Chapter 37: Clued In — The Key of Oslov

Volume 20: All the Kinds of Broken

Chapter 37 Clued In

Chapter Notes

There’s brief discussion of suicide at the beginning of this chapter, followed by some role-play of violent rape. If you’re wondering how Tilrey and Besha came to have the weird relationship they have in “A Serviceable Boy,” this is how.Update 11/30/24: Minor edit because I forgot that Besha definitely does know about the charge of shirking against Tilrey. Chapter 10: “I also know about the shirker business that Malsha had expunged from your record.”

Chapter Notes

Update 11/30/24: Minor edit because I forgot that Besha definitely does know about the charge of shirking against Tilrey. Chapter 10: “I also know about the shirker business that Malsha had expunged from your record.”

“The boy can’t sit on my lap! He’ll crush me!” Besha protested.He inched away from Verán on the sofa, then patted his knee with a waggish smile as if to say C’mon, try it. But when Tilrey approached him, he tensed up visibly. “Go on,” Verán said.Tilrey tried gamely to sit on Besha’s lap. But the smaller man immediately began squirming and struggling, sliding Tilrey’s weight off him. “We’ll do it this way,” he said, arranging Tilrey’s long legs on his lap.“Give him a nip of sweet,” Verán said, clearly amused by the spectacle.Besha’s cheeks were pink, Tilrey saw with interest. He knew his own were, too. Watching Besha fumble in his tunic pocket for a vial, he remembered how Ansha had defended Verán’s protégé this afternoon, calling him self-made and full of “gumption.”Thanks to Adelbert, Tilrey knew that Besha kept secrets from the majority leader. He had entrapped Tilrey and manipulated Malsha for reasons of his own. But it was probably safest to keep that knowledge to himself—for now.Besha poured sap into his palm and offered Tilrey a hand that was just slightly unsteady. Tilrey lapped up the dark, sticky liquid, wondering, Could he actually be afraid of me?It didn’t seem possible. But then, he and Besha had never been alone together longer than a few minutes. If he’d understood Verán correctly, soon they would be.When he finished cleaning Besha’s palm and lifted his head, he felt the man exhale—with relief? With desire? The young Councillor didn’t meet his eyes.“Oh, you’ll have a good night,” Verán said, leering. “I almost wish I could watch.”Besha laughed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Visha?” He ran his slightly sticky hand through Tilrey’s hair, still without looking directly at him. His voice had the nasal whine that always grated on Tilrey’s ears, nagging at him in a way he didn’t understand. “Not this time. I can’t wait to have him all to myself.”“You’ve earned it. What did you do to persuade Saldegren, anyway? He was so passionate in the preliminary arguments, practically calling me a murderer of Oslov’s youth.”“I sucked his cock,” Besha said. He laughed again to signal that he was being sarcastic—a little too loudly, Tilrey thought.Besha did sometimes remind him of Ansha. The man fawned on Verán to an embarrassing degree, but his resentment and hostility were palpable, just under the surface.“Saldegren has no concept of honor,” Verán said, leaning back and dipping his little finger into a vial. “He’s a perfectly good technocrat, but he doesn’t grasp that even the most rational state shouldn’t interfere in private matters. A well-ordered family is a miniature state of its own.”“If it’s the right kind of family,” Besha said, again with what seemed to Tilrey like obvious sarcasm.Verán didn’t pick up on it—or didn’t care. He only nodded, and they resumed their postmortem analysis of every single yes and no on the contentious vote.Tilrey hadn’t eaten much, and the sap was going straight to his head. He relaxed into the sofa—as much as he could in this awkward position, with his legs draped over Besha—and let his mind drift.He still felt the pressure of Bror’s lips, the heat of Bror’s mouth. He glowed inwardly, secretly, with the memory of every word Bror had said to him. He wants me. He couldn’t hold himself back. No matter what Besha did to Tilrey tonight, he couldn’t take that away.Over and over he reran today’s interactions with Bror in his head. And he began to feel a little ashamed of the part he had played.First, in the Café, he had frozen them all out. He knew Bror wanted him to stand up for himself with Ansha, because Bror had gently suggested as much at least a half-dozen times. But playing dead came naturally, and Tilrey couldn’t help enjoying how frustrated Ansha got.After Ansha had said those humiliating things about Tilrey wanting a “strong hand,” wanting to submit—thinking he knew Tilrey so well—Tilrey had stalked off in a snit, like a child. And then, when Bror came after him, he had continued to sulk. You don’t feel that way about me at all. You don’t want me back.Tilrey hadn’t entirely believed what he was saying, only feared it was true. Deep inside, hadn’t he actually hoped to pressure his friend into admitting he wanted him? Malsha couldn’t have manipulated Bror any better.But Bror did want him—the heat of the kiss proved that. If only Tilrey had been able to give himself entirely to the moment. It seemed only fair, after the way he’d baited Bror.If only he hadn’t had the sudden thought that Bror might leave a mark on him, and Verán might see it. If only… because, when Tilrey was honest with himself, he knew it wasn’t just the fear of being marked that had made him freeze in Bror’s arms.There was something else. As his friend’s tongue explored his mouth, something had yanked Tilrey out of the moment, making him aware that he was reading Bror’s signals and mirroring them, matching his pace and his ardor perfectly. In other words, he was doing exactly what he did with Councillors, with Ansha, with everyone he had ever kissed since Malsha and Artur had taught him his profession. It was automatic.When he was with Bror, he wanted to be spontaneous, real, himself, the way he’d been in Thurskein with Dal. But how? That awkward teenage Tilrey was long gone.So he had gone limp, stopped reciprocating. Bror had sensed it immediately and been so kind about it, so understanding. But what if Tilrey kept going hot and cold that way—playing with Bror’s affections, teasing his cock and then withdrawing? Even Bror’s patience must have limits.Tilrey’s legs were cramping. He slid the left one discreetly off Besha’s lap. Besha patted Tilrey’s right knee absently, absorbed in the impression he was doing of Councillor Saldegren: “And he says to me, ‘Besha, my conscience forbids me to vote for a law that would empower sensitive young Upstarts to kill themselves.”Kill themselves? Tilrey’s head jerked upright. He had assumed the earlier remark about murdering Oslov’s youth was just hyperbole.“His poor conscience!” Verán was laughing. “Did he also say something about not wanting to get blood on his hands?”“Practically. I was dying to ask him if he was worried about any ‘sensitive young Upstarts’ in his own family.”It took Tilrey a few minutes to piece together what they were discussing. He had heard rumblings of the controversy before: A young man from an Upstart family—not one of the best ones, but not one of the worst—had been Lowered and decided he would rather die than live as a Laborer.His family supported his resolution to take Soldrid—except for one sister, who prevailed on the Judiciary to send him to moral rehab. The rest of the family, in response, had lobbied for a measure that would make it impossible to commit a self-harm risk to moral rehab involuntarily, and this provision was attached to a larger Judicial reformation bill. Most of the Island Councillors rallied around it, calling it a matter of freedom of self-determination.Tilrey wondered how they’d managed to word the law so Laborers couldn’t also claim the right to harm themselves. Remembering how Vlastor had threatened him with moral rehab and force-feeding, he had no doubt they’d reserved the right to an “honorable” suicide for Upstarts who had failed to measure up to their own standards.