drat that boy…

As the years passed, Remy matured and discovered things about his body that were new and confusing to him. On nights where he slept well, he had unusual dreams that he didn’t always remember, but when he awoke, his drawers were slightly damp in the crotch and stuck to him. Warren occasionally talked in his sleep, murmuring what sounded curiously like sweet nothings, and Remy blushed deeply when he thought he heard “Kiss me, Remy” when he woke to use the outhouse. His voice was cracking and deepening, sounding odd to his ears, and his bones occasionally ached. A fourth set of molars felt like they were breaking through his gums and hair was beginning to appear on his body where it had never grown before. It was growing difficult to recognize the face staring back at him in the mirror.

He still sought Henry out to talk every now and again. It helped him work through the changes he was experiencing, and the man was an excellent listener and confidante.

He was seventeen when another nightmare hit him. He awoke drenched in sweat, and unlike nights where he simply crawled into Warren’s hammock with him to cuddle against his feathery down until he dozed back off, he found himself alone in the dark. Tears rolled down his face and he remembered an awful argument he’d had with his blond roommate that night after dinner.

They’d talked about their past, and Warren made an off-the-cuff remark that Remy didn’t know what it was like to be held against his will for months on end, tied up and treated like a freak. It struck the wrong note with him, and Remy attacked him, throwing the milk bottle at him, which he neatly dodged, but it smashed against the wall. Warren realized his words weren’t wisely chosen and felt ashamed, but it was too little, too late. Betsy scolded them both to clean up the mess, but once Warren swept up the glass fragments and Remy blotted up the milk from the wall and floor, he stormed out of the house. Both boys felt awful, and Remy felt betrayed that his best friend could say something so hurtful.

Remy’s heart was pounding and he felt like he couldn’t catch his breath. The dream was back and worse than before. He saw his stepmother screeching with laughter while hands gripped his throat. Madelyne Pryor was there, too, snapping at him to shut up while she molested him and brandished a mean-looking poker. He felt clammy and weak and desperate for comfort. Remy sighed at the sight of Warren’s sleeping back, then hurled himself from bed and down the hall.

He didn’t knock when he reached Henry’s room. It was neat as a pin, free of clutter and meticulously dusted. Myriad books lined the shelves and his coat and boots were in their customary place by the door, ready for him to put them on and tramp out the door to do the daily chores. He saw Henry lying in bed in the shadows, blue-black fur gleaming in the moonlight coming through the window. He was snoring softly, his broad back rising and falling in an easy, slow rhythm.

Remy pulled aside the covers and climbed in next to him without permission, huddling against him for warmth, and it was oh, so cozy to lie flush against all that soft, decadent fur. Henry stirred, rumbling and stretching a bit, and Remy yawned, already drowsy from the physical contact and from Henry’s slumbering emotions, tranquil and untroubled.

It took Henry exactly three minutes to realize that he wasn’t alone. His nose caught a familiar scent and felt something –someone – pressed up against his back, far too close for proper etiquette, even though it wasn’t an uncomfortable position. He recognized Remy’s scent and his breathing patterns and sighed. The lad had a nightmare. Drat…

“Remy?” Henry inquired sweetly.

“Hmmm?”

“Would you mind telling me how you ended up in my bed?”

“Warm here. Got lonely.” Remy yawned and tried to settle back down. Henry flushed, glad the boy couldn’t see the effect he was having on him, because Remy was at least clad in his drawers, but Henry slept in the nude every night, no matter what the weather. He felt Remy’s smooth, firm skin pressed along his back, legs spooned into the crook of his knees and flush against his rump, and he burned with embarrassment. Remy’s nose was nuzzling his shoulder instinctively, and his arm looped around Henry’s waist.

Oh, my stars and garters… The awkwardness mingled with the intimacy and left him so conflicted. Immediately, his brain screamed at him He’s still a child! but his body protested the very thought of ushering him out of his bed and denying himself the cozy languor of being wrapped up in those long limbs, one leg of which was pressing itself between his knees, its slender ankle buffeting his feet. Every time Henry shifted to work himself loose, Remy rubbed up against him or caressed him lazily, which was …undoing him.

An angry, insistent erection sprang up between his thighs, and Henry groaned miserably. Damn it. “Remy…were you having another nightmare?”

“Mm-hm.” More nuzzling, and for the sake of his own sanity Henry had to grasp his hand to hold it still when he errantly found his nipple.

“Then let’s get up and make some hot milk.”

“Kitchen’s cold,” Remy complained sleepily. Henry tried to wrest himself free from his embrace, but it was difficult when the young man felt so good pressed against him. “You’re nice and warm,” he pointed out, his voice almost a purr. Arousal stabbed at Henry’s gut. He squirmed slightly, and Remy took that as an invitation to kiss the back of his neck.

“Remy…please. You’re going to have to stop that, and sleep in your own bed. Be a good boy.”

“I’m a good boy,” Remy protested. “See?” His fingers were combing through his fur again, and Henry suddenly smelled a sharp, tangy scent of increased pheromones that mingled with Remy’s natural aroma.

“Remy…you’re too young to be here with me in my bed. In anyone’s bed. It’s…unseemly.” That opened Remy’s eyes and stilled his hands, much to Henry’s relief, and disappointment.

“What’s wrong with it? It’s not hurting anyone.”

“It’s hurting you. I won’t take advantage of the situation, young man. I’m your teacher and your guardian. I’m older than you. You’re just a child, and it’s inappropriate to-“

“I’m not a child,” Remy snapped as he propped himself on his elbow. Henry turned and rolled to his back to look up at him. Remy’s ruby eyes glowed down upon him, full of frustration. Henry was transfixed by their radiance; they seemed to tug at him.

“At seventeen, aye, lad, you are,” Henry argued. “You may feel grown, but you’re still going through changes. In here, and in here, where it counts, you’re still a boy.” Henry gently touched Remy’s temple and then laid his pawlike hand over Remy’s chest.

“I have a man’s body,” Remy informed him, “and a man’s needs, Henry.”

“I can’t do anything to help you with those needs, Remy.”

