Fortress
by Becca Abbott
Part 15
Iason drifted in dreams, dark ones filled with fear and loneliness. Riki was there, but always out of reach, running from him. Once, the dreams faded and he thought he might have awakened. It felt like he was flying, but it could have been the drug. He heard voices over him, men talking to each other. Something cold stung the side of his neck and he fell back into the nightmares again.
When he woke the second time it was to quiet and a small, dimly lit room. The walls were dark and streaked with moisture. He smelled age and damp. Overhead was a low ceiling crisscrossed with conduits and pipes. Under him was a soft surface, and warm blankets were tucked under his chin. His head ached. When he turned it, lights went off behind his eyes.
That's right. He'd been drugged.
Memories sifted back. Men filling the corridor outside their room in Midnight. Guy standing tall and straight and unbearably desirable, holding out his hand. Two yellow pills, one for him, one for Katze.
"No one knows where we are. Not even you, Iason."
Finally.
"Good evening, Iason."
"Raoul," he said, but his voice was barely a whisper. He turned his head the other way without disaster. Across the room, half hidden in shadow, sat his old friend. "What the hell did you give us?" he asked irritably.
There was a low chuckle. "My little cocktail? I'm sorry. I made it stronger than usual since it was you."
"Katze..."
"Is fine and sleeping soundly."
"Bastard..."
Another laugh. Iason's eyelids were so heavy. "Need to talk to you."
"You're barely conscious," he heard. "Sleep some more."
"No time. Need something – wake me up."
"As you wish." There was a rustling. He saw the shadowy form rise and approach the bed. Then Raoul was leaning over him, that familiar, beautiful face swimming in Iason's hazy vision. "I'll be back."
Iason nodded and let himself be dragged back into the darkness.
The next time he returned to consciousness, it was abruptly, thoughts and senses focusing swiftly and completely. He sat up. Raoul sat on the foot of his bed, injector in hand. For a second, dizziness nearly toppled Iason over. His head still hurt, but the pain was localized, a distinct throb at his temple. Lifting a hand, he felt bandages. Of course. They'd taken the chip. He'd anticipated as much and it did not bother him.
"How are you feeling?" asked Raoul. He was leaner, the angles of his face more sharply defined, his hair flowing in a gold and black curtain around his shoulders and down his back. All in black leather, Raoul looked as if he'd been honed down to his most dangerous essentials. How beautiful he is, thought Iason irrelevantly, wondering how he could have forgotten.
"I feel like shit," he replied finally. "Did you have to drug me?"
"Of course. We cannot be too careful here. Even you, Iason, I cannot completely trust." He was silent a moment. Then, "You're a stubborn man, Iason. I was sure that if I ignored you long enough you would give up and go away."
"You're the psychologist. You should know better," admonished Iason, leaning back into his pillows. "Revolution, Raoul?"
Raoul sat back in his chair, arms folded over his chest. "Survival. I have no intention of being hunted, either by her or by the rabble who fancy themselves as bosses."
"Jupiter came after you?"
"You didn't know?"
Iason shook his head – carefully.
"Yes – within days. Between her paranoia and the fools who think taking down a Blondie will give them stature out here, assuming control of the Wasteland is my only hope of achieving some semblance of safety for Guy and myself." He frowned, watching as Iason pushed back the blankets with a shaking hand. "What are you doing?"
"Getting up. Where are we?"
"Underground – somewhere. The rock shields our DNA signature from detection, and don't be a fool. Stay where you are. You're still too shaky. The drugs were strong."
"We need to talk, Raoul."
The other Elite rose gracefully and extended a lean hand. It was callused. Iason remembered it as being smooth and soft, a scholar's hands. "As I mentioned before, you're a stubborn son of a bitch, Iason."
Iason just grinned. He let Raoul pull him to his feet. A strong arm came around his shoulders, steadying him. "We'll go somewhere more comfortable," said his oldest friend. "And you can have a drink. Your mouth is probably as dry as a desert."