“Saldegren had the nerve to go on about ‘social utility,’” Besha said, jiggling one leg as if he were nervous. Tilrey could feel the vibration. “He’s afraid we’ll start losing our best and brightest if they jump off a building every time they’re blue-tagged.”“If they’re blue-tagged, then they’re not the best and brightest,” Verán countered.“I know, right? Good riddance.” Besha’s smile was cruel. “But Vanya gave me some bleeding-heart line about adolescents not knowing their own minds.”At Notification, when students of Redda’s elite schools reached the end of their secondary education, each one received either a red or a blue tag. Red meant Upstart; blue meant Laborer. To children of Upstart parents, being blue-tagged might as well be a death sentence, but it was also vanishingly rare, at least as far as Tilrey knew. You really had to fuck up to be demoted.In his own way, Tilrey had fucked up his life at eighteen, he thought now, by going to that damned shirker meeting. What if he’d been allowed to die rather than face the consequences?On the one hand, jumping off a building instead of entering Malsha’s house that first time would have saved him a lot of pain. On the other hand, he would never have met Bror.Bror… and now he was glowing again, drifting back into his fantasies.Next time they were together, Tilrey vowed to himself, he would make sure things went all the way. If he felt himself going cold, floating away the way he did with Upstarts, then he would just fake it until the heat and excitement returned. It wouldn’t hurt to pretend a little, because his feelings for Bror were real.His other leg was going numb. When would Verán let them leave? Tilrey wasn’t sure what he thought of the whole Soldrid issue, but he did know he hated how breezily Besha and Verán were discussing the vote, as if it were just another political game. At least Saldegren grasped that people’s lives were at stake.Finally, finally, Verán noticed the time. “I mustn’t keep you all night, Besha,” he said with an oily smile. “What good is a reward if you can’t enjoy it?”Besha gave Tilrey’s leg a shove. “Verdant hells, you’re so heavy and I’m so fragile. Would you please get off me?” He reached under Tilrey’s tunic and gave his balls a quick squeeze—for Verán’s benefit, Tilrey supposed. “Not that I mind being crushed by you, believe me.”“Sorry, Fir.” Tilrey had to shake the pins and needles out of his leg before he could stand up. He wasn’t sorry he’d crushed Besha at all.*Besha spent the short car ride tapping on his handheld, not even looking at Tilrey. In the garage, he took Tilrey by a proprietary arm and led him into the coldroom. But he didn’t touch him more than strictly necessary.By the time they were in the sitting room, Tilrey was beginning to wonder if the young Councillor was even attracted to him. Maybe all those years of leering had been a performance, designed to make Verán think Besha was easily manipulated.True, Besha had enjoyed a blow job from Tilrey, but who wouldn’t? The little Councillor had encouraged Adelbert to seduce Tilrey—for his own reasons—but he hadn’t done it himself, not even when he had Tilrey at his mercy. Despicable as he might be, he wasn’t as simple as he wanted Verán to think.But he would have to use Tilrey tonight, or Verán would know there was something wrong. Either that or he would have to rely on Tilrey’s discretion.“Sit, sit.” Besha waved at the sofa. “It’s fucking cold out there. I need a drink to warm me up. And you’ll want more sap.”Tilrey sat down. “I’m fine, Fir.”“No, you’ve barely had any! Or maybe you’d like a drink, too?”The young Councillor went into the kitchen and returned with two tumblers of urine-colored liquid. Tilrey sipped his and practically choked—it was bitter, alcoholic, and extremely strong. But it made his cheeks and chest warm and his head light and spinny, so he drank more. “What is this, Fir? Rotgut?”“You kidding? The finest black-market Harbourer brandy. Didn’t Malsha ever serve this to you?” Besha had settled beside Tilrey, at least a foot away. He downed his tumbler in one gulp and poured again from the glass decanter. “Costs a lot of favors, believe me.”“Malsha didn’t like me drunk, Fir.” Another sip. Tilrey had to be careful to stay in control, but a little numbness couldn’t hurt.“Malsha was a control freak.” All at once, Besha was closer, his palm ghosting over Tilrey’s knee. “He would lose his shit if he could see us right now. Me with my hands all over you.”“So you knew Malsha pretty well, Fir?” Tilrey spoke with deliberate casualness. Malsha and Besha were connected in some way he didn’t understand yet, some way Besha wouldn’t want to talk about.He could hurt both of us, Adelbert had said, making Tilrey promise not to tell.“He was the General Magistrate. Everybody knew him.”Besha squeezed his knee. “Are you ready for tonight? I’m going to fuck you so hard.”Tilrey laughed out loud—the booze had loosened his control, all right. But when he saw Besha’s eyes widen, he lost the smile and said, “I’m actually a little frightened of you, Fir.”“Oh, like hell you are. But you should be. You will be!” Besha gave Tilrey’s knee a pat that was almost a slap. “Let’s go to the bedroom. Bring that decanter.”The room was a mess—bedclothes strewn about, discarded clothes and copies of the Council Record on the floor, even a tumbler on the headboard shelf. Tilrey wondered if no one had informed Besha, when he was elected Councillor, that he could have his new driver tidy up after him.Vlastor kept Verán’s apartment oppressively clean. He had shown Tilrey once how to make a bed “the way we did in the service,” then shooed him away when he failed to pull the sheets bandage-tight. According to Vlastor, Tilrey couldn’t possibly handle his workload, but Tilrey thought it might be nicer to have a checklist of mundane menial tasks than to cater to people’s ever-changing whims.Besha paused in the center of the room and finished off his second tumbler, cheeks very red. Tilrey stood beside him, waiting for his cue.Besha tipped his head to look up at Tilrey. “You’re too tall, did you know that? Has anyone ever told you that?”“I think you’re the first, Fir.”“Oh, I’m annoying you now. If you dared, you’d say the problem’s actually that I’m too short.”“I don’t think you’re too short, Fir.”“I know how you lads think. You laugh behind our backs. Gimme!” Besha took the decanter from Tilrey, then pointed at a chair in the corner that was draped with long underwear and track pants. “Bring that over here. No, throw that stuff on the floor—don’t fold it, what’s wrong with you? Sit down.”Tilrey placed the flimsy chair in the middle of the room and sat on it with his back to the bed. “Can I take my tunic off, Fir?” he asked, hoping to get things on the right path. “I could suck you off again.”“Oh, I’m sure you could!” Besha shoved himself in between Tilrey’s knees and bent to unfasten the neck of Tilrey’s tunic. “You’d like that, huh? To be in control again. Make me squirm and squeal.”Tilrey had sort of liked it, or might have if Verán and the others hadn’t been watching. “I want you to be in control, Fir,” he said soothingly, surprised by how little nervousness he felt. Even now, the first time with a new man tended to put him on edge, but Besha just didn’t feel dangerous.