“Then what about your needs?” Remy murmured. He reached down and covered Henry’s hand with his, where it covered Remy’s heartbeat. The glow in his eyes intensified, almost dizzying to look at. The tenor of Remy’s voice changed, growing deeper, silkier and more hypnotic. He didn’t fully realize what he was doing, but Remy felt Henry’s heat and smelled his intoxicating scent, and he was so aroused by his presence and virility that he would do anything to claim it. Henry’s fingers flexed against Remy’s chest, then gently scraped its smoothness with his shining claws, making the younger man shiver. “Tell me what you need, Henry,” Remy rumbled, closing the distance between them as he leaned down to him. His hair tented their faces as he brushed his lips against Henry’s in a tentative, tender kiss.

A voice inside Henry’s heart cried out to him, You can’t let him do this!, but his touch was gentle and sensuous, and Henry, admittedly, was lonely. Intimacy wasn’t something he had time for nor the opportunity to invest himself in as the head of their meager household, and a man of his bestial demeanor didn’t often encounter partners who had a taste for fur and fangs. His breathing quickened at the brush of Remy’s hair feathering over his cheeks and chest, and he felt Remy’s heartbeat as he rolled over him, pressing his chest against him. He made fleeting contact with Henry’s nipple, grazing it, and that soft, full mouth was teasing him, coaxing him to return the greeting. Henry’s leonine lips emitted a low growl but pushed back up at him, and his tongue lapped up a hint of Remy’s flavors, and with his next kiss Remy slid over him fully, engulfing him in his heat.

Tell me what you need, Henry. Henry forgot about his shame over his nudity as the slick cotton of Remy’s sleeping britches rubbed over his hardness, a too-thin barrier between their straining cocks. Remy was moaning at how sumptuous and lush Henry’s fur felt against his skin, caressing him all over every time he squirmed and arched into him. Henry’s fingers tangled into Remy’s hair, combing through it, wrapping it around his fist to jerk his head back. Remy gasped as Henry laved his sensitive throat, lapping at his pulse.

“Please, Henry,” Remy breathed. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Please don’t stop.” Remy’s palm ran over his chest, finding his nipple. He teased it, tugging on it, and Henry guided his head down, encouraging to breathe over it and suckle it. Remy eagerly complied, and his hips ground him down against the insistent hardness poking up at him. Henry tasted succulent and hot, and he craved more of the stimulating sensations, unsure of where they were taking him. Henry was caught up in the fog of Remy’s emotions, nervous, excited, and completely overwhelmed. He didn’t know where he ended and Remy began, but his heart nearly stopped at the feel of Remy’s untrained fingers reaching between his legs, wrapping around his swollen flesh. “You’re so hard…”

Henry bucked, thrusting up into that sweet grip, and his growl was hoarse and desperate. “Did that hurt?” Remy worried.

“No…but…you’re killing me…” Henry’s eyes snapped open from his haze of lust, and at once he saw Remy’s trepidation and the fear that comes with youth.

That dashed a bucket of ice water over him and brought him back to his senses. He looked Remy in the eye and saw their strange hypnotic…pulse. Henry shook himself and rolled them to their sides. He disentangled himself reluctantly from Remy and sat up. Remy saw his fur bristling as he straightened himself out, and he was confused and hurt.

“You’ve bewitched me, Remy. I’m very upset with you.”

“Henry…I didn’t mean it.”

“No. You did. You heard me clearly when I said it wasn’t right for me to be with you like this.”

“But I was lonely. You were lonely, too.”

“I didn’t tell you that in so many words,” Henry pointed out. “You found that out without my permission.” Remy frowned.

“But…I just felt you…”

“Without my permission. Remy, I know you have an amazing gift.” Henry heaved a sigh. “But you can’t misuse it, or use it to make people do what you want them to. It’s wrong. It may seem like the easy way to get what you want, but you could never live with yourself if you treated someone you cared about like toys. People aren’t meant to be controlled, Remy.”

Tears shone in his eyes, and suddenly he looked like a forlorn little boy again, making their position all the more unnatural and untenable. “I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry, Henry. It was wrong. I’m so sorry.” His face was stricken and any semblance of passion left him. He struggled out from under the covers and was up in a shot. Henry tried to catch him long enough to set things right, but he was gone in a flash.

“Shit.” Henry was still uncomfortably engorged; his member jutted up at him accusingly. “Oh, will you calm down!” he snapped as he propelled himself from bed. He reached for a soft pair of flannel drawers and tugged them on haphazardly before he followed the sounds of Remy’s uneven steps and gasping, low sobs.

When he found him in the kitchen, Remy hadn’t lit the kettle or done anything else to warm himself. He hugged himself and leaned back against the wall, staring into the darkness. Henry sighed. “Maybe this is a discussion we should have had before now, Remy.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“We have to. Let me put the kettle on.”

“I’ll go back to bed.”

“Only when this is settled.”

Henry guided him to a chair and nudged him into it, earning himself an indignant glare; Henry mentally chuckled. He had it coming, he supposed. “You ambushed me.”

“I was lonely.”

“Next time wait until I have one some pajamas. I was indisposed, Remy.” Henry gathered up the cups and heated the milk. “Remy, you’re young and attractive. You have needs. I understand that. And you’ve grown very comfortable with me. We’ve all lived under the same roof for a long time, and it may seem…trifling… to observe some of the niceties and social graces with the people you consider your family.” Henry took a breath. “But I can’t… I won’t be your lover.”

“I don’t care that you’re a man,” Remy snapped.

“That’s not the issue. Heavens, boy, I have nothing against your gender, or of you pursuing any man or woman you like, if you find yourself drawn to them. But this is a matter of respect. Don’t manipulate me, or anyone else that you want to be close to. Let them come to you. Let them get to know the real you. I do already, but as I told you… I’m older than you, Remy. Set in my ways. And I’ve spent too much time… I can’t explain it. Remy… I want to protect you. I’ve come to think of you as someone I care for, but not as a mate. I love you, but not in the manner that you hoped. I’m sorry.”

“So what I did was wrong.”

“What I almost allowed you to do would have ruined us both, Remy.”

“But did I make you feel good?” he pressed. Henry’s cheeks flushed, and his erection returned to half-mast, remembering Remy’s hesitant touch. Henry squelched it and cleared his throat.