Raoul was right. Iason walked with him out the door and into a low, gloomy passage. It was crowded with men who gave them curious glances as they walked slowly along it. Then Raoul turned and another door opened. Beyond was a very large, cavernous space. They came out onto a balcony that circled it. Below, were two air cars. Looking up, he saw the enormous hanger doors far above them, closed now.
"What is this?"
"An old terraforming substation, one of the thousands scattered around Amoi. And no, I won't tell you which one."
Raoul walked him to the edge of the balcony and let him go, leaning forward against the rail. Iason did the same, looking down. Then he saw Guy. The mongrel was standing in the midst of several men, apparently giving orders, pointing to one of the air cars. The sight of him reminded Iason abruptly of his own mongrel.
"I hear Jupiter took Riki from you," said Raoul. "If you've come to ask me to give myself up for his sake, Iason, you're wasting your breath."
"No," said Iason, shaking his head. He watched Guy move away from the men, walking with long, easy strides across the floor. His black hair flowed behind him like a banner made of ink.
"Then why? Just to say hello?" Mockery, light and delicate, colored Raoul's voice.
"I know who has Riki and where he is," said Iason. Below, Guy stopped and looked up. For a second, their eyes met and held. Iason felt himself start to sweat. His groin stirred. He fought to keep calm and undisturbed. He had no time for this.
The mongrel walked on, disappearing from sight under the overhang. When Iason turned back to Raoul, his heartbeat was returning to normal. "I came to make you an offer, Raoul. Help me get him back and I'll give you the ultimate relief from Jupiter's vengeance. I'll give you what the Terrans wanted – the keys to her destruction."
Draco pulled his collar tight against the wind that always seemed to find its way past the Fortress' soaring walls to bite deep through the layers of fabric and insulation of his coat. It was only mid-afternoon, and there were still several outstanding pieces of business left unfinished on his desk, but he had to get away.
The usual knot of tension at the back of his neck had been joined by a churning in his belly. Phillips, the new head of the Committee, had refused his request for reinforcements. Not only that, he'd once again raised the Committee's intentions to remove the mongrel.
"It's nothing Jupiter need be bothered with," had been Phillips' cold response when Draco once again raised his question. "If it makes you feel better, your protest will be in the official record."
There had been more – hints of future promotions, plum assignments – all if he'd go along quietly with the change of plans. Draco wanted very much to believe that the move was for the reasons they claimed, but nothing he knew of the Templars these days gave him that confidence. One of two things was going to occur. Either the Templars would take their revenge for the killings and the mongrel would die or they were going to surrender him to Mink in exchange for their lives.
He had no choice now but to go over their heads and directly to Jupiter, but he remembered all too well the last time he'd acted on his conscience. The thought of facing that nightmare again made him sick with dread – the hearings, the media frenzy, the cold stares of the men who had been his friends and colleagues. If he was wrong, or once again failed to prove his case, they wouldn't be content merely to exile him, they would tear him apart.
The lobby of the residence hall was empty when he let himself in. Maybe, he thought suddenly, he'd have Els give him a show. So what if it was the middle of the day? He could use the relaxation. Lately, the pet's work had been inspired. Draco remembered the performance the boy had given him the night before last. As tense as Draco had been, Els had been so sensual, so intensely erotic, that Draco's release afterwards had enabled him able to sleep soundly through the night.
It was very quiet when he let himself into the apartment. Shedding his coat and scarf, he kicked off his boots and went down the corridor to Els' room. It was messy, as always, bed unmade, drawing things in an untidy scatter across his table. Draco turned and went to the kitchen. Els wasn't there, either, but as he turned to look elsewhere, he glanced down the short corridor toward the mongrel's cell and saw the portable heater.
For a second, he stared in disbelief, then headed for that direction. As he approached the force-door, Draco heard heavy breathing and a moan. He froze, shock temporarily robbing him of any emotion whatsoever. Then his heart began to pound, anger to coil in his belly. Moving without a sound, he walked to the door and looked in.
