Chapter 61: In His Place — The Key of Oslov

Volume 20: All the Kinds of Broken

Chapter 61 In His Place

Chapter Notes

Just added the tag for fisting because yep, you guessed it, that happens in this chapter. And it is a dark chapter, like all the chapters now.

Chapter Notes

Just added the tag for fisting because yep, you guessed it, that happens in this chapter. And it is a dark chapter, like all the chapters now.

Someone was touching Tilrey in a way that hurt. Fingers explored him, which was nothing new. But there were too many of them, pressing deeper in a purposeful way.He hadn’t fallen asleep. He knew perfectly well where he was. The lamplight of Fir Magistrate’s bedroom shone through his closed eyelids. But until this moment, he’d been in a pleasant, trance-like haze that was almost better than sleeping. More and more these days, he found himself slipping into this state of absence. Maybe it was a kind of natural anesthetic, his body reacting to the pain of the belting. Maybe it was a terminal stage of boredom.Now, though, the pain jolted him back to full awareness. His legs were spread, a pillow elevating his hips. Breath hissed through his teeth, and he had to fight the impulse to rear up on his elbows. What the fuck is he doing? This is new.“Shhh.” Jorning sat at the head of the bed, stroking Tilrey’s shoulder. “It’s okay. Relax. You’re ready.”The fingers inside him belonged to Linden, then. Tilrey winced as they probed deeper, stretching and filling him in a way he’d never experienced before. Is that his whole fucking hand?He forced his breath into an even, soothing rhythm, desperate not to clench up. Raised his head enough to shoot Jorning a worried glance.Jorning just kept patting him. Under his breath, he said, “It’s all right. He knows how.”Tilrey knew about fisting. People joked about it at the Café. But it was always something that happened to other people, often hapless Brothel whores. Boys who couldn’t say no, whose physical perfection wasn’t a precious commodity. Who were disposable.That can’t be me now. It can’t be.Then he felt the nudge of a knuckle, and terror made him surge up onto his elbows and knees all at once. It hurt, but Linden’s hand slipped out of him.The problem was, there was nowhere to go. Leaving the bed would be an act of rebellion. “I can’t,” he said in a low voice, because Jorning was the only person here he could reason with. “Verán wouldn’t want . . .”“Right, right. You’re okay,” Jorning replied calmly, as if Tilrey had expressed a mild objection. As he spoke, he threaded fingers through Tilrey’s hair and shoved him prone again—not roughly, but hard enough to hold him fast.“He just needs to take it slow, Fir. First time.” Jorning spoke to the Magistrate now, in his most servile way. “More sap?”There was some shifting on the bed. Linden must be going for a vial. Jorning wedged his knee between Tilrey’s shoulder blades, making it hard to breathe, and Tilrey stopped struggling. No point.A moment later, Jorning eased up and poked a sticky finger between Tilrey’s lips. “Suck that. There we go.” He bent over to whisper, his breath hot: “Don’t be scared, don’t flail around. Only get hurt that way.”Tilrey sucked the sap off Jorning’s fingertips. If this had to happen, better to have a cushion of numbness. “No damage,” he warned the driver as forcefully as he dared. The Magistrate was a blizzard, unpredictable and unreasonable. That made Jorning the emergency brake, the only one in this room who could enforce Verán’s will.Jorning removed his fingers and stroked Tilrey’s hair soothingly. “You can take it. Just stay real still.”Part of Tilrey’s brain kept panicking, but there was a calm part, too, that stood aside and watched. This second part noticed that Jorning spoke as if from experience. Which part had the driver played?And then Linden’s plump fingers were dancing over his ass, squeezing and probing, and he forgot about Jorning.When they poked inside again, stretching him, he managed to breathe evenly. He’d never taken four before, but he could, couldn’t he? Never mind the humiliation—that was all in his head. Just turn it off.Jorning was right—this didn’t have to cause any damage. He could hold objects now. He knew how to relax the muscles and retighten them later. None of this was rocket science. It didn’t even hurt that much.But fuck, sometimes it did. And when that knuckle slipped inside again, Tilrey lost his grip on himself. Shudders coursed over him, bringing tears to his eyes and saliva to his lips. Suddenly he was glad Jorning’s strong hand was planted between his shoulder blades, flattening him to the bed.