“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that we talk about your nightmare. That’s why you came to me?” Remy nodded, relieved that he’d get that much from him, at least. They chatted over hot milk and tea. Remy went back to his own bed somewhat reluctantly but returned to an easier sleep. Henry, on the other hand, stayed awake from a combination of regret, sexual frustration, and fear over Remy’s continued trauma.

*

“Dougie’s here.”

“Bet Rahne’s all over herself by now.”

“That’s no bet,” Warren flipped back, rustling his feathers. “How long are you going to be out here?”

“Not too much longer.”

“You smell a bit ripe.”

“I’ll make friends with a tub and a bar of soap. No harm done.”

Secretly, Warren liked the smell of Remy’s sweat, mingled with the scent of horsehide and fresh hay. “Damn shirt,” Remy muttered. He tugged at the collar of it with distaste.

“Then take it off,” Warren shrugged absently, but there was a gleam in his eye and a flutter of excitement jumped into his belly. Remy huffed, turning around finally. His grin was lopsided.

“You were just telling me I needed a bath. Not much need to take anything off til I get back inside.”

“Don’t wear that thing back inside. It stinks.” Remy sighed in mild annoyance.

“Whatever.” With that, he turned away again and yanked the shirttails from the waist of his battered black trousers, unbuttoned the collar, and tugged the offending garment off in one smooth motion. Warren nearly fainted.

Remy’s back. It left him speechless. Remy’s skin was still creamy and fair from the long winter spent mostly inside, but it glowed with his sweat and the flush of hard work. His body was a melody of sinewy, graceful muscle thanks to half a lifetime of chores, building, hunting and riding. The absence of the shirt allowed Warren a clearer, unimpeded view of Remy’s bottom, lovingly sculpted, rounded and firm in the plain black pants. When Remy turned around, he asked Warren, “Hand me that towel?” Warren obediently tossed it at him, and Remy dried the sweat from his brow and the back of his neck. “Where’s Ororo?”

“Flying.”

“Why didn’t you go with her?”

“I don’t know. Maybe later.”

“Last of the good light’s gonna be gone soon,” Remy muttered, but he shrugged. He mopped away a patch of sweat beneath his eye with his thumb and fanned his face. Warren’s lips twitched. He expanded his wings and gave them several broad, sweeping flaps. Remy groaned in satisfaction, thankful for the cool drafts of air against his feverish skin.

His look of rapture undid Warren again, and a frisson of arousal bloomed in his groin.

Warren cleared his throat; watching Remy had distracted him. “You almost done?”

“In a little while.” Remy checked the mare’s shoe for stones. He rubbed her legs down with the towel and peered back up at Warren when he felt him watching him so intently. “What?”

“Nothing. Just…nothing.”

“Hand me that canteen?” Remy smiled gratefully when Warren obliged him, taking the canteen from his grip. His fingers brushed Warren’s inadvertently, and Warren’s cheeks flushed a furious scarlet. “What?” Remy asked again. “You hot?”

“Er…no?”

“Shouldn’t be. Not like you’ve been doing anything all day, anyway.” That snapped Warren from his reverie. Remy’s eyes twinkled at him mischievously as he took a sip.

“Not like I’ve…what! Don’t EVEN tell me I haven’t done anything! I haven’t been playing in horse droppings all morning!” Remy snorted, eliciting a similar response from the mare beside him.

“So what kind have you been playing in?” Warren picked up the towel, twisting it up. Remy jumped back, grinning, as Warren coiled it with a determined look.

“I’ll show you what kind!” SNAP! Remy barely missed the end of the towel as it cracked through the air. Warren chased him around the crowded stable, unhampered by his broad wings. The chase Remy led him on upended a bench and knocked over pails, spilling their contents onto the straw. Remy snickered as he darted in and out of the empty stables, making the horses snort in disgust from behind the walls. He evaded Warren again, briefly, until he tripped over the handle of the fallen shovel. He yelped at the stinging snap of the towel across his rear. He spun around to face Warren’s smug look, not liking the hint of danger in his blue eyes.

“That smarts!”

“Awwww…” Warren told him, completely unsympathetic. “Want me to kiss it and make it better?” This time Remy flushed, struck speechless. It was a meaningless jibe, but it evoked images in his brain that made him feverish. Remy’s empathic shields that he imposed on himself to leash his abilities slipped a little, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to feel the intent behind the blond’s words.

Lust.

Remy’s stomach clenched and his breath hitched. Before he could say anything else, Warren caught up to him and snapped him again with the towel. That shocked him back to normal, or at least a nodding semblance of it… “normal” was a relative term in the cottage, not one that belonged in Remy’s lexicon. That sent them back on their chase through the stable. Warren’s sniggers followed him, mingling with his own as he raised his shields again.

He had to be imagining it.

That was the only reasoning he would accept. Warren was like a brother to him in all the ways that mattered. The two boys shared a bedroom for a handful of years, becoming close confidants almost immediately.

*

Warren understood Remy’s trauma well, including the effects it had on him. Remy’s nightmares frequently woke him from his own troubled sleep. Often Warren was the one to head to the kitchen to put the kettle on for tea or to heat up warm milk, bringing it back to their room despite Betsy’s rule against food and drinks leaving the dining room.

They would sit up on Remy’s bed and talk throughout the night until they both grew drowsy. Warren never belittled Remy’s fears or night terrors, and Remy took refuge in his sympathy, and in his comforting body heat when Warren offered to let him share his hammock. Remy looked at him oddly and huffed the first time he ever made the offer.

“There isn’t enough room in it for me. Your wings would get in the way.”

“No they won’t,” Warren argued. He was already tugging him along to climb in beside him, and it was a struggle, but Remy put aside the awkwardness of it as he eased himself against him gingerly, feeling Warren stretch and rearrange his wings to accommodate him. Warren unfurled them and tucked Remy in, blanketing him in warmth, and Warren smiled with satisfaction as he heard his sigh of satisfaction at how soft his down felt. Warren’s skin was warm and smooth, and Remy let his limbs go lax as he settled against him, allowing him to embrace him and stroke his long chestnut hair.

Neither boy quite understood the physical changes happening in their bodies at that point, as they were both young, innocent and untried, despite their circumstances and near brushes with being violated or worse. It was instinctive to bundle together at night, and theirs was a chaste bond, for the most part, but Warren’s body’s reactions to holding Remy so close were confusing at best, and at worst, kept him awake with the desire to do more than stroke his hair. Remy misinterpreted his emotional discomfort as fear of his own nightmares, and he in turn laid a gentle, psychic “hush” over him, gave him a brief peck and urged him to sleep.

