Sandgren lingers like a hangover, waiting as Sayegh's stamping footsteps and Carraway's silent shadow fade away—then he turns, and gives Rich and Rafael a look of such poisonous derision Rafael finds himself pressing to Rich's side in anticipation of imminent torment.

  "Squirmed out of it again," Sandgren sneers, and doesn't even glance at Rafael, directing all his temper to Rich's defiant stare. "You're lucky Arthur likes your little country-boy act, treasure. Someday soon you're going to overstep one line too many, and he's finally going to let me cut you down to size. And I'm going to enjoy every second."

  Rafael may not be as helplessly high as he was when Sandgren intruded on the card game, but he still has to hold himself very still at that. The thought of Rich tortured and broken as Sam was brings helpless rage boiling up to meet the fear, a nest of wasps where his heart ought to be. Rich stands immovable in the face of the threat, an ivory wall, holding the man’s eyes steadily, but he doesn’t know—he never saw how Sam lay and shook, silently destroyed—

  When Rich glances down to Rafael in concern, cued by some subtle betrayal of Rafael's self-control, Sandgren follows the man's look. For the first time he takes note of Rafael standing there, and his blank-faced, silent rage.

  “What do you think you’re looking at, chew toy?” Sandgren says, in disgust so practiced and savored it looks like delight. "You were plenty chatty a second ago, nothin' to say to my face?"

  The letters are still here in this golden cage, within reach of Carraway's claws. Rafael grips Rich's arm hard enough his own worn muscles tremble and ache, and casts his eyes meekly down, giving no answer.

  "Shame," Sandgren sneers. "Thought for a second there you might grow a pair. I never did get enough chances with you to get under your skin, don't think I couldn't tell—keep up mouthin' off like you did today and maybe we'll fix that. Arthur already beat most of the fun outta you, but he never did know how to get the marrow outta the bones.”

  “You’re not gonna get the chance,” Rich says, with a hint of that deadly Hastings growl under the words.

  “I’d love to see you try to stop me,” Sandgren says, still looking at Rafael, and takes a sharp step forward, lunging into Rich’s space and bringing a hand up, a clear threat of a blow.

  Rich’s arm jerks up in front of his chest at the same time as he pushes Rafael farther back with his other hand, that whole massive body braced. Sandgren lowers his hand, smirking and smug, pleased to finally get his reaction, then reaches out and grabs Rich’s wrist by the cuff, tracing his other hand along the man’s forearm and then merely holding him there, as though it delights him to see how Rich’s hands tremble between them.

  “I’m not the first man who got to hurt you, am I?” he says, savoring the word like it’s delicious, and Rich twitches, rumbling softly in his chest. When he clenches that hand into a fist, it dulls the tremors but can't stop them entirely. Sandgren doesn’t release him for another moment, as though to make it very clear he’s unimpressed by the implicit threat of a fist large enough to crumple and snap him like so many dry twigs. Then he gives a dismissive flick of his wrist, flinging Rich’s hand down and away.

  “A knife’s a hell of a tool in the right hands,” he says. “Whoever got hold of you before me, they obviously didn’t know how to teach a real lesson.”

  “I learned plenty,” Rich says, low and saw-edged, and rolls his shoulders, fists clenching until the reddened knuckles pale to match his snow-white skin.

  “Not yet you haven’t, boy. Big, arrogant bucks like you can take so much pain before they pass out… You’ll take it too far someday. Looking forward to it.”

  Rich doesn’t answer. Sandgren lets out a scathing sound, makes the proud, stamping turn of a military man marching from the site of a decisive victory, and slams the door behind him just as loudly as Sayegh did, leaving only a hard and bitter silence in his wake.

  Rafael finds himself frozen in the airless silence of his departure. Dreadful fear, paralytic and venomous, holds him in place as all the sound and fury of a grieving madman slowly subsides inside him.