“Sure, you do. I don’t trust you, you know. Visha, he doesn’t see it, but you’re too clever for your own good.” Besha yanked Tilrey forward by the belt of his tunic, then unclasped it and peeled the heavy garment off his shoulders. “I haven’t forgotten the nosy questions you asked me that night, when I gave you the drink of water.”He meant the night of the spring fling, when they were alone in the bathroom for that brief respite. Tilrey hadn’t forgotten it either. “I’ve been meaning to thank you for that, Fir,” he said as his tunic tumbled to the floor, trying hard not to sound bitter. “You were kind.”“And you’re trying to butter me up.” Besha snatched the tumbler that Tilrey was still holding and brought it to Tilrey’s lips. “You’ll never be as good a brownnoser as that little prick Ansha, so I wouldn’t bother trying. Drink—finish it.”While Tilrey did, Besha circled behind the chair, picking up something on his way. He grabbed the empty tumbler and tossed it aside, then tugged Tilrey’s arms behind his back.Soft, scratchy fabric was wrapped around Tilrey’s wrists and pulled tight.Something knitted. He didn’t resist the makeshift bondage, which was less constricting than Gourmanian’s handcuffs, even when Besha knotted it hard.“There.” Besha stepped back. “You look better tied up. Like you belong in restraints. Arch your back and struggle a little—ooh, yes, like that. Not too hard. Don’t break it. Who was your first Upstart?”Tilrey stopped writhing. “’Scuse me, Fir?”Besha came around to face him again. “You’re a Skeinsha—the accent you’re faking doesn’t fool me. You weren’t raised with us. Who was the first Strutter you ever met? How old were you? Did he fuck you?”Strutter. Strange that Besha would use the same contemptuous term Laborers did. Maybe he was trying clumsily to relate to Tilrey. “I don’t know,” Tilrey said.“Yes, you do. Tell me.”The first time Tilrey ever met an Upstart, the man had groped him. He had resisted, and a soldier had stepped forward to restrain him. Those were memories he generally buried, but he had been through so much worse now. If Besha wanted a tearful reminiscence, he would be disappointed.Tilrey lifted his chin and spoke with no tremble in his voice. “His name was Admin Makari, and no, he didn’t fuck me. He wanted to save me for a Councillor, to earn patronage.”“But he could’ve fucked you, huh? He could’ve done whatever he wanted with you.” As if to illustrate, Besha placed his hand on Tilrey’s groin, just barely palming his cock through the trousers and briefs. “You were a bad boy, weren’t you? You could’ve flown under the radar, just another schoolboy in Thurskein. But you attracted attention to yourself somehow. And then your Supervisor saw you were too pretty to waste on a factory floor.”Had Besha forgotten the source of Tilrey’s trouble in Thurskein? Years ago, on their very first meeting, he’d taunted Tilrey with the “shirker business” that Malsha had expunged from his record. Maybe he didn’t want to admit he knew now that Tilrey was Island property—and that was fine with Tilrey, who wasn’t in the mood to let someone probe his sore spots the way Malsha used to.So he lied a little: “I was bad, Fir. I was involved with smugglers, transporting the goods. My mom was so angry.”Besha didn’t seem to mind playing along. “Mmm,” he said, stroking the slight bulge in Tilrey’s trousers. “So your Supervisor brought in an Upstart to give you a little talking-to. Did he impress you, this Makari?”Tilrey shook his head. He would give Besha just enough of the truth to satisfy him. “He was an ordinary man with a different accent and clothes from me. I expected more from an Upstart.”“But you must’ve known he was the arbiter of your fate.” Besha’s palm rubbed in circles, surprisingly skillful, sending hot tendrils of arousal up Tilrey’s spine. “He could’ve had you thrown in detention, where grown men would have raped you day and night. But instead, he cuffed you to a chair and told you to confess your crimes, didn’t he? He asked if you were ready to redeem yourself.”Tilrey nodded. It was dawning on him that Besha didn’t want the real story; he wanted a fantasy version they could act out together. And that he could do.“I confessed, Fir.” Not true: Makari hadn’t been interested in his guilt or innocence, only the pretext the charges provided. “I told him I would do anything to stay out of detention. I was so scared.”“Oh, I’m sure you were.” Besha reached up to tangle fingers in Tilrey’s hair, pulling his head backward to bare his neck. There was a confident purr in his voice, all the earlier jitters gone. He was getting off on this.“And then the Fir touched you, didn’t he?” Besha gave Tilrey’s head a little shake and nudged him in the hip with his knee. “He touched you like he owned you. And you changed your mind. You said you’d do anything else, but not that.”Tilrey tensed, but only a little. “That is what happened, Fir. More or less. How did you know?”“Oh, I know.” Besha bent and gave Tilrey a greedy kiss that tasted of brandy. “No, no, not like that—resist more, okay? Say it: ‘I’ll do anything but that.’”“I’ll do anything but that, Fir.”This time, when Besha kissed him, Tilrey set his jaw so the tongue had to force its way between his lips. His cheeks heated and his eyes teared with the token struggle, but he was still in control. This was a play they were acting together, using their skills in harmony.Bror would understand what he was doing. Pretending was part of being a kettle boy. Bror might even be proud.Besha straightened again, his beady eyes bright with desire. “What if I tell you you don’t have a choice, laddie? What’s your problem, anyway? Don’t you realize it’s a honor to have an Upstart want you?”“I’m sorry, Fir. I just . . . please, please don’t!” Tilrey let his voice quaver.With a sharp intake of breath, Besha darted in to devour Tilrey’s exposed throat and neck. He found a soft patch and suckled it, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin.“Mmm.” The sensations weren’t bad, actually, but Tilrey’s pinioned arms were starting to feel stiff. “Ask me if I’m being so shy because I’m fresh, Fir,” he suggested, remembering all too well how Admin Makari had done that. “Then we can move to the bed.”“Ooh yes, good idea.” Besha nuzzled him, his voice vibrating against Tilrey’s neck. “What’s your problem, then, lad? Are you fresh? Never been with a man yet?”“N-n-not with a man. I’ve been with a girl, Fir.” Tilrey exaggerated the distress, pitching upward; he was pleased by how absurdly pathetic he sounded. Never mind that he’d actually said something similar to Makari; that was over. This wasn’t real.“Ha ha, that doesn’t count. I really lucked out when I found you, didn’t I? An untouched peach, completely at my mercy.” Besha’s hand found Tilrey’s cock again and squeezed. “No worries. I promise I’ll be sweet and gentle. You just relax and let it happen, and the Fir’ll take care of everything.”Tilrey strained away. “Please don’t, Fir. I’m scared.”