“Oh shit,” he gasped. “Please.”The driver’s other hand continued to stroke Tilrey’s hair—tenderly, as if he thought please was a request for more and not Please stop right fucking now.He said, “It’ll be over soon.”Tilrey was whimpering deep in his throat, so deep that probably only Jorning could hear him. He wasn’t resisting anymore, but long spasms continued to rock his splayed-out body. Jorning caressed the boy’s back as well as his hair, humming deep in his own throat. Relax, relax.That usually worked.At Jorning’s first posting, in the deepest Wastes with nothing but snow and howling wind for hundreds of miles, his CO had had creative ways of enforcing military discipline. If you goofed off when you were supposed to be patrolling in the waist-deep snow, the captain might have you slung over a table and belted raw. Or, if you were small, good-looking, and a repeat offender, he might use you with his fist. Never his cock, because that would mean he was enjoying it rather than in complete control of the situation. And a good CO was always in control.The captain had explained this to Jorning in detail, during those long winter nights. The point, he said, was for the offender to understand he had no control over his own life. The only way to become a true soldier, useful to the Republic, was to grasp that following orders gave you meaning. Once you saw yourself as a tool for your superiors to manipulate, you would know power, purpose, and freedom. You would never again feel bored, depressed, or dissatisfied.Jorning needed that lesson. Growing up in Thurskein, he’d had trouble sitting still in school. Words and numbers fell out of his head, useless. He’d started cutting class, which led to hanging around bars and running errands for smugglers, which landed him in a detention cell on the cusp of eighteen. They’d offered him the choice of serving a sentence or enlisting, which didn’t feel like a choice at all.Once Jorning got to the base, however, he made a momentous discovery: All he’d ever needed was a strong arm to whip him into shape. A single lengthy belting was all it took to turn him into the captain’s indispensable right hand. He soon learned to wield the belt himself.And when Captain Korvasz wanted to humiliate a subordinate in a more intimate way, Jorning was there to hold the offender down and whisper steadying words in their ear.You can take it. It’ll be okay. Relax. This is what you need.Jorning himself had only endured the captain’s fist three or four times, when Korvasz was in a mood and no one else was around. It had hurt, but Jorning hadn’t needed anyone to hold him down. He was proud of how still he stayed until it was over.He would have done the same for Fir Magistrate, without asking a single question. Stripped and rolled over and spread his legs, happy to be of use to the highest-ranked person in the Republic. But Fir Magistrate didn’t want Jorning that way. He wanted Tilrey, and who could blame him?Tilrey’s shudders were less violent now, with more space between them. Jorning gripped the boy’s nape with a palm, showing him he was safe, still humming deep in his throat. You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay, he said without words. See, all you have to do is surrender and be used.He mouthed Tilrey’s name, careful not to utter it aloud. Verán wanted the boy to be called Nettsha, and Verán’s orders were law. But Bror and the redheaded kettle boy called him Tilrey and Rishka. Privately, to himself, Jorning used those names, too.The Fir’s movements were slowing down. He got tired easily, and it wasn’t like the poor old fellow could actually come. Like the captain, he was simply making a point.As the Fir withdrew his hand, Tilrey moaned and writhed in Jorning’s grasp. A single great shiver racked his sweat-glazed body. Jorning continued to stroke him and hum until he went still.“All done,” Jorning said, patting the boy’s flawlessly muscled ass. He wanted to tell him, You’re so beautiful, every part of you. Your shoulders and your thighs and your jawline and even the shape of your ears. He wanted to say, You’re barely bleeding. You stayed so still. You did so well.But Tilrey wouldn’t want to hear any of that. He might even laugh at Jorning. He was way too clever for a fuckpiece (which was all he was in the end, wasn’t he?), and sometimes his scolding remarks cut Jorning like a knife.Funny how the kettle boy was so quick and smart-mouthed, while the Fir was dull and slow and never even explained his orders. But then, age and illness did that to you, Jorning supposed. Underneath the slowness, Fir Magistrate was obviously far cleverer than either of them. And he clearly sensed that Tilrey was prideful and could use a little discipline, even though the boy never mouthed off to him—just the opposite.The Fir left the bed and tottered across the carpet to the bathroom. Jorning knew from experience this was their cue to leave.Tilrey groaned when Jorning hauled him upright. His blue eyes were brimming, tear tracks on his cheeks. But he managed to rise and stand, with Jorning’s help. Blood threaded down his thigh, but it was no risk to the carpet yet. Just a slow trickle.Jorning walked the boy into his room, one of Tilrey’s long arms draped over his shoulder. He deposited him on the bed, then returned to the Fir’s room for the boy’s