  Rich is just as motionless, both of them watching the door as though Sandgren might reappear there and act on his terrible threats. When Rich finally moves, it’s to look around the room as if someone might be hiding in the corner, eyes wide and face pale as chalk. No cruel masters show themselves, and he sags, rubbing a hand over his face, and takes a few measured steps to a huge armchair to sink down into it. His hands are trembling once again, until he wraps one arm around himself and grips the back of his neck with the other hand, breathing hard.

  “I really hate him,” he mutters, and his soft, deep voice shakes. “I didn’t think I could hate anyone like I hated Galveston, or Bates, but he’s right up there with them. He’s so fucking awful.”

  “He’s a wretched monster,” Rafael agrees, and follows him to the chair, stepping cautiously forward to stroke the thick red bristle of Rich’s hair, across the curve of Rich’s bowed head. Rich stays frozen as he is for a few moments, and then unwinds the arm around his stomach and curls it gently around Rafael’s waist, holding him closer.

  Rafael has been of no interest for so long, he almost forgot how it felt, having Sandgren corner him somewhere, hissing threats and cruel promises. Even before, when Carraway used to choose him, Rafael was too polite, too quiet, too quick to learn and too skilled at faking remorse to be put at Sandgren’s mercy more than twice.

  Those times, though, he remembers all too well. And he would give a lot to prevent Rich from coming to that close, sound-proofed little room, at the mercy of that vicious man.

  Vicious… Rafael steps back, looking down at the arm Rich wrapped around him.

  He’s seen Rich’s scars before, but made no real note of them; they’re pale lines on paler skin, more felt than seen, save for when they catch the light at just the right angle. If Rafael had thought to explain them, he might have thought of accidents, perhaps, accidental scrapes and scratches, the painful but unavoidable marks of a life spent on a ship with all its mysterious hazards. Rich is always busy, always working, and there’s so many things he could have caught those huge arms of his against… But with Sandgren’s words in his mind, Rafael sees them in a new light, taking note of how they're narrow and straight and thin. Knife wounds, cuts, striped all across the outside and underside of his arms, where Rich must have raised his arms in defense and caught the strike of blades there.

  Sol’s cuts are all along the backs of his hands and the tops of his forearms: he’s so driven, so aggressive, a bright and unrelenting challenge of a man. Sol took his wounds as a duelist, in glad combat, while Rich is young and gentle and deliberate and even when he’s romping along after Connor, he never makes a fist. Rich never got those cuts from attacking anyone. This man has never in his life acted the part of a soldier, and people drove knives into him anyway.

  Rich looks baffled at first. Then he seems to realize what Rafael is looking at and huffs, pulling his arms away and his shoulders up in an uncomfortable hunch.

  “Not a big deal,” he says. “Just—a couple of assholes, on my first assignment, there were some rough guys I had to learn to deal with. But it was all a long time ago now, it’s been years. It’s fine. I’m over it.”

  Rafael considers the way Rich has drawn in on himself, the way one huge rough hand has wrapped around the other forearm, covering the marks, so young and still hurting. He still doesn’t know if Hastings feel pain as deeply as normal men do, but Rich shows fear and shame as acutely as anyone he’s known.

  “Raf?” says Rich uncertainly as Rafael moves, sinking down to his knees to pull that obscuring hand away. Rich takes a soft breath when Rafael gently catches up his fingers, and then lets it out in a fast, shaky little sigh when Rafael kisses a scar on the bone of his wrist, then one that stripes the rippling swells of muscle in his forearm, then another one further up.

  “It’s fine,” Rich says again, more softly, that petal-pink blush spreading across the stern angles of his cheekbones.

  “Yes,” Rafael says, and kisses another scar, then presses his forehead to Rich's knuckles. “It is. It will be.”

  “God, you’re such a sweet guy. Come here?” Rich ushers Rafael up to his lap and arranges both arms delicately around him. They rest together for a long, quiet moment, then startle badly when someone pushes the parlor door open. In a flash, Rich is on his feet, and Rafael finds himself perched on one powerful forearm, clutching at a broad shoulder.

  “What?” Rich snaps, and there’s a vicious ripsaw growl to it.