“Oh, c’mon. You know you want it.” Besha reached behind Tilrey and fumbled impatiently at the binding. “Let’s go to bed. I’ll just truss you up again to make sure you don’t get away.”They continued playing their roles of frightened schoolboy and rapacious Upstart, though it was harder to maintain the illusion once Tilrey stood up and towered over Besha again.Besha flinched almost imperceptibly, then darted forward and seized Tilrey’s wrists. “No, no more trouble from you! Flail around or something,” he added under his breath as a stage direction. “Put up a fight.” Then, in character again: “Be a good boy, or I’ll call in one of the Constables to hold you down. I’ll have you whether you want it or not!”Tilrey did his best to flail and fight ineffectually. But he couldn’t even shove Besha away, using a fraction of his strength, without frightening the little Councillor. So, after a few moves that felt like a poorly choreographed dance, he threw himself face down on the bed and pretended to weep.From there, it was easy for Besha to roll him over, plant a knee on Tilrey’s chest, and tug off his shirt and trousers. Tilrey helped him while pretending fitfully to resist. “Please no, Fir,” he said, too bored now to act with much conviction. “Please don’t.”His first time hadn’t actually gone like this. Makari had had the sense to save him for Councillor Jena—mostly. On the way to Redda, there’d been that thing at the waystation—but no, he wouldn’t think about that.Once they arrived, Councillor Jena didn’t want a struggle. A medium dose of sap sufficed to render Tilrey dead to the world. Hours later, he’d woken alone in a strange bed in a strange room with his ass hurting like hell—a shallow, stinging pain and a deep, aching pain at once. It took long, groggy minutes for him to grasp what had happened, and even then, the sense of violation didn’t sink in until Fir Jena’s driver entered the room and grinned down at him. “How we doin’ this morning?”“Don’t be an idiot!” Besha gave Tilrey a smack on the cheek that was more of a tap, hardly enough to make him blink.He must be worried about leaving marks; unlike Linden, he didn’t have the clout to get away with it. “Roll over, and let’s see if you’re lying about being untouched goods!”Tilrey rolled over. “Not lying, Fir.”Makari had wanted to verify, too, but he’d taken care of that back in the cell in Thurskein. A soldier shoving Tilrey against the wall, a hand pushing his head down, fingers probing inside him while he bit his lip until it bled, too shocked to budge. No tears yet, no emotions, just a buzzing white space in his head and the taste of his own blood.The relief when they released him, though he was trembling so hard he had to lean on the wall. The drink of sap-laced water he received as a “reward.”But it was all right. That was all over. He was in Redda now, and he was in control, and he knew the worst and the best that could happen. Besha didn’t scare him, barely even bugged him. He would see Bror at the gym tomorrow.“You’ll take an Upstart cock and you’ll like it, you little slut!” Besha claimed Tilrey’s wrists and dragged him over the rumpled sheets to spread-eagle him face down. “You’ll thank me after I’m done. Ooh, yes.”Still fully clothed, he ground his hard cock against Tilrey’s naked ass, collaring his nape and whispering in his ear, “I’ll save you from this nasty place. I’ll make you my pet, and you’ll thank me every single day and beg to suck my cock. But we’ll keep you tied up for now. Just until you get some sense.”The knitted thing turned out to be long enough to lash Tilrey’s wrists together and then to the headboard. Besha cinched the knots tighter this time, and Tilrey’s winces were genuine. Gourmanian was always more careful with restraints; he probably had more experience with them. Besha, Tilrey suspected, was still learning.“You can get padded cuffs, you know, Fir,” he said conversationally as Besha mounted him again. “They make them as props for pornstreams. No knots. Easier for us both.”“It’s not supposed to be easy!” Besha was fumbling around on the headboard shelf over Tilrey’s head, clearly looking for the lube. “You’re not supposed to like this, okay? Show me how much you don’t like it.”“I thought you said I was supposed to like it.” But Tilrey obliged with some half-hearted squirming and bucking as Besha’s slick fingers poked their way inside him. “Oh no, please don’t, Fir! It hurts! Ow!”“You’re not convincing me,” Besha muttered. But when he got his own fly open and brought his weight down on top of Tilrey, he was rock hard. “Green hills of my fathers, you’re so tight, you little virgin. I can’t help myself! Cry or something,” he added in a husky whisper.Since he wasn’t facing Besha, Tilrey didn’t bother to produce tears, only a faint facsimile of a moan. He raised his hips to give Besha better purchase. “Please, Fir! I’m begging you to stop.”Besha’s own hips were already humping compulsively, though his cockhead hadn’t breached Tilrey yet. “Soon you’ll be begging me for more, you little tramp!”And so it went on.Besha had experience, but he was no great cocksman. He got himself inside with one great thrust, then froze in place to catch his breath before trying another one. Tilrey could feel him holding back, working hard to establish a solid rhythm, not wanting to spill too early and look like a schoolboy.Like Verán, he didn’t touch Tilrey’s cock at all, too busy grunting and pumping and jamming Tilrey’s face into the pillow. His rape fantasy seemed to absorb him completely—as if he somehow didn’t notice that Tilrey was complying now, arching his back to get more of his supposed assailant’s cock.Maybe Besha couldn’t tell the difference between a consensual encounter and rape. Malsha certainly could, but was he the only one?Tilrey wondered about this as Besha’s rhythm sped up. He gasped for breath, resisting the urge to throw off the restraining hand that was knotted painfully in his hair.Gourmanian had apologized for the spring fling. But when Verán and the other Islanders mentioned that night, with winks and nudges, they barely seemed embarrassed. Tilrey suspected they thought it was something he had sneakily enjoyed.They had no fucking idea. Even Ansha understood the difference between putting up some silly fake resistance—the way Tilrey had done tonight—and being held down and broken open. Even Vlastor probably grasped that. But not these men with their high test scores and their claims to be the smartest people in the world.By the time he felt the warm gush inside him, Tilrey’s arms were nearly numb. He waited patiently while Besha collapsed on top of him and nuzzled a bit and began drawing long, even breaths.Finally, when he could take it no more and worried the Councillor was dozing off, he said, “Could you, Fir, please? The fucking rope isn’t long enough. Hurts.”Besha rolled off Tilrey with a murmured apology. “You’re right,” he said, kneeling to pry open the knots. “I should get some proper restraints. My lovely wife has a whole toy chest, but it feels weird to borrow hers—or maybe I’m just being squeamish. Maybe I have too many inhibitions. She thinks so. What do you think? Would that be weird?”Tilrey thought it would be, but he couldn’t focus on Besha’s nasal prattle right now. As the knots loosened, releasing his dead-weight arms, he was finally able to raise his head and get a look at the makeshift rope Besha had used on him.As he’d suspected, it was a scarf. Not a standard machine-made Oslov scarf, with its even weave, but a hand-knitted concoction in garish shades of blue and green, with thin red stripes.A Harbourer scarf, very like the one Malsha had given him, but not his. No, not his, yet familiar—and cold spread through Tilrey, every hair on his exposed body standing on end, as he understood.This was the scarf he had seen in Malsha’s coldroom the day he’d heard the nasal voice in the sitting room talking about Q-Codes. He hadn’t been able to identify that voice all through the ten-days he spent in a dark cell, ready to do anything to get out. He’d racked his brains trying to remember where he’d heard it before.Now he knew the scarf was Besha’s—and yes, the voice matched. Tilrey hadn’t made the connection that day in Malsha’s apartment, since he’d only met Besha properly one time, at the beginning of his time in Redda. But now the scarf had jogged his memory.He tried to tell himself it was nothing, a coincidence. But already his brain was jumping ahead to the inexorable, chilling conclusion.Besha was the traitor who had helped Malsha humiliate the Republic. And his doting mentor, Verán, didn’t suspect a damn thing.