When they awoke sprawled together in odd tangles, Remy often found himself at a…distinct disadvantage. The first time he stirred awake to find himself on top of Warren, that was awkward enough, but the blond’s long, muscular thigh was pressed between his, and Remy had kept moving against him restlessly while they slept, burrowing the knob of his manhood into Warren’s inviting heat and solid bulk. He scurried out of the hammock, nearly flipping them both out of it, and Warren woke scowling at him like a wet cat, completely confused. Remy’s cheeks flamed scarlet when he noticed that Warren was in much the same state, with a telltale bulge in his soft muslin drawers that he slept in.

*
Remy couldn’t, or wouldn’t accept that the clandestine flash from Warren was more significant. Things weren’t any different between them. He let the thought distract him enough that he tripped over a stray pail and crashed into a pile of clean, loose straw. He was thankful that it wasn’t from inside the stalls…

Warren barreled into him, unable to stop short, knocking him over, and both of them hit the ground with an “oof!” Dazed, they stared at each other. Remy spat something out of his mouth in annoyance, initially thinking it was a bit of hay, but it was one of Warren’s loose pinfeathers. Warren chuckled. “Told you I’d get you.”

“Idiot.”

“Slowpoke.”

They sighed, almost in unison. Warren picked a bit of straw from Remy’s hair, and he laughed again when Remy gave him a rough shove. He took umbrage by picking up a handful of hay this time and dumping it on top of his head instead, and that instigated a wrestling match on the cold, cluttered floor of the stable. They buffeted each other, and again, it was rough, unrestrained contact, jabbing and tickling each other, both young men grabbing at each other’s wrists and elbowing each other. Warren lost momentum when Remy’s knee caught him in the groin, and the brunet rolled him to his back, a position that left him vulnerable, since it hindered the mobility of his wings. He grunted and struggled uncomfortably, and amusement warred with annoyance in his handsome face.

“Let me up, you bastard!”

“Gotta take it back, what you said about me playing in shit,” Remy said simply. There was a devilish gleam in his red eyes. Warren’s wrists were pinned over his head by Remy’s strong, slightly callused hands, and his long hair hung down around his face, its long tendrils tickling Warren’s face. The pose made Warren’s shoulder muscles sting with cramps as he struggled, but he was enjoying the vantage point of Remy practically sitting on his lap, his lean – and bare – chest heaving with his labored breaths and the occasional huff of laughter.

He felt a slight twitching beneath him where Warren’s flesh was hardening and throbbing, coming awake with their prolonged contact, and Remy was embarrassed when he realized that his own body had the same ideas. Blazing heat suffused his loins and every drop of blood in his body rushed to that pulsing, damnable organ between his legs, and his smile slowly faded when Warren’s hips thrust up at him with a halfhearted effort to buck Remy off of him. It just made the problem worse…

“Get off,” Warren repeated, but there was little heat in his voice. He continued to struggle.

“Say pretty please.”

“There’s nothing pretty about you. You’re filthy and you stink to high heaven.”

“You do, too, now.”

“Bastard,” Warren sputtered, and he nearly worked his arm loose from his grip, but Remy’s fingers tightened around his wrist, and he grinned smugly again.

During the course of their play, and perhaps their position was to blame, Remy let his shields slip again, and he felt Warren again unhindered. He sucked in a shaky breath as his emotions hit him like horse’s hooves, and his arousal spiked, making his head spin.

“Damn it,” Remy muttered. He was floored. He stared down at him accusingly. “What did you just do to me?”

“Nothing,” Warren argued. “You did it to me.” He ceased his struggles, but his eyes were still defiant. “This isn’t my fault.” Remy opened his mouth to call him a liar, but he realized Warren was right. Remy’s sense of caution warred with his body’s arousal and the stimulus of Warren’s firm heat beneath him, the way he swallowed roughly and clenched his fingers in frustration, making the veins and tendons in his wrist bulge in Remy’s grip. Warren licked his lips, preparing to say something else, but Remy silenced any further attempts when he dipped his head and captured Warren’s mouth with his own. He felt Warren’s sharp intake of breath and heard his low whimper, sighing with satisfaction as Warren’s lips gently pressed up against his. They parted, and Remy’s eyes dilated as Warren leaned up and kissed him again, taking his sweet time about it, really, shameless thing that he was…

Remy’s grip on his wrists was still steady but relaxed, turning into a contemplative caress as his thumbs traced Warren’s rapid, throbbing pulse. Warren’s legs went limp, and he stopped trying to buck his roommate off, instead letting his hips jerk of their own volition, bringing him closer to the addictive hardness between Remy’s legs. Their breathing quickened, becoming harsh and hot as Warren teased the seam of his lips, and he groaned with pleasure as Remy opened for him. He prized his hand free and caught Remy’s hair at his nape, bunching it up in his fist, and he yanked it back enough to bare Remy’s neck for his inspection. Remy hissed slightly in surprise at the brief hint of pain, but he moaned when Warren traced the underside of his chin with feathery kisses, then lapped at his pulse with warm, raspy tongue. Remy shivered and felt fireworks going off in his brain, right before it turned to goo.

The tide turned, and Warren felt Remy’s body relax against him completely, and it was a decadent sensation, one that felt even better when he rolled them over to free his wings from their cramped flattening. He unfurled them over the two of them, and Remy smiled up at him mischievously, no longer contrite about their predicament. Warren’s wings enclosed them both as he kissed him again, and Remy’s arms wrapped tightly around his narrow waist as they gave the passion between them its head. The winds overhead changed, buffeting the roof of the stable.

Remy moaned as Warren’s hands roamed over his body, stroking his feverish skin. He found and teased his nipple, grazing it with his fingertip. Warren was aroused by the sight of Remy’s head thrown back in bliss. His red-on-black eyes cracked open and peered up at him. He was flush with desire. “Take that thing off.” Warren complied, letting Remy remove his shirt, sliding it down his lean, muscular arms. Warren’s body was taut and almost completely devoid of fat, and his muscles were elegantly streamlined and contoured. Remy traced them with his warm palms and drew Warren down for more deep, exploring kisses, reveling in their skin-on-skin contact that no longer felt “brotherly.” Warren’s tongue caressed his wantonly while his hands fumbled with Remy’s pants, undoing the ties and buttons.