  “Fuck!” the terrified workman blurts out, and slams the door closed again. There’s a scuffle and a lot of hissing from outside, then silence.

  “Ah, fuck,” Rich says, voice still rough and rumbling. “Damn it. Fucking Sandgren!” He thumps his fist against his chest a few times, swallows hard, and gives a final irritable chuff. “God, I need a drink.”

  Rafael puts a hand on the man's head, smoothing a palm comfortingly over the bristle of his hair, and then startles and firms his grip on Rich's shoulder as Rich crosses the room at a determined clip, showing no sign of lowering Rafael to the ground.

  He's reaching for the doorknob when Rafael says, "Rich," in his firmest tone of big-brotherly chiding, and Rich comes at once to a halt.

  "Yeah, huh?" he asks. "What?"

  "You know I'm usually delighted to be spirited about in your arms," Rafael says, "but I intended to precede you and settle the… misunderstanding your growling may have caused. I think it would be wise to walk out under my own power."

  "Wh, aw, fuck," says Rich, and at once deposits him on his feet, broad face flooding brilliantly pink. "Shit, sorry, I din't think. I gotta get my head together. My best friend Trimmer's a fourhands, okay, one'a those little—the mods they made to go to Mars, the little guys with the hands for feet—"

  “Ah,” Rafael says, a polite nothing-sound of acknowledgement as he sorts rapidly through the names Rich has given him in the days since their meeting. Trimmer, my brig-buddy, prison wife, we were gonna get married. Yes. Of course. Rich made no description at the time, and Rafael is only aware of the fourhands mod by rumor, but with that clarification he can surmise a vague picture of the man. Slightly-built, almost certainly white, and more than likely blond. Felicity, one of the troupe’s tumblers, had been of just such an appearance, and once every few years a suspicious townie would demand to verify the humanity of her feet to confirm she was no devil spawn.

  “Yeah, so, Trimmer’d always ride me around like a deck-hopper,” Rich says. “Especially when shit got bad, guys like him feel, uh. Safer, when they're up on somethin'. So. If I put him down with Sandgren around—but I oughta have thought about it, sorry.”

  Rich is blushing fully now, pink all down his neck and bashfully apologetic. Rafael has to laugh, all the awful tension of the last little while resolving into desperate relief.

  “I'll be happy to have you bear me aloft some other time,” Rafael tells him, and pats his broad chest. “Far be it from me to deprive you. But for now, I'm of more use on the ground.”

  When Rafael cautiously emerges, the workmen are clustered at the far end of the hallway, wild-eyed to a man and obviously prepared to mount a further retreat.

  “It's alright,” Rafael calls. “You just spooked him.”

  Stepping out behind him, Rich puts up his hands and looks even more apologetic. “I’m gonna go back downstairs now. See if there’s enough lemonade. Have, uh, have a good time, bye,” and he strides carefully and pointedly away, Rafael jogging at his heels.

  “God, I hate scaring people,” Rich sighs. “Wish I was your size.”

  “There are certain drawbacks,” Rafael huffs, already out of breath. God, it’s been such a long day already, and now that the adrenaline’s fading he hurts everywhere.

  Rich sighs, and slows his steps. “You can knock off for the day, you know, you did more'n your shift already for a baseline guy.”

  Rafael shakes his head stubbornly. “I can keep up."

  He does, too: Rich doesn’t set him to any more tasks, no fetching or carrying, no errands, just lets him stay at the man’s side, but there Rafael does stay. He jogs along hallways and stairs as Rich hauls heavy bookshelves up and lighter bookshelves down. He watches tiredly as Rich discusses categorization systems with the woman who has a portable engraver, and gives his opinion on fonts. He’s always adored a nice authoritative copperplate, and the curling baroque font Rich favored as “Fancy!” would have looked incredibly tacky, in addition to being difficult to read at a distance. He goes and says the things Rich needs to tell people who are too scared of him to get near, and pats Rich’s arm sympathetically on returning to his side. He doesn’t collapse onto a single fainting couch, though he does regard the prospect wistfully.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  He makes it all the way until dinner, when Sol comes to share their table, takes one look at Rafael nodding off into his plate of roast beef and mixed vegetables, and rolls his eyes.