Els was on his elbows and knees, head to the floor, long hair spilled like blood against the dull gray tiles. Leaning over him, hips slamming rhythmically against his buttocks, was the mongrel. Even as rage blossomed inside him, Draco was transfixed. Els' soft gasps and moans made him shiver. The way the boy clenched his hands tightly at each thrust, the sight of his cock, just visible beneath the curve of hip and belly, hard and dripping, robbed the Blondie of breath. As for the mongrel, he was more beautiful and electrifying than such a creature had a right to be. He gripped Els tightly, bent over him, graceful body gleaming with sweat. Draco wanted to close his eyes, but it was impossible. His own groin ached with a ferocity that frightened him.
Now the mongrel laughed breathlessly. He pulled Els upright and held the boy impaled against him. One hand, large and slender, slid down the smooth chest to seize Els' erection. The pet sighed, head falling back on the mongrel's broad shoulder. Riki's other hand plucked at a pointed nipple and Els sobbed aloud.
It was enough. The betrayal was a knife in his heart. Knowing he could stand no more, Draco strode into the room. Lost in their own pleasure, they did not see him. Not until he stood over them did the mongrel suddenly realize he was there. The creature gave him a dazed blink, then Draco grabbed him, pulling the two apart.
Rage left a red mist before his eyes. He flung the mongrel across the room with all his strength and heard the punk hit the wall. Then he bent to his treacherous little pet. Els stared up at him, round-eyed, the beginnings of terror creeping past the haze of pleasure.
"S-sir?"
"How dare you?" hissed Draco and back-handed the boy across the face, knocking him to the ground.
With a gasp, Els scrambled to his knees. "Please, sir! It – it's not what you think!"
But Draco was in no mood for excuses and lies. He'd had enough of that from his superiors. Furiously, he reached down and pulled Els back to his feet. He threw the boy toward the door and watched him stumble into corridor and crash against the wall.
"Major! Major Brand!" the mongrel cried. "Don't..."
Draco whirled around. "You," he said coldly, and the mongrel went still and pale. "I will deal with you soon enough."
"Please, sir," Els stood by the heater, trembling, trying to wipe the blood from his lips with a hand that shook terribly. "Let me ex...."
Draco hit him again, anger steadily rising, and watched him fall. Excuses? The little shit was going to give him excuses?
"Did I give you permission to bring a heater down here?"
Els, on his knees, shook his head.
"Go to your room and wait for me there," said Draco coldly. Els fled.
The mongrel stood beside the bed when Draco walked back into the cell. He was pale, the blanket pulled tight, but his eyes met Draco's without flinching. The Elite tore the blanket away. He stared at the young man's magnificent body, the large sex, glistening and still half erect.
"What did you think to achieve by seducing my pet?" he asked, voice soft and thick. "Did you hope to get his help in escaping? In sending a message to your master?"
"No, sir. He would never do that. This was for you..."
Something inside Draco snapped. He sent a command at the ring and whatever other lies the mongrel might have spewed ended in an anguished scream. Draco stood impassively, sending command after command, watching the man writhe at his feet, screams bouncing off the walls.
His heart was pounding. Over and over in his head he kept seeing the two of them, bodies locked together and the looks of ecstasy on their faces. Finally, he realized that the screams had stopped. The mongrel was still, eyes closed. Draco nudged him with his foot, wondering distantly if he'd killed the son of a bitch. The ring could do that in extreme circumstances – if it was used excessively and if the victim's constitution was weak.
But mongrels, like all vermin, were hard to kill. Mink's creature was still breathing, although unconscious. His body was covered with sweat and blood stained his lips. The black hair clung in sodden tendrils to his face and neck. Again, Draco was tormented by the vision of him with Els and with the anger came the tightening of the pressure in his gut. Without thinking, his hand stole to his groin to rub over the bulge of his erection there.