“What are you doing?” Remy husked.

“I want to touch you,” Warren complained, “but you’re wearing too many damn clothes.” Remy nodded as he leaned up to nip Warren’s lip, then both of them moaned as they kissed again. He manhandled Remy free of the fastenings, exposing his flat, perfect belly and the fine trail of auburn hair that led to his crotch. Remy grinned up at him.

“Need any help?”

“You tell me if I need any help.” Warren snorted and poked him, but his smile was wicked as he leaned down and lapped at Remy’s nipple. Remy ached up into the sensation, grasping Warren’s head to hold him there until Warren took his hand away, pinning both of his hands above his head. Remy moaned and bucked as Warren toyed with the straining, tingling nubs, moving from one to the other as he devoured them

They initially ignored the faint thud on the roof, and the faint squeal of a metal hinge as the lock on the skylight was undone. But they broke the kiss at the sound of a slight swoosh and the clatter as the skylight swung open, and a great gust of fresh air swept Ororo inside through the roof. She landed in a patch of sunlight dappling the floor, and her eyes were still glowing white as she stared down at the two of them. Her mouth dropped open in shock.

“Oh,” she whispered. She clapped her hands over her mouth, and her eyes shifted back to their customary blue. Warren and Remy struggled apart, and Remy rose to his feet first, but his legs felt like noodles from their prolonged time on the floor. Remy held out his hands helplessly, but his pants refused to cooperate with him, since they were still unfastened. They fell down around his knees, and his jutting erection was free for all to see. Warren’s eyes widened, and he grabbed up a shirt – his shirt – from the ground and held it up as a shield for Remy’s nudity while he rearranged himself.

“Ororo…it’s not…”

“It’s not what?” Warren asked defensively. He glanced up at Ororo as Remy belatedly helped him to his feet. “We weren’t doing anything wrong.”

“No,” Ororo agreed, but her eyes shone with tears. “Please…excuse me.” She turned on her heel and sprinted out of the stable, and Remy stared after her in dismay.

“What just happened here?”

“We just got caught. I’m not sure why.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know why?” Warren’s feathers were ruffled, both literally and figuratively.

“She saw us kissing,” Remy told him. “Warren…”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Not with the kissing itself,” Remy said. “Just how she feels about it.” Remy finally managed to re-tie his pants. He felt ashamed and frustrated and didn’t know what to do about it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s complicated. Where’s my damn shirt?” He rummaged through the straw, then headed back to the stall where he was working when Warren interrupted him. Remy’s cheeks heated with shame as Ororo’s flagging emotions receded from his consciousness the further she ran from the stable.

She was so confused, but even worse was how badly she felt Remy and Warren both hurt her. Remy wanted to throw himself into a lake. Coupled with that realization was the strange way Warren closed himself up, as if Ororo’s discovery shook him, too.

*
Logan could have sworn his coffee cup had more in it the last time he’d checked. He looked up from the book he was reading and reached for it, then frowned when he saw that it was lower. He grunted, then took a sip of the mellow, hickory scented brew. A minute later, his musings were disturbed by a low, smothered giggle.

The barest hint of a smile cracked through his stoic expression, tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He glanced out of the corner of his eye to his cup, and once again, a sneaky thief had dipped into it and run off with a swallow or two of the brew. Logan clapped his book shut and growled, “Who’s been eating my porridge?” in the most guttural, menacing tone he could manage. More of the choked little giggles emanated from behind the fainting couch as he got up and started stomping around the library. “And who’s been sleeping in my bed?”

He pretended not to know where the incriminating sounds were coming from, even though he could smell the soap his daughter’s governess used for her bath and the residual hint of gingersnap cookie crumbs on her hands. “I know what to do to porridge-stealing, bed-sleeping, coffee-guzzling little girls! WAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!” The giggles turned into full-fledged, shrill squeals as he suddenly shoved aside the couch and pounced on his little culprit. Logan scooped her up and swung her up into the air. Her cheeks grew rosy from her laughter and from her father’s tosses. She loved the rough-and-tumble play and when he would act out his occasionally scary fairy tales. He continued to growl at her, but it was less menacing when he kept blowing raspberries under her ear and tickling her armpit. “A little girl gobbled my porridge!”

“No I didn’t, Daddy!” she insisted, trying to push his face away when he made gobbling sounds against her cheek. “I just drank your coffee!”

“AHA!” he crowed. “I KNEW it!” She realized her error and tried to bolt when he set her down, but he caught her again and tickled her again.

It was the high point of his day. Laura was his reason for getting up in the morning, and she had him wrapped around her tiny finger. At the age of five, her life was relatively uncomplicated and as comfortable as her father and grandfather could make it. She was her father’s child, through and through, complete with his mischief streak and talent for getting dirty. Her governess had her hands very full, and keeping her neatly groomed was a hopeless endeavor. If stomping through the marsh looking for frogs in her best tea gown wasn’t princesslike behavior, then she didn’t want to be a princess, Laura decided.

But he adored her. Laura AnnaRose was Logan’s spitting image, except that she had her mother’s creamy complexion and dimpled, beautiful smile. Her glossy black hair was always unraveling itself from her plaits and her blue eyes twinkled dangerously whenever she found some trouble to get into. She was petite but sturdy and had apples in her cheeks. She loved horses and most animals, and she enjoyed sketching in messy charcoals on her father’s scrap paper. Unfortunately, she had a fondness for Logan’s morning cup of coffee, and the results of her thievery meant a considerable delay in her afternoon nap.

He doted on her and was protective of her. Logan never fell in love again after his wife passed, and he avoided the casual affairs his peers enjoyed, since he didn’t want entanglements and he believed in discretion. Prospective lovers often came with a price tag attached that he wouldn’t indulge or tolerate. His previous partners of either gender, from his bachelorhood, tried to entice him back once his wife died, but none of them appealed to him. Anyone who would love him would also have to love his daughter, accepting that she came first in his life, and that was a definite obstacle in beginning any relationship.