“The boy can’t sit on my lap! He’ll crush me!” Besha protested.

He inched away from Verán on the sofa, then patted his knee with a waggish smile as if to say C’mon, try it. But when Tilrey approached him, he tensed up visibly.

“Go on,” Verán said.

Tilrey tried gamely to sit on Besha’s lap. But the smaller man immediately began squirming and struggling, sliding Tilrey’s weight off him. “We’ll do it this way,” he said, arranging Tilrey’s long legs on his lap.

“Give him a nip of sweet,” Verán said, clearly amused by the spectacle.

Besha’s cheeks were pink, Tilrey saw with interest. He knew his own were, too. Watching Besha fumble in his tunic pocket for a vial, he remembered how Ansha had defended Verán’s protégé this afternoon, calling him self-made and full of “gumption.”

Thanks to Adelbert, Tilrey knew that Besha kept secrets from the majority leader. He had entrapped Tilrey and manipulated Malsha for reasons of his own. But it was probably safest to keep that knowledge to himself—for now.

Besha poured sap into his palm and offered Tilrey a hand that was just slightly unsteady. Tilrey lapped up the dark, sticky liquid, wondering, Could he actually be afraid of me?

It didn’t seem possible. But then, he and Besha had never been alone together longer than a few minutes. If he’d understood Verán correctly, soon they would be.

When he finished cleaning Besha’s palm and lifted his head, he felt the man exhale—with relief? With desire? The young Councillor didn’t meet his eyes.

“Oh, you’ll have a good night,” Verán said, leering. “I almost wish I could watch.”

Besha laughed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Visha?” He ran his slightly sticky hand through Tilrey’s hair, still without looking directly at him. His voice had the nasal whine that always grated on Tilrey’s ears, nagging at him in a way he didn’t understand. “Not this time. I can’t wait to have him all to myself.”

“You’ve earned it. What did you do to persuade Saldegren, anyway? He was so passionate in the preliminary arguments, practically calling me a murderer of Oslov’s youth.”

“I sucked his cock,” Besha said. He laughed again to signal that he was being sarcastic—a little too loudly, Tilrey thought.

Besha did sometimes remind him of Ansha. The man fawned on Verán to an embarrassing degree, but his resentment and hostility were palpable, just under the surface.

“Saldegren has no concept of honor,” Verán said, leaning back and dipping his little finger into a vial. “He’s a perfectly good technocrat, but he doesn’t grasp that even the most rational state shouldn’t interfere in private matters. A well-ordered family is a miniature state of its own.”

“If it’s the right kind of family,” Besha said, again with what seemed to Tilrey like obvious sarcasm.

Verán didn’t pick up on it—or didn’t care. He only nodded, and they resumed their postmortem analysis of every single yes and no on the contentious vote.

Tilrey hadn’t eaten much, and the sap was going straight to his head. He relaxed into the sofa—as much as he could in this awkward position, with his legs draped over Besha—and let his mind drift.

He still felt the pressure of Bror’s lips, the heat of Bror’s mouth. He glowed inwardly, secretly, with the memory of every word Bror had said to him. He wants me. He couldn’t hold himself back. No matter what Besha did to Tilrey tonight, he couldn’t take that away.

Over and over he reran today’s interactions with Bror in his head. And he began to feel a little ashamed of the part he had played.

First, in the Café, he had frozen them all out. He knew Bror wanted him to stand up for himself with Ansha, because Bror had gently suggested as much at least a half-dozen times. But playing dead came naturally, and Tilrey couldn’t help enjoying how frustrated Ansha got.

After Ansha had said those humiliating things about Tilrey wanting a “strong hand,” wanting to submit—thinking he knew Tilrey so well—Tilrey had stalked off in a snit, like a child. And then, when Bror came after him, he had continued to sulk. You don’t feel that way about me at all. You don’t want me back.

Tilrey hadn’t entirely believed what he was saying, only feared it was true. Deep inside, hadn’t he actually hoped to pressure his friend into admitting he wanted him? Malsha couldn’t have manipulated Bror any better.

But Bror did want him—the heat of the kiss proved that. If only Tilrey had been able to give himself entirely to the moment. It seemed only fair, after the way he’d baited Bror.

If only he hadn’t had the sudden thought that Bror might leave a mark on him, and Verán might see it. If only… because, when Tilrey was honest with himself, he knew it wasn’t just the fear of being marked that had made him freeze in Bror’s arms.

There was something else. As his friend’s tongue explored his mouth, something had yanked Tilrey out of the moment, making him aware that he was reading Bror’s signals and mirroring them, matching his pace and his ardor perfectly. In other words, he was doing exactly what he did with Councillors, with Ansha, with everyone he had ever kissed since Malsha and Artur had taught him his profession. It was automatic.

When he was with Bror, he wanted to be spontaneous, real, himself, the way he’d been in Thurskein with Dal. But how? That awkward teenage Tilrey was long gone.

So he had gone limp, stopped reciprocating. Bror had sensed it immediately and been so kind about it, so understanding. But what if Tilrey kept going hot and cold that way—playing with Bror’s affections, teasing his cock and then withdrawing? Even Bror’s patience must have limits.

Tilrey’s legs were cramping. He slid the left one discreetly off Besha’s lap. Besha patted Tilrey’s right knee absently, absorbed in the impression he was doing of Councillor Saldegren: “And he says to me, ‘Besha, my conscience forbids me to vote for a law that would empower sensitive young Upstarts to kill themselves.”

Kill themselves? Tilrey’s head jerked upright. He had assumed the earlier remark about murdering Oslov’s youth was just hyperbole.

“His poor conscience!” Verán was laughing. “Did he also say something about not wanting to get blood on his hands?”

“Practically. I was dying to ask him if he was worried about any ‘sensitive young Upstarts’ in his own family.”

It took Tilrey a few minutes to piece together what they were discussing. He had heard rumblings of the controversy before: A young man from an Upstart family—not one of the best ones, but not one of the worst—had been Lowered and decided he would rather die than live as a Laborer.

His family supported his resolution to take Soldrid—except for one sister, who prevailed on the Judiciary to send him to moral rehab. The rest of the family, in response, had lobbied for a measure that would make it impossible to commit a self-harm risk to moral rehab involuntarily, and this provision was attached to a larger Judicial reformation bill. Most of the Island Councillors rallied around it, calling it a matter of freedom of self-determination.

Tilrey wondered how they’d managed to word the law so Laborers couldn’t also claim the right to harm themselves. Remembering how Vlastor had threatened him with moral rehab and force-feeding, he had no doubt they’d reserved the right to an “honorable” suicide for Upstarts who had failed to measure up to their own standards.

“Saldegren had the nerve to go on about ‘social utility,’” Besha said, jiggling one leg as if he were nervous. Tilrey could feel the vibration. “He’s afraid we’ll start losing our best and brightest if they jump off a building every time they’re blue-tagged.”