Mink fucked this thing. Mink didn't make do with his hand.
Bending over, he lifted the mongrel from the floor and carried him to the bed, dropping him onto it. The creature stirred, groaning. Wet eyelashes fluttered and opened. Those dark eyes met his and blanked with terror.
Draco let his gaze drift the length of that lean, muscular body, watching it tense under his regard. Hungrily, his eyes lingered on the mongrel's genitals. Even soft, they were impressive.
The pressure down below was driving Draco mad; he should go, relieve it and come back, but he couldn't move. It seemed like another man's hand unfastened his belt and pulled it off. The mongrel made a small sound and curled up on the bed.
"Stand up."
When he didn't move, Draco sent another command, quick and short – a reminder – and this time, the mongrel nearly fell in his hurry to obey.
"Maybe," Draco said hoarsely, "you're just a whore and you can't do without it. Is that what Mink sees in you? A vulgar reflection of himself – a creature compelled to ruin everything he touches for no other reason than to seek pleasure?"
"Please, sir..."
"Silence!"
The young man stood, shivering, as Draco bound his wrists. Then, turning his back on the Blondie, he went without resistance to his hands and knees on the edge of the bed. Like the well-trained whore he was, he immediately slid his legs apart and lifted his ass. Draco ran a hand over the tight curve of flesh and muscle. He pulled open the mongrel's buttocks.
The entrance to the man's body was small, so small. It seemed inconceivable that an organ the size of a penis could fit, yet it clearly did. Draco had seen many performances in his life, but always from the distance of a chair or a couch, removed. Ordinary men got closer. Ordinary men touched. His kind did not. All except for Iason Mink and Raoul Am, who touched and more. The mongrel pressed his face to the mattress. His bound hands clenched the ticking in dreadful anticipation.
Draco pushed his finger in.
Around it, muscles tensed. He pushed in another. The man was warm inside, and tight. Draco imagined the sheathe surrounding his cock and felt a jolt of pleasure-pain that made him shiver.
Go to your room. Leave now.
But he only pulled out his fingers and undid his pants, freeing his erection. His heart pounded under the uncomfortable combination of eagerness and apprehension. All the hours of training and indoctrination echoed in his head as he set the tip of his organ against the mongrel's anus.
Sex is for the lower orders. Sex disorders the intellect, reduces self-control. This must be avoided at all costs.
Raoul and Mink had broken their conditioning. One man had become an outlaw, the other degraded and without honor. In spite of all that, Draco could not have stirred from the spot if his life had depended upon it.
The mongrel's knuckles whitened as Draco pushed against the tiny ring of muscle, startled at the resistance. He grunted and thrust his hips forward with all his strength. Abruptly, the resistance broke and he was in, driving deep, shocked by the hot wave of pleasure that accompanied the penetration. He barely heard the muffled scream from the man under him.
Draco lost himself in it, the long, hard thrusts, the pressure of the muscles around his sex as he moved. Even the sobs of the mongrel fanned the flames. Faster and harder he went, sensing the unbearable pleasure that awaited at the end of it all. He held the man's hips tightly, keeping him still even as the mongrel tried twist away, to escape.
Release came in a blinding rush of white light. Draco heard himself cry out, a hoarse, guttural sound, animalistic and primitive. Inside its sheathe, his sex convulsed as he spent himself in great, exquisite spasms. For a second, he sagged against the bed, weak and dazed. Then he pulled away.
Draco's loins were covered with blood. A delicious languor poured through him. He looked indifferently at the mongrel and saw more blood, lots of it, smearing the man's buttocks and running down his thighs. Draco remembered the performances he'd seen, belatedly recalling that in the ordinary way of things, anal sex was done with lubricants and done with care. He smiled grimly. Not that it mattered here.
On unsteady legs, he went to the sink and cleaned himself off, restoring his clothing to order. When he looked around again, the mongrel had collapsed to the mattress, curling on his side, eyes closed, his face deathly white.
Draco turned his back and left.