Logan looked back on Jean-Luc’s loss, and he considered the family dynamic between the man and his son and second wife. Logan occasionally ran into Raven at court, and he still wasn’t impressed. What awed him, however, was that she never seemed to age. She possessed a sharp, gossiping tongue and drank too heartily of red wine at supper, no matter who hosted the balls and gatherings they attended. Jean-Luc paid her little mind, and Logan wondered if he treated her indiscretions with the same disregard.

Raven’s lady’s maid, Irene, often hovered by her elbow to attend her whims, and Logan was amused at how sedate and calm she was. Her tendency to look through him when he spoke with her politely still made him shiver, since she was completely blind. She still walked ably, sensing all of the obstacles in her path, no matter how unfamiliar her environment was. Logan had no inkling that Irene used her gift to see a room or street the way it appeared to her in her visions before she even set foot into the reality. It was uncanny.

He still thought about the lost prince, musing on what kind of young man he would have become. The memory of the painting haunted him, as well as the memorial service. Jean-Luc kept it in his study, but a dark shroud was draped over it to preserve the oil paints and protect it from dust.

Laura poked him, disturbing his musings.

“Papa, I’m hungry.”

“But you already gobbled up my porridge,” he teased, kissing her soft cheek.

“No, I didn’t!” she insisted again. “I don’t like porridge.”

“Coffee isn’t a good dinner for little girls, either,” he chided. “Let’s see Cook about something to eat.” He hefted her up on his hip and carried her to the kitchen; she clung to him like a little monkey, enjoying her higher vantage point and the faint scent of her father’s soap and tobacco. Logan felt no compunction about smoking his pipe at any hour of the day. He used to carry her on his shoulder until she grew too big, and her governess would scold him about the “unladylike” arrangement of her skirts that resulted from it.

She was overdressed, in his opinion. Nanny chose a lovely dress of aqua wool with a richly embroidered overskirt and flounced, leg of mutton sleeves, but it was too fancy for a regular afternoon when they had no other engagements.

Logan took Laura into the kitchen, where Cook greeted him in surprise.

“Sire, do you need anything? Was breakfast to your liking?”

“It’s time for tea,” he explained pleasantly. “This one just stole my coffee.”

“Our lady is a naughty one,” she agreed, chuckling. She reached out and tweaked Laura’s nose fondly, and she squirmed back, giggling. “Tea it is. I have some nice vanilla biscuits, sire, and some finger sandwiches, a Waldorf salad, and some sliced roast? Will that do?”

“Nicely,” he told her. Logan didn’t believe in putting his staff out, and they were glad to serve him in any way, wanting to please him even more because of his genial manner and respectful attitude toward them. But he still helped his father run a tight ship, and he didn’t suffer poor performance from workers who thought they would just live plush or steal from the palace. Thieves were dealt with swiftly and with dire consequences, sending the message that the Howletts weren’t to be trifled with.

He sat with his daughter in the sun-filled breakfast nook and enjoyed a tea party, one of the only feminine activities his daughter enjoyed. Her governess felt it helped her to practice her etiquette, and secretly, that it improved her future king’s, too.

“Would you like a lump of sugar, Daddy?” She’d already dropped four of them into his cup, and Logan would gag if he had to drink another sip of the viciously sweet tea, but his daughter enjoyed using the small silver tongs.

“Why, yes, thank you, milady,” he replied, holding out the delicate china cup. Dutifully, she dropped in another cube, and he mentally winced as he stirred it.

“Can we go riding, Daddy?”

“Not right now, sweetheart.” That earned him a pout, and her little shoulders slumped in disappointment.

“But I want to ride with you!” The deep pink lower lip quivered dangerously, but Logan held up a finger in warning and eyed her sternly, putting her back in line.

“Not now, Laura. After your nap and your lessons are over, we can ride. I need to meet with Mr. North.” Christopher North was the head of his security squad that protected the land surrounding the palace, driving out bandits and poachers from his woods to secure his borders.

“But I hate-“

“No. What do we say it’s not wrong to do?”

“I don’t get to say I hate anything,” she grumbled as she stared down into her lap. She looked more dejected at the scold than she was at having her trek with her father denied. “Because it’s not nice.”

“Correct.”

“I don’t like my lessons, and I don’t want a nap!” she pronounced crisply.

“Learning your lessons is what I expect of you, Laura. Doing your school work is your job, and helping your grandfather look after the palace is mine. If I didn’t do my job, what would happen?” She shrugged, but Logan beckoned for her to meet him at his seat. She hopped down from hers and stomped over, but he tutted, shaking his head. She adjusted her posture and finished walking over nicely. Logan took her tiny hands and spoke to her soberly. “Someone has to keep the castle safe. If I didn’t do my job, the servants would do their jobs. The soldiers wouldn’t have anyone to give them orders, the huntsmen wouldn’t go hunting, and Cook wouldn’t cook. The pages wouldn’t get their knight’s training outside and the horses wouldn’t get their oats. Things would be a big mess if all I did was go riding and hunting and have fun all day, sweetheart, even if being a prince is hard work.” She groaned and looked away. “Laura. Look at me.” She faced him, and she still looked disappointed, but he saw an inkling of understanding in her eyes.

“I want to stay with you, Daddy.” She combed her fingers through his sideburns and burrowed her way into his arms. “And I don’t need a nap.”

“I beg to differ.” Laura had her father’s temper when she grew tired, and a cranky princess was a difficult princess. “Lessons first. Then a nap. If you still want to go riding after that, then we’ll go for a little while before supper.”

“But, Daddy…”

“No buts. If you want me to take you later, you’d better get rid of that pout and give me a kiss, and tell me you love me,” he said simply. She straightened up and dutifully kissed his cheek.

“I love you.”

“I love you.” She scampered off, and Logan called for one of the maids to remove the tea. She mercifully dumped out the oversugared one and poured him a fresh cup.

*

When Victor rode up to the cottage, he almost didn’t recognize it. There was a new fence around it and a second level had been built, including a loft. The stable was also larger and refurbished, and there was a wagon parked beside it. Victor felt foolish; they were no doubt having company for supper. He was at a loss. But he remembered Cerebra’s words to him and how imperative it was to protect him, something he’d failed to do so long ago. He wouldn’t fail Prince Remy again, even if it meant he suffered the consequences himself. Victor tethered Brutus to a tree, not wanting to impose for the time being on Henry’s hospitality, and he mastered himself, contemplating what to say.