“If they’re blue-tagged, then they’re not the best and brightest,” Verán countered.

“I know, right? Good riddance.” Besha’s smile was cruel. “But Vanya gave me some bleeding-heart line about adolescents not knowing their own minds.”

At Notification, when students of Redda’s elite schools reached the end of their secondary education, each one received either a red or a blue tag. Red meant Upstart; blue meant Laborer. To children of Upstart parents, being blue-tagged might as well be a death sentence, but it was also vanishingly rare, at least as far as Tilrey knew. You really had to fuck up to be demoted.

In his own way, Tilrey had fucked up his life at eighteen, he thought now, by going to that damned shirker meeting. What if he’d been allowed to die rather than face the consequences?

On the one hand, jumping off a building instead of entering Malsha’s house that first time would have saved him a lot of pain. On the other hand, he would never have met Bror.

Bror… and now he was glowing again, drifting back into his fantasies.

Next time they were together, Tilrey vowed to himself, he would make sure things went all the way. If he felt himself going cold, floating away the way he did with Upstarts, then he would just fake it until the heat and excitement returned. It wouldn’t hurt to pretend a little, because his feelings for Bror were real.

His other leg was going numb. When would Verán let them leave? Tilrey wasn’t sure what he thought of the whole Soldrid issue, but he did know he hated how breezily Besha and Verán were discussing the vote, as if it were just another political game. At least Saldegren grasped that people’s lives were at stake.

Finally, finally, Verán noticed the time. “I mustn’t keep you all night, Besha,” he said with an oily smile. “What good is a reward if you can’t enjoy it?”

Besha gave Tilrey’s leg a shove. “Verdant hells, you’re so heavy and I’m so fragile. Would you please get off me?” He reached under Tilrey’s tunic and gave his balls a quick squeeze—for Verán’s benefit, Tilrey supposed. “Not that I mind being crushed by you, believe me.”

“Sorry, Fir.” Tilrey had to shake the pins and needles out of his leg before he could stand up. He wasn’t sorry he’d crushed Besha at all.

Besha spent the short car ride tapping on his handheld, not even looking at Tilrey. In the garage, he took Tilrey by a proprietary arm and led him into the coldroom. But he didn’t touch him more than strictly necessary.

By the time they were in the sitting room, Tilrey was beginning to wonder if the young Councillor was even attracted to him. Maybe all those years of leering had been a performance, designed to make Verán think Besha was easily manipulated.

True, Besha had enjoyed a blow job from Tilrey, but who wouldn’t? The little Councillor had encouraged Adelbert to seduce Tilrey—for his own reasons—but he hadn’t done it himself, not even when he had Tilrey at his mercy. Despicable as he might be, he wasn’t as simple as he wanted Verán to think.

But he would have to use Tilrey tonight, or Verán would know there was something wrong. Either that or he would have to rely on Tilrey’s discretion.

“Sit, sit.” Besha waved at the sofa. “It’s fucking cold out there. I need a drink to warm me up. And you’ll want more sap.”

Tilrey sat down. “I’m fine, Fir.”

“No, you’ve barely had any! Or maybe you’d like a drink, too?”

The young Councillor went into the kitchen and returned with two tumblers of urine-colored liquid. Tilrey sipped his and practically choked—it was bitter, alcoholic, and extremely strong. But it made his cheeks and chest warm and his head light and spinny, so he drank more. “What is this, Fir? Rotgut?”

“You kidding? The finest black-market Harbourer brandy. Didn’t Malsha ever serve this to you?” Besha had settled beside Tilrey, at least a foot away. He downed his tumbler in one gulp and poured again from the glass decanter. “Costs a lot of favors, believe me.”

“Malsha didn’t like me drunk, Fir.” Another sip. Tilrey had to be careful to stay in control, but a little numbness couldn’t hurt.

“Malsha was a control freak.” All at once, Besha was closer, his palm ghosting over Tilrey’s knee. “He would lose his shit if he could see us right now. Me with my hands all over you.”

“So you knew Malsha pretty well, Fir?” Tilrey spoke with deliberate casualness. Malsha and Besha were connected in some way he didn’t understand yet, some way Besha wouldn’t want to talk about.

He could hurt both of us, Adelbert had said, making Tilrey promise not to tell.

“He was the General Magistrate. Everybody knew him.”

Besha squeezed his knee. “Are you ready for tonight? I’m going to fuck you so hard.”

Tilrey laughed out loud—the booze had loosened his control, all right. But when he saw Besha’s eyes widen, he lost the smile and said, “I’m actually a little frightened of you, Fir.”

“Oh, like hell you are. But you should be. You will be!” Besha gave Tilrey’s knee a pat that was almost a slap. “Let’s go to the bedroom. Bring that decanter.”

The room was a mess—bedclothes strewn about, discarded clothes and copies of the Council Record on the floor, even a tumbler on the headboard shelf. Tilrey wondered if no one had informed Besha, when he was elected Councillor, that he could have his new driver tidy up after him.

Vlastor kept Verán’s apartment oppressively clean. He had shown Tilrey once how to make a bed “the way we did in the service,” then shooed him away when he failed to pull the sheets bandage-tight. According to Vlastor, Tilrey couldn’t possibly handle his workload, but Tilrey thought it might be nicer to have a checklist of mundane menial tasks than to cater to people’s ever-changing whims.

Besha paused in the center of the room and finished off his second tumbler, cheeks very red. Tilrey stood beside him, waiting for his cue.

Besha tipped his head to look up at Tilrey. “You’re too tall, did you know that? Has anyone ever told you that?”

“I think you’re the first, Fir.”

“Oh, I’m annoying you now. If you dared, you’d say the problem’s actually that I’m too short.”

“I don’t think you’re too short, Fir.”

“I know how you lads think. You laugh behind our backs. Gimme!” Besha took the decanter from Tilrey, then pointed at a chair in the corner that was draped with long underwear and track pants. “Bring that over here. No, throw that stuff on the floor—don’t fold it, what’s wrong with you? Sit down.”

Tilrey placed the flimsy chair in the middle of the room and sat on it with his back to the bed. “Can I take my tunic off, Fir?” he asked, hoping to get things on the right path. “I could suck you off again.”

“Oh, I’m sure you could!” Besha shoved himself in between Tilrey’s knees and bent to unfasten the neck of Tilrey’s tunic. “You’d like that, huh? To be in control again. Make me squirm and squeal.”

Tilrey had sort of liked it, or might have if Verán and the others hadn’t been watching. “I want you to be in control, Fir,” he said soothingly, surprised by how little nervousness he felt. Even now, the first time with a new man tended to put him on edge, but Besha just didn’t feel dangerous.

“Sure, you do. I don’t trust you, you know. Visha, he doesn’t see it, but you’re too clever for your own good.” Besha yanked Tilrey forward by the belt of his tunic, then unclasped it and peeled the heavy garment off his shoulders. “I haven’t forgotten the nosy questions you asked me that night, when I gave you the drink of water.”

He meant the night of the spring fling, when they were alone in the bathroom for that brief respite. Tilrey hadn’t forgotten it either. “I’ve been meaning to thank you for that, Fir,” he said as his tunic tumbled to the floor, trying hard not to sound bitter. “You were kind.”