discarded clothes. The bathroom door was closed in there, tap running.In fifteen minutes, Jorning would return to help the Fir out of the tub and bring him his pills with tea. If the Fir snapped or spat at him or slapped him, he would pretend it hadn’t happened. Not fun, any of it, but that was his job, and it was better than many.For the moment, he sped back to check on the boy.Normally, Tilrey would be in the shower. He always cleaned off as soon as he could, sometimes staying in so long that Jorning was shocked by the waste of hot water.Tonight, however, Jorning found him sprawled on top of the bedclothes, face buried in a pillow, as if he lacked the will to move.Jorning fetched a cloth from the bathroom and swabbed off the blood, then parted the boy’s legs and made a quick examination. “You’re fine,” he assured him.Tilrey flinched once, then went still. His pain tolerance impressed Jorning. Most of the troublesome recruits he’d dealt with flailed and yowled when you touched them afterward.“Go take your shower,” he said, giving the boy a final pat. “I’ll be back soon. Bring you tea and a pain pill.”It took him another twenty minutes to get the Fir off to bed. At least the old man wasn’t spoiling for a fight. He seemed half asleep already, leaning heavily on Jorning as they made their way from tub to bedroom.As he settled back against the pillows with his handheld—the moment when he usually dismissed Jorning—Fir Magistrate said, “Bring the boy to the clinic tomorrow.”“Yes, Fir.” Jorning kept his gaze down, heartened by this reminder that the Fir was still on the ball. A checkup made sense, to be sure their Jewel hadn’t been damaged.The Fir waved his hand. “Go.”If he was satisfied with his treatment of Tilrey, for Tilrey’s sake or his own, you couldn’t tell. But then, it wasn’t Jorning’s place to question the Fir’s reasons. Fir Tollsha and Fir Linbeck didn’t grasp this. They’d laid into Jorning for the awful time when he’d held Tilrey still so the Fir could give him his licks—as if it was Jorning’s fault the boy’s jaw had broken. As if he’d wanted that. Actually, he’d practically been sick afterward, seeing the boy lying so pale in that hospital bed. He hadn’t wanted Tilrey hurt, ever.Orders were orders. If you didn’t follow them, your life fell apart. But Jorning understood now that Fir Magistrate sometimes took things slightly too far. And when that happened, someone had to stop him. Me. I have to.The responsibility hurt his head. It didn’t seem right to have contradictory orders. It didn’t seem fair. So, instead, he focused on Tilrey.When he returned with the tea, the boy was a hump under the blankets—on his side, hair damp. He tried to sit up when he saw Jorning, wincing.Jorning propped his head up with a pillow and dribbled tea into his mouth, followed by the painkiller. “More bleeding?”Tilrey shook his head. Closed his eyes.“Still hurt?” Another headshake. But Jorning could tell by now when the boy was lying about pain. So he followed up: “Sharp like needles, or throbbing, or sort of an ache?”“Just an ache.” Tilrey’s throat bobbed, as if he were swallowing bile. “Throbbing a little.”Jorning put the tea on the nightstand and settled onto the bed—slow and unthreatening, his calves and feet dangling off the side. He massaged Tilrey’s back and shoulders through the blankets, keeping them between him and the boy’s bare skin.He took all this extra care because he actually wanted to squeeze Tilrey tight in his arms, to kiss him, to bring the boy’s cock to life, to splay him out, to fuck him. Not in front of the Fir, the way he was allowed to do sometimes, but here in this room, in private.Not now, though, of course. Not with Tilrey in pain. Jorning wasn’t selfish or cruel, only human.The boy was the one who’d been cruel, last time they’d been in bed together like this. He’d mocked Jorning, saying Jorning enjoyed way too much what happened in the Fir’s bedroom. It had made Jorning feel small. And it wasn’t fair. A man couldn’t help what got him hard, only what he did about it.Jorning eased the blankets down and kneaded the small of Tilrey’s back. “I told you it would be okay,” he said.Tilrey was silent for so long Jorning thought he might be asleep. Then, without opening his eyes, he asked, “Who did it to you?”Jorning gave a start. Had he told Tilrey about Captain Korvasz? He didn’t remember doing that. Hadn’t meant to. “Did what?”Tilrey’s sigh vibrated through his whole lanky body. “Did you ever get to like it?”“I wasn’t supposed to like it,” Jorning said without thinking—then realized he’d just answered Tilrey’s first question. The boy was too quick for him sometimes. “Well,” he added gruffly, trying to make up for his accidental confession, “I figure I needed it. Kept me in my place.”Tilrey made a sound in his throat. Maybe a chuckle. “You think that’s important, don’t you? Everything in its place.”Then he opened his eyes directly into Jorning’s. They were so enormous and blue that Jorning could only