  “Alright, Shakespeare,” he says after they’re done eating. “Let’s hang out a little, huh? Give the big guy a break, come play me a movie.”

  “But,” Rafael starts, and is interrupted by an enormous, convulsive yawn. Rich laughs and reaches over to rub his aching back.

  “Go on, man. Entertain him before he gets cranky.”

  Rafael remembers being pulled to a parlor, settled down on a couch, and the first few minutes of some ancient film about a corrupt city—and after that, he remembers nothing at all.

  -

  Scene 22: The gardens.

  Rich is in a fragile state the next day. The triumphant self-satisfaction of the library installation has faded with a speed painful to see, and Rafael finds the man long-awake by the time he pries himself from the bed; fretful, hollow-eyed and full of anxious energy. He doesn’t wake Rafael with sweet kisses or gentle conversation, just peels him an orange with sharp, efficient movements, blunt fingers trembling and slipping from the peel in erratic shudders, hands it over, and goes to wash his hands for the entire time Rafael’s eating the fruit. While Rafael gets cleaned and dressed, Rich moves about their quarters constantly, relentlessly, like a caged tiger that cares obsessively about the evenness of the bed linens. His nails today are a flat, matte red, like chips of brick, and already starting to show wear at the tips.

  “Sandgren’s not going to be waiting behind a potted plant to spring at you,” Rafael says as they make their way down to breakfast. Rich is still agitated, peering sharply around every doorway and corner. “He wouldn’t fit, for one thing.”

  Rich gives a brief, unhappy laugh. “I know. I know, man, I just…” he rubs the angle of his nose, then his temple, then goes and straightens the hang of a painting.

  “Rich,” Rafael says hesitantly, and touches his elbow, half-braced to scramble away.

  “I need a drink so fucking bad, and I’ve been out for days,” Rich says tersely. “Yesterday was a lot to deal with, and I’ve been dry for way too long, and it all adds up, okay? I’ve got nowhere to go and nothing to do and nothing to drink and I can’t even touch my own dick without an engraved fucking invitation, I’m just gonna be kind of a mess today. Okay? Is that alright?”

  Rafael wants to flinch away from the irritable set of those thick red eyebrows, but he doesn’t think that’s a good idea. Instead he presses closer, and wraps his arms around Rich’s solid waist.

  “It is alright,” Rafael says. “You’re allowed to be upset, Rich.”

  Rich is still for a moment, then gives a huge sigh and cups a hand against Rafael’s back, rubbing slowly.

  “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, I forget that sometimes.”

  “You’ll feel better after you eat,” Rafael tells him.

  “Yeah,” Rich says again, and gives him a pat. “Well, let’s get to it, then.”

  Rafael is beginning to comprehend the length of the road he’s going to have to walk, both literally and metaphorically, before he’s able to keep up with Rich hour to hour—but he has skills that might render use in other areas. When Sol chides him for having skipped out on swords practice this morning, Rafael teases him back for having been entirely absent on yesterday’s installation work.

  Sol makes a prickly and challenging straight-man, determined to take offense from Rafael's laughing ripostes, but once they win the first laugh from Rich he seems all at once to understand the point of the exercise, and the strict pin of his angry ears loosens. Between the two of them they manage to lift Rich from his melancholy enough to laugh and play referee, and afterward Sol wordlessly knocks an elbow against Rafael's side and gives a tight, half-smiling twist of his lovely mouth before they part ways.

  To entertain is all well and good, but there's more material work to be done. After breakfast, when Rich and Connor sit in the garden to discuss the rest of the harem, Rafael settles attentively on Connor's other side and turns himself fully to the task at hand.

  Connor seems pleased by his interest, and is more than happy to paint the landscape for him as it currently stands. The prisoners have split down the lines of three different factions; in joining with Rich, Connor, Sol and Andy, Rafael has found himself a member of the first and largest, the only group that actively allies with each other and seeks to care for and assist Carraway's other prisoners.