“And you’re trying to butter me up.” Besha snatched the tumbler that Tilrey was still holding and brought it to Tilrey’s lips. “You’ll never be as good a brownnoser as that little prick Ansha, so I wouldn’t bother trying. Drink—finish it.”

While Tilrey did, Besha circled behind the chair, picking up something on his way. He grabbed the empty tumbler and tossed it aside, then tugged Tilrey’s arms behind his back.

Soft, scratchy fabric was wrapped around Tilrey’s wrists and pulled tight.

Something knitted. He didn’t resist the makeshift bondage, which was less constricting than Gourmanian’s handcuffs, even when Besha knotted it hard.

“There.” Besha stepped back. “You look better tied up. Like you belong in restraints. Arch your back and struggle a little—ooh, yes, like that. Not too hard. Don’t break it. Who was your first Upstart?”

Tilrey stopped writhing. “’Scuse me, Fir?”

Besha came around to face him again. “You’re a Skeinsha—the accent you’re faking doesn’t fool me. You weren’t raised with us. Who was the first Strutter you ever met? How old were you? Did he fuck you?”

Strutter. Strange that Besha would use the same contemptuous term Laborers did. Maybe he was trying clumsily to relate to Tilrey. “I don’t know,” Tilrey said.

“Yes, you do. Tell me.”

The first time Tilrey ever met an Upstart, the man had groped him. He had resisted, and a soldier had stepped forward to restrain him. Those were memories he generally buried, but he had been through so much worse now. If Besha wanted a tearful reminiscence, he would be disappointed.

Tilrey lifted his chin and spoke with no tremble in his voice. “His name was Admin Makari, and no, he didn’t fuck me. He wanted to save me for a Councillor, to earn patronage.”

“But he could’ve fucked you, huh? He could’ve done whatever he wanted with you.” As if to illustrate, Besha placed his hand on Tilrey’s groin, just barely palming his cock through the trousers and briefs. “You were a bad boy, weren’t you? You could’ve flown under the radar, just another schoolboy in Thurskein. But you attracted attention to yourself somehow. And then your Supervisor saw you were too pretty to waste on a factory floor.”

Had Besha forgotten the source of Tilrey’s trouble in Thurskein? Years ago, on their very first meeting, he’d taunted Tilrey with the “shirker business” that Malsha had expunged from his record. Maybe he didn’t want to admit he knew now that Tilrey was Island property—and that was fine with Tilrey, who wasn’t in the mood to let someone probe his sore spots the way Malsha used to.

So he lied a little: “I was bad, Fir. I was involved with smugglers, transporting the goods. My mom was so angry.”

Besha didn’t seem to mind playing along. “Mmm,” he said, stroking the slight bulge in Tilrey’s trousers. “So your Supervisor brought in an Upstart to give you a little talking-to. Did he impress you, this Makari?”

Tilrey shook his head. He would give Besha just enough of the truth to satisfy him. “He was an ordinary man with a different accent and clothes from me. I expected more from an Upstart.”

“But you must’ve known he was the arbiter of your fate.” Besha’s palm rubbed in circles, surprisingly skillful, sending hot tendrils of arousal up Tilrey’s spine. “He could’ve had you thrown in detention, where grown men would have raped you day and night. But instead, he cuffed you to a chair and told you to confess your crimes, didn’t he? He asked if you were ready to redeem yourself.”

Tilrey nodded. It was dawning on him that Besha didn’t want the real story; he wanted a fantasy version they could act out together. And that he could do.

“I confessed, Fir.” Not true: Makari hadn’t been interested in his guilt or innocence, only the pretext the charges provided. “I told him I would do anything to stay out of detention. I was so scared.”

“Oh, I’m sure you were.” Besha reached up to tangle fingers in Tilrey’s hair, pulling his head backward to bare his neck. There was a confident purr in his voice, all the earlier jitters gone. He was getting off on this.

“And then the Fir touched you, didn’t he?” Besha gave Tilrey’s head a little shake and nudged him in the hip with his knee. “He touched you like he owned you. And you changed your mind. You said you’d do anything else, but not that.”

Tilrey tensed, but only a little. “That is what happened, Fir. More or less. How did you know?”

“Oh, I know.” Besha bent and gave Tilrey a greedy kiss that tasted of brandy. “No, no, not like that—resist more, okay? Say it: ‘I’ll do anything but that.’”

“I’ll do anything but that, Fir.”

This time, when Besha kissed him, Tilrey set his jaw so the tongue had to force its way between his lips. His cheeks heated and his eyes teared with the token struggle, but he was still in control. This was a play they were acting together, using their skills in harmony.

Bror would understand what he was doing. Pretending was part of being a kettle boy. Bror might even be proud.

Besha straightened again, his beady eyes bright with desire. “What if I tell you you don’t have a choice, laddie? What’s your problem, anyway? Don’t you realize it’s a honor to have an Upstart want you?”

“I’m sorry, Fir. I just . . . please, please don’t!” Tilrey let his voice quaver.

With a sharp intake of breath, Besha darted in to devour Tilrey’s exposed throat and neck. He found a soft patch and suckled it, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin.

“Mmm.” The sensations weren’t bad, actually, but Tilrey’s pinioned arms were starting to feel stiff. “Ask me if I’m being so shy because I’m fresh, Fir,” he suggested, remembering all too well how Admin Makari had done that. “Then we can move to the bed.”

“Ooh yes, good idea.” Besha nuzzled him, his voice vibrating against Tilrey’s neck. “What’s your problem, then, lad? Are you fresh? Never been with a man yet?”

“N-n-not with a man. I’ve been with a girl, Fir.” Tilrey exaggerated the distress, pitching upward; he was pleased by how absurdly pathetic he sounded. Never mind that he’d actually said something similar to Makari; that was over. This wasn’t real.

“Ha ha, that doesn’t count. I really lucked out when I found you, didn’t I? An untouched peach, completely at my mercy.” Besha’s hand found Tilrey’s cock again and squeezed. “No worries. I promise I’ll be sweet and gentle. You just relax and let it happen, and the Fir’ll take care of everything.”

Tilrey strained away. “Please don’t, Fir. I’m scared.”

“Oh, c’mon. You know you want it.” Besha reached behind Tilrey and fumbled impatiently at the binding. “Let’s go to bed. I’ll just truss you up again to make sure you don’t get away.”

They continued playing their roles of frightened schoolboy and rapacious Upstart, though it was harder to maintain the illusion once Tilrey stood up and towered over Besha again.

Besha flinched almost imperceptibly, then darted forward and seized Tilrey’s wrists. “No, no more trouble from you! Flail around or something,” he added under his breath as a stage direction. “Put up a fight.” Then, in character again: “Be a good boy, or I’ll call in one of the Constables to hold you down. I’ll have you whether you want it or not!”

Tilrey did his best to flail and fight ineffectually. But he couldn’t even shove Besha away, using a fraction of his strength, without frightening the little Councillor. So, after a few moves that felt like a poorly choreographed dance, he threw himself face down on the bed and pretended to weep.