Before he could mentally compose a greeting, someone came out from the cottage’s back door, and his breath hitched. He heard low, melodic humming in a smooth, skilled baritone, underscored by booted feet tramping through the melting snow. Victor’s fists balled themselves at his side and he stiffened. That voice…it was immediately familiar to him, so much like Jean-Luc’s, and he remembered hearing him whistle that same tune in the library when he hunted through the shelves for his favorite books.

His feet plodded forward without his permission, following the sound of that singing and the low squeal of a bucket pulley. Victor felt his chest tighten with emotion and his heart started to pound. It couldn’t be…

He let himself in through the gate quietly, leaving it slightly ajar, and he padded into the spacious garden, ignoring the impressive assortment of plants that were working themselves back up through the snow with new green shoots and tendrils. He peered around the corner of the cottage, propping himself up against it for strength, since his knees buckled in surprise.

The young man’s back was to him, but Victor recognized the long, thick, gleaming chestnut braid immediately. The lad was anything but, now easily taller than Jean-Luc, something he noticed even though Remy was leaning over the well as he turned the crank. Victor heard the low splash as the bucket hit the water, and Remy’s humming was echoing back up to him. Victor watched him work, awed at the broad, well-muscled back straining the seams of a filthy muslin shirt. His guess had been correct, then, he mused in dismay: Remy was living like a pauper. It was all Victor’s fault. Guilt stabbed at him, but he tried to put it aside as he treated himself to a long look at the king’s only son.

His ass was ripe, round and tight, also straining the dark trousers he wore, and Victor felt lust suffuse him, engorging his cock. Heat licked over him, flushing his face and making him anxious. The reaction in his body to Remy shocked him, and made him so guilty he wanted to fall in shame, face to the ground.

Remy pulled up the bucket, setting it down long enough to transfer it into the large pail he’d brought with him. He dipped a tin cup into it and refreshed himself, draining it thirstily. He turned, and Victor gasped at the sight of him. He was the spitting image of Jean-Luc and Natalie, achingly handsome and strapping, elegantly built and fit from his simple, hardworking lifestyle. His skin was still creamy and flawless, but he had a hint of dark stubble along his jaw, those whiskers telling Victor that the lad had come of age some time ago. There was a sprinkling of dark hair peeking over the gap in his shirt where the collar was unbuttoned, and the garment had patches of sweat, making him seem even more virile and masculine to Victor’s gaze.

His hair was messy, stray strands hanging down around his face that he batted from his eyes impatiently. His chest was splotched with sweat and dirt, and Victor sucked in a breath at the stiff peaks of his nipples, barely visible through the thin fabric of the shirt. His fingers itched with the urge to touch them, until he remembered his station and who this young man was to him. But he was in awe of his beauty, how he’d ripened and matured over the years, how he now stole his breath.

He must have made a small sound, because Remy became aware of his presence. Red-on-black eyes swung his way, probing his blue ones. Remy froze, and the cup dropped with a low clink onto the paver stones beneath his feet.

“You.”

“Master Remy,” Victor whispered. He stepped forward, wondering why his body felt so numb and light, why the moment felt so unreal. He actually trembled. Remy shook his head in disbelief. Victor winced when he saw Remy cringe back slightly and fear rise in his eyes. He did the only thing that occurred to him in that moment. Victor held up his hands to show him that he had no weapons.

“Why did you call me that?” Remy demanded. “I know you. What are you doing here?”

“I…I’ve come t-to…”

“We might be a ways out from the village, but this is still private property. You’re trespassing,” Remy accused. “What’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Because I have, he wanted to tell him. Victor’s throat was closing up, and he felt himself stiffen like a board as Remy strode toward him.

“Out,” he ordered brusquely. “Unless you tell me what business you have on our land.”

“Henry,” Victor grated out. “I’m here to see Henry.” He shivered when Remy grabbed his upper arm with surprising strength, preparing to throw him out. He caught a whiff of his sweat and natural scent, the warm fragrance of his hair and the smell of his breath fanning out over his face. Victor was shocked that he was so bold and forceful with him, unafraid of his size. More startling was that Remy wasn’t that much shorter than he was anymore, easily six-foot-two in his bare feet.

“Henry,” Remy huffed. “He’s in the house. He didn’t say he was expecting any guests.”

“It’s a private matter.”

“Not if it means you’re tramping around in our garden instead of knocking on the front door.” The prince had a point, Victor realized. He cleared his throat. It was growing difficult to breathe around the clogged feeling in his chest and the way his heart was still pounding. Remy felt the giant’s pulse jump, even through his heavy coat. Victor sweated, almost wishing he’d left it behind.

“I heard you whistling. I wondered if you could have been him,” Victor explained hastily.

Remy knew he was lying. He’d gently probed his emotions from the time of his discovery, and the man was too panicked, but more confusing was the lust emanating from him, mingled with guilt.

Well, well.

Remy’s grip was still firm on him, but he noticed the beginnings of a tear welling in Victor’s eye. He frowned at it and reached up to dash it away, out of instinct. He hated to see anyone cry, and definitely not on his account. Victor shivered at his touch, then squeezed his eyes shut, unable to stare into that unsettling red gaze any longer.

“I’m good at telling when someone is lying to me. I don’t have a lot of patience for people who try to fool me. Or who won’t tell me what they’re after,” Remy purred. His voice took on a low burr of sensuality, licking over Victor’s nerve endings. “Why do I feel like I know you?” he mused as he reached up and took Victor’s chin in deft, slim fingers and angled it down to make him look at him. Remy stroked his jaw to feel the rough coat of dark gold stubble that caught the sunlight, revealing lighter blond wicks and bits of gray. The man’s face was handsome with large features, a stubborn jaw and slightly craggy brows, and his skin was weathered and tanned. Long, fine lines striated the corners of his eyes, which looked exhausted and haunted when he finally opened them. He recoiled when it occurred to him how close Remy stood to him, how his hand had slid down his arm to his wrist, wrapped around it snug as a manacle.

Victor’s eyes dilated, and a bolt of arousal struck him like lightning. The lost prince before him looked at him quizzically. “Who are you to me?” Remy demanded.