  In opposition to them are the two men who have shown willing to take out their hurt and hate on whatever victim comes within their reach, and who Connor describes as slipperier than eels in lard. Garnet, who by Connor’s account is just as unpleasant and as bigoted as he seemed at a glance, and Stefan, who has a noted tendency to run and tell Sangren at the first sign of camaraderie or harmless fun. It's a small mercy, at least, that their hate seems to extend to each other as well, and they've shown no sign of allying against their fellow captives.

  The remaining men, Hunter, Domingo, Asher, and Omar, are determined to keep their heads down and survive as best they can alone. They pick no quarrels, but neither are they inclined to stick their necks out, and none of them are comfortable making friends with a Hastings.

  The rush of names is hard to keep track of, but Rafael has been long-trained to keep many parts in mind and to learn them quickly, and he listens intently as Connor explains.

  “And which was Omar?” he asks finally, as Connor is beginning to wind down. “Garnet I have unfortunately met, Hunter has the braid, you said, Stefan the…” he waves a hand at his face.

  “Kid with the glow-spots, yeah,” says Connor. “Omar stays in his room a lot, but he plays the piano now that Rich’s tuned it right. Real pretty, curly hair, about the same color as Sol. Younger, though, and piss-scared of tweaks no matter what you tell him. Guess this kinda thing's tougher on the younger men than us experienced ol' dogs.”

  "Yeah, you're an ancient fuckin' ruin," Rich smiles, and pokes one gigantic forefinger into Connor's smoothly cherubic cheek. "Good thing you still got all your teeth, Granny—"

  He is then duly nipped, and the two of them fall into a happy tussle.

  Rafael has not even seen a distressingly large fraction of his fellow prisoners at this point, but he files this morning's information away regardless. God, there are so many things to learn—to re-learn. It’s distressing to hear of such misery and distrust: there were one or two in Rafael’s early years that would lash out, but there had been a spirit of camaraderie back then that has evidently not carried on.

  Then again, Sam had spent much of his waking hours making sure it remained that way, seeing to the newer men, consoling the others, inventing games for them all to play, making it feel… all right, somehow. Like it was all going to be all right. Sam had a way of putting things where you could feel as if you were part of a story, and it was a funny story. That was it: even if it was miserable at the time, you could imagine telling the story later and laughing. And then Sam had been broken, and thrown away, and there wasn’t anyone left to care if Rafael laughed or not.

  “Raf?” says Rich, from the midst of Connor's ambitious attempt at a headlock. “Hey, you alright?”

  “Sam,” Rafael says with difficulty. “You would have loved Sam so much, both of you.” It feels awful to say out loud, utterly inadequate. A meager and years-late eulogy, far less than the least Sam deserves.

  “I just bet we would,” Connor says, and while his smile is warm and sweet as sunshine, there's a keen, deep knowing to his big blue eyes. No recognition of the name, but the immediate understanding of a man who knows the face of mourning.

  He says, "You wanna tell us about him?"

  “I—he was—” Rafael shakes his head, helpless. “We should get going. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have… vexed his ghost." He didn't intend the words, the second older, echoing pain they send through him; he swallows with an effort, and finishes, nearly soundless, "Let him pass, and stretch him not upon the rack of this world.”

  “We got time before we gotta get moving,” Rich offers.

  Rafael shakes his head again. Time they may have, but he hasn't the words, or the strength. Foolish, to imagine that he might.

  "Some other day, perhaps." He manages to laugh, though it lacks even the thinnest mask of real humor. "We'll all still be here tomorrow."

  “Lord,” Connor sighs, and unwinds himself from Rich. “C’mere?”

  He kisses Rafael sweetly, then pats his shoulder.

  “Buck up, drama boy,” he says. “We don’t get back yesterday, but we get tomorrow for free. That’s straight from my momma, so you know it’s good as gold and no arguing. Alright?”

  Rafael has to smile. “Alright,” he says.