From there, it was easy for Besha to roll him over, plant a knee on Tilrey’s chest, and tug off his shirt and trousers. Tilrey helped him while pretending fitfully to resist. “Please no, Fir,” he said, too bored now to act with much conviction. “Please don’t.”

His first time hadn’t actually gone like this. Makari had had the sense to save him for Councillor Jena—mostly. On the way to Redda, there’d been that thing at the waystation—but no, he wouldn’t think about that.

Once they arrived, Councillor Jena didn’t want a struggle. A medium dose of sap sufficed to render Tilrey dead to the world. Hours later, he’d woken alone in a strange bed in a strange room with his ass hurting like hell—a shallow, stinging pain and a deep, aching pain at once. It took long, groggy minutes for him to grasp what had happened, and even then, the sense of violation didn’t sink in until Fir Jena’s driver entered the room and grinned down at him. “How we doin’ this morning?”

“Don’t be an idiot!” Besha gave Tilrey a smack on the cheek that was more of a tap, hardly enough to make him blink.

He must be worried about leaving marks; unlike Linden, he didn’t have the clout to get away with it. “Roll over, and let’s see if you’re lying about being untouched goods!”

Tilrey rolled over. “Not lying, Fir.”

Makari had wanted to verify, too, but he’d taken care of that back in the cell in Thurskein. A soldier shoving Tilrey against the wall, a hand pushing his head down, fingers probing inside him while he bit his lip until it bled, too shocked to budge. No tears yet, no emotions, just a buzzing white space in his head and the taste of his own blood.

The relief when they released him, though he was trembling so hard he had to lean on the wall. The drink of sap-laced water he received as a “reward.”

But it was all right. That was all over. He was in Redda now, and he was in control, and he knew the worst and the best that could happen. Besha didn’t scare him, barely even bugged him. He would see Bror at the gym tomorrow.

“You’ll take an Upstart cock and you’ll like it, you little slut!” Besha claimed Tilrey’s wrists and dragged him over the rumpled sheets to spread-eagle him face down. “You’ll thank me after I’m done. Ooh, yes.”

Still fully clothed, he ground his hard cock against Tilrey’s naked ass, collaring his nape and whispering in his ear, “I’ll save you from this nasty place. I’ll make you my pet, and you’ll thank me every single day and beg to suck my cock. But we’ll keep you tied up for now. Just until you get some sense.”

The knitted thing turned out to be long enough to lash Tilrey’s wrists together and then to the headboard. Besha cinched the knots tighter this time, and Tilrey’s winces were genuine. Gourmanian was always more careful with restraints; he probably had more experience with them. Besha, Tilrey suspected, was still learning.

“You can get padded cuffs, you know, Fir,” he said conversationally as Besha mounted him again. “They make them as props for pornstreams. No knots. Easier for us both.”

“It’s not supposed to be easy!” Besha was fumbling around on the headboard shelf over Tilrey’s head, clearly looking for the lube. “You’re not supposed to like this, okay? Show me how much you don’t like it.”

“I thought you said I was supposed to like it.” But Tilrey obliged with some half-hearted squirming and bucking as Besha’s slick fingers poked their way inside him. “Oh no, please don’t, Fir! It hurts! Ow!”

“You’re not convincing me,” Besha muttered. But when he got his own fly open and brought his weight down on top of Tilrey, he was rock hard. “Green hills of my fathers, you’re so tight, you little virgin. I can’t help myself! Cry or something,” he added in a husky whisper.

Since he wasn’t facing Besha, Tilrey didn’t bother to produce tears, only a faint facsimile of a moan. He raised his hips to give Besha better purchase. “Please, Fir! I’m begging you to stop.”

Besha’s own hips were already humping compulsively, though his cockhead hadn’t breached Tilrey yet. “Soon you’ll be begging me for more, you little tramp!”

And so it went on.

Besha had experience, but he was no great cocksman. He got himself inside with one great thrust, then froze in place to catch his breath before trying another one. Tilrey could feel him holding back, working hard to establish a solid rhythm, not wanting to spill too early and look like a schoolboy.

Like Verán, he didn’t touch Tilrey’s cock at all, too busy grunting and pumping and jamming Tilrey’s face into the pillow. His rape fantasy seemed to absorb him completely—as if he somehow didn’t notice that Tilrey was complying now, arching his back to get more of his supposed assailant’s cock.

Maybe Besha couldn’t tell the difference between a consensual encounter and rape. Malsha certainly could, but was he the only one?

Tilrey wondered about this as Besha’s rhythm sped up. He gasped for breath, resisting the urge to throw off the restraining hand that was knotted painfully in his hair.

Gourmanian had apologized for the spring fling. But when Verán and the other Islanders mentioned that night, with winks and nudges, they barely seemed embarrassed. Tilrey suspected they thought it was something he had sneakily enjoyed.

They had no fucking idea. Even Ansha understood the difference between putting up some silly fake resistance—the way Tilrey had done tonight—and being held down and broken open. Even Vlastor probably grasped that. But not these men with their high test scores and their claims to be the smartest people in the world.

By the time he felt the warm gush inside him, Tilrey’s arms were nearly numb. He waited patiently while Besha collapsed on top of him and nuzzled a bit and began drawing long, even breaths.

Finally, when he could take it no more and worried the Councillor was dozing off, he said, “Could you, Fir, please? The fucking rope isn’t long enough. Hurts.”

Besha rolled off Tilrey with a murmured apology. “You’re right,” he said, kneeling to pry open the knots. “I should get some proper restraints. My lovely wife has a whole toy chest, but it feels weird to borrow hers—or maybe I’m just being squeamish. Maybe I have too many inhibitions. She thinks so. What do you think? Would that be weird?”

Tilrey thought it would be, but he couldn’t focus on Besha’s nasal prattle right now. As the knots loosened, releasing his dead-weight arms, he was finally able to raise his head and get a look at the makeshift rope Besha had used on him.

As he’d suspected, it was a scarf. Not a standard machine-made Oslov scarf, with its even weave, but a hand-knitted concoction in garish shades of blue and green, with thin red stripes.

A Harbourer scarf, very like the one Malsha had given him, but not his. No, not his, yet familiar—and cold spread through Tilrey, every hair on his exposed body standing on end, as he understood.

This was the scarf he had seen in Malsha’s coldroom the day he’d heard the nasal voice in the sitting room talking about Q-Codes. He hadn’t been able to identify that voice all through the ten-days he spent in a dark cell, ready to do anything to get out. He’d racked his brains trying to remember where he’d heard it before.

Now he knew the scarf was Besha’s—and yes, the voice matched. Tilrey hadn’t made the connection that day in Malsha’s apartment, since he’d only met Besha properly one time, at the beginning of his time in Redda. But now the scarf had jogged his memory.

He tried to tell himself it was nothing, a coincidence. But already his brain was jumping ahead to the inexorable, chilling conclusion.

Besha was the traitor who had helped Malsha humiliate the Republic. And his doting mentor, Verán, didn’t suspect a damn thing.