“No one. But the night I left you, everything went black. I haven’t seen the sun since.” Remy shook his head.

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t have any answers, lad,” Victor husked. He couldn’t contain the urge to touch Remy, just to see if he was still real, that he wasn’t dreaming, that this wasn’t a whiskey-fueled delusion or one of the mind-witch’s tricks. He half-expected her to pop out and tear his brain inside-out again. “Forgive me,” he pleaded. Before Remy could object, Victor snaked his arm around Remy’s waist and enveloped him against his bulk.

Alarms went off in Remy’s head, but he sensed no threat in the man’s intentions, nor any hostility. He couldn’t be demented, he supposed, but what little he’d told him threw him off-balance. His emotions were so raw, though, and they leaked out of him, slowing pulling Remy under.

Guilt. The man was so filled with shame and regret that Remy felt his own eyes prick, and he became fully aware of the man’s grip on him, of his heart pounding so hard that he could almost hear it. There was so much sadness in him, weighing him down for so long that it became his natural state. Victor was a man who had forgotten how to laugh, ironic, somehow, since Remy had an impression of him as being jolly at some point, maybe prior to whatever it was that happened to him…or, whatever sin he’d committed, whatever bend in the road that misled him.

Remy’s arms disobeyed his sense of self-preservation and wrapped around the man’s back, caressing him soothingly. This felt familiar, too, as though he’d comforted him at some point, but he couldn’t figure out why.

Victor wouldn’t weep, even though he was choking on his grief. He shuddered out a heavy breath and just clung to Remy. He was real, and he felt so good, it was such a miracle to hold him and feel the vitality in that young body, the strength, telling him that he’d not only survived, but flourished.

They held each other for long moments, just absorbing each other’s presence and listening to the sounds in the garden; the dripping of melting icicles; birds twittering in Henry’s jasmine bushes despite the fact that they had no blossoms yet; the chatter inside the cottage that they could hear through the wall that led to the kitchen. Remy sensed that this man was once a close friend, someone that he trusted, and he wanted to again. That longing confused him, too, but he accepted the embrace, and felt the man’s relief washing over him, too. “Remy,” Victor whispered.

“It’s all right,” Remy murmured into his neck. Victor stiffened at the brief, warm press of his soft lips against his skin. His body reacted violently to the gesture, and he felt his cock twist beneath his drawers. He was holding him so close, feeling the long, lean body pressed against him fully, and Remy was still stroking his hair and back, enjoying his heat.

Remy was still buzzing with Warren’s leftover lust and the way he’d overloaded his senses, and he still craved that physical contact, but now it had a different subject. He knew he’d felt desire from Victor, too, brief but genuine, and he seemed to be just as ashamed of that, too. Remy followed the instincts of his body and reacted to what he was feeling when Victor’s fingers stroked down his back, blunt fingernails dragging their way down over his spine, and it felt primal, almost wanton. Victor smelled very male and his skin, where Remy had touched it, was hot and firm; his pulse had jumped in his wrist when he grabbed him, and it was racing in his throat, too.

He leaned back from him just enough to stare up into his face, and Victor looked contrite. “Remy,” he mumbled. “I can’t-“

Remy silenced him with a hard kiss that made him stifle a yelp. Their breath mingled hotly and Victor was staggered with the prince’s skilled mouth, the way he crushed his mouth, manipulating it, dominating it until he opened for him. He whimpered in response; the sound was foreign to his own ears. Even Raven had never made him whimper…

Remy’s hand was fisted in Victor’s hair now, tilting his head where he wanted it, angling him to better taste him. His tongue teased the inner seam of Victor’s lips and Victor moaned when he let him inside. He felt him explore him with lapping, velvety strokes while his hands still traveled over his broad back. Alarms in Victor’s head went off…this wasn’t why he came to this neck of the woods…

He didn’t care.

His hands molded Remy’s waist, exploring the firm muscles and heated skin through the rough muslin shirt. He leaned into Remy, backing him up until his rump collided with the edge of the well. He ground himself against him because he couldn’t help it, couldn’t resist the primal pull of the young, muscular body or the way his hands were tugging on him, easing inside his coat. Remy groped him, kneading his generous pectorals and counting his ribs…Victor had grown thinner over the years, still a giant, but he was more drawn. He tugged open one of his shirt’s buttons and slipped his hand inside to stroke his skin, moaning over the crisp mat of hair he found there and the stiff peak of his nipple that strained against his palm.

It was madness. Victor was trapped in the feedback of Remy’s own passion while he drowned in his own, carried away in its tide. It made no sense. The prince had no reason to trust him. He should be prostrate at his feet, since he wasn’t even worthy for the boy to wipe his dirty boots off on his ass. But the siren call of that voice, of that mouth that he was now plundering, sucking on the plump lower lip, draining of its succulent flavors, was undoing him fast.

He felt Remy’s questing hand slide over his rump, molding it, gripping it possessively, and it pushed him over the edge. No one had engaged him in passion for so long, because he wouldn’t open himself up to those feelings anymore, punishing himself with his bleak, despairing lifestyle and self-imposed loneliness. He hungered for that affection without the taint of someone using him for their own purposes or ulterior motives. This was pure. Unspoiled…


No.

The prince was pure of heart, no thanks to Victor. Had he not arrived at the Painted Lady in time, Remy would have been ruined, left to live a torrid, hopeless life in a bordello. And he wouldn’t have ended up there in the first place if Victor hadn’t followed Raven’s charade, resulting in a failed attempt on Remy’s life and on the lad being kidnapped.

The gravity of the truth hit him like a hammer, and Victor pushed Remy away roughly. His eyes were blazing, and Remy was breathing hard, gripping the edge of the well for support. Victor caught his arm before he could fall backward into it.

Betsy sailed through the gate, chiding Remy, “Why did you leave this open? You don’t live in a barn, the last time I checked…” Her words evaporated at the sight of the huntsman gripping Remy’s arm, and the two of them looking thoroughly rumpled, shirt buttons unfastened and hair a mad mess.

She hit Victor with a telepathic bolt of energy that knocked him off of his feet. “Betsy, DON’T!” Remy cried, eyes round with horror and confusion as the giant staggered and landed on his back.