  Rich ruffles Connor’s hair and then heads off to Carraway’s office. Rafael manages to stay close on his heels this time, rather than being left panting in his wake—and thus, when Rich reaches the door of the office and shies back like a startled carthorse, Rafael has to execute an ungraceful amount of footwork to keep from being bowled over. After a fast and complicated minute, Rich stands with his feet firmly planted once again, wild-eyed and apologetic, one hand bracing Rafael's shoulder, then gives him a pat and re-approaches the door with the steel-necked determination of a destrier.

  “Good morning, sir!” Rich says, and Rafael’s heart leaps to his throat. “Sorry I spooked, I wasn’t expecting you in yet.”

  “Mornin’, sugar,” Carraway’s voice says from beyond him, sounding deeply amused. “Come on in.”

  Rafael slips over to his own seat behind Rich’s desk, flicking a surreptitious glance at Carraway as Rich settles into his chair. Those yellow eyes are heavy-lidded, Carraway’s smile pleased, and his movements have a languorous quality that Rafael recognizes. He's either just gotten off, or… possibly is getting off, and given the distracted way he’s reading the text on his screen, Rafael is guessing on the latter. Someone is under his desk right now, trying to breathe past the man’s dick. A reward for himself, no doubt, for deigning to come to the office in any timely fashion. If the master of the house can't lie abed, why should his toys…

  From the faint crease on Rich’s brow, he noticed as well and isn’t any happier about it than Rafael, but there’s nothing either of them can do. They set to work, Rafael doing his best to complete the parts of the projects Rich gives him quickly and well. He’s definitely getting more skilled at the work, he thinks, even if it’s not effortless like it is for Rich yet.

  After a while there’s a little choked noise from under Carraway’s desk, and shortly afterwards Carraway looks even more pleased with life, sated. Rafael waits to see who emerges, but he doesn't let whoever it is come out. Rich opens his mouth, fidgeting with good-hearted concern, and Rafael nudges his ankle firmly before he can commit the grim error of interrupting the man's afterglow, and gives a minute shake of his head. Whatever unlucky soul is being put to ill use, friend or foe or wary stranger, for Rich to interrupt without invitation can only worsen both their situations.

  Still. Rafael is well aware that it's far from comfortable, being stuck under there with Carraway's legs, and he finds himself distracted by the thought as the next few hours of work tick by with agonizing slowness. Carraway’s completely indolent by lunchtime, having taken his satisfaction a second time while Rich works with frantic competency at everything he’s put to and Rafael races to keep up.

  “C’mere, treasure,” Carraway says after his tray has been cleared away, voice turned low and rough and a little slurred around the edges. Rich twitches, then hurries over, hesitating wide-eyed at the edge of Carraway’s desk.

  “Now, you’re looking like a whole month of rainy Sundays, sweet thing, you wanna let me know why?”

  “Oh, I, uh,” Rich says, his eyes flicking from where the corner of a patch is showing past Carraway’s shirtsleeve to down at whatever’s going on between his legs. “Um.”

  “Asked you a question,” Carraway says. He moves slowly, languidly, and hooks one of his claw rings through the belt loop of Rich’s tight jeans, gives it a tug. Rich draws immediately tense, lips parting in an involuntary grimace, inhuman swells of muscle bunching and rolling all along his massive arms and shoulders. Carraway only pauses, as though humoring a child threatening a tantrum, and removes the claws from his right hand with a great show of indulgence, setting them on his desk. As Rich settles back onto his heels, Carraway revenges himself for the favor with a possessive grope between Rich’s legs with no warning.

  “Ahh,” Rich says, rough and gasping, and buckles around the touch before he forces himself up once more, panting. “R-ran through the bourbon you gave me, sir, couple days ago. Didn’t mean to, I’m—hnn!” His head falls forward, a blush boiling down the tense arch of his neck as Carraway watches him in lazy amusement.

  “Just got scared and, didn’t mean to, I’m sorry, hhahh, honest! Sir! But now I’m, I’m, sir, I’m just, oh, fuck.”

  “Little wound up, huh?” Carraway chuckles. “Little bit on edge, aren’t you, eager young man like you.”

  “Just a little,” Rich says, voice hoarse. “Um. If you had any, anything you could spare, maybe, I could—whatever I could do for you, I would, please?”

  “Now, sugar, you know I can’t reward bad behavior,” Carraway says smugly, his hand still working Rich through his jeans. “I give you fine liquor to savor as a treat, you know, because I know you’ve got good self-control. You can handle a lot more than some other men your age, big strong thing like you, I can trust you with certain privileges. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, sir, absolutely sir, only, haah, it’s… please, can I just, can I earn it, more? I need it.”

  “You should have thought about what you needed a couple days ago, now, shouldn’t you? Before you let yourself get into this state.”

  “Yessir,” Rich says, his massive shoulders slumping.

  “I can’t just give you whatever you want because you ask real nice and bat those big green eyes at me,” Carraway goes on, not bothering to look away from what his hand is doing.

  “No, sir, I—I know, sir,” Rich says in a smaller voice. Rafael can see a slice of his back between his little shirt and the low waist of his pants, and his blush goes down that far.

  “Tell you what," Carraway says, “I’ll see what I think might suit you, tomorrow or the next day—I’ve got some good Houston whiskey in, I think, I’ve been meaning to have you try it. Nice, smooth stuff, goes down a treat—”

  “Thank you, sir—ah!”

  “Don’t interrupt, sweetheart.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Rich gasps, tense and quivering with Carraway's grip on him.

  “For tonight, you’re just gonna have to face up to consequences, darlin’. A little dry spell never hurt anyone.” He releases Rich and settles back again, and the whole massive tower of Rich’s body sways before he snaps back upright.

  “Yessir,” he says shakily. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Oh, don’t look so sorry for yourself. Here. I’ve got something that’ll take the edge off.” Carraway shoves his chair back and snaps his fingers, beckoning indolently.

  It takes a long moment for a figure to emerge from under his desk; a young man with chestnut brown hair and streaks of glimmering lights swirling along his bare back and down his arms, which are fastened behind his back; dark, well-worn leather cuffs are buckled over the ever-present dark featureless lines of the bands around his wrists, cutting a sharp contrast against smooth skin a few shades darker than Connor's. He’s sweating and dazed, and at the sight of Rich standing within arm’s reach at the side of Carraway’s desk, he balks and has to catch his hip on the edge of the desk, legs wobbling badly.

  “Oh,” says Rich, unenthusiastically. “Hi, Stefan.”

  Stefan licks his lips and glances from Carraway to Rich and back with wary eyes. He’s a pretty thing, as all Carraway’s captives are; long-lashed, dark blue eyes, a pointed face and a clever, mobile mouth, currently taut in a tired and thin-stretched terror.

  Carraway laughs and reaches lazily over to chuck the man under the chin.

  “Now don’t look so sour about it, firefly. He doesn’t bite. We feed our Hastings around here, especially the decorative ones...”

  “Uh,” Rich says, and shifts uneasily from foot to foot, shoulders rolling inward in blatant discomfort as Stefan pales, glowspots flickering and flashing in his bloodless cheeks. “Sir, that’s, uh. Really nice of you, but—”

  “Now, darlin', don't go hurting my feelings,” Carraway says, looking amused. “They don’t teach y’all manners up north, I swear. I give you a nice little treat, and you say…?”

  Rich stands motionless for a moment. Then says, “Yes sir. Thank you very much, sir.”

  Carraway nods and waves a hand in dismissal, turning back to Stefan. Rich swallows once more and returns to his chair with vast, painful care, face flushed, jeans mercilessly tight over the long, thick line of his dick where it strains up against his inseam. Rafael reaches out to him and Rich jumps and chuffs in shock at the touch of a hand on his arm, then swallows and grips Rafael’s hand to give it a delicate squeeze.

  It does nothing at all for their circumstances. But it settles the unsteady heave of Rich's shoulders and softens the helpless misery writ large across his face. Rafael presses against his shoulder and holds his trembling hand, and waits to see what the next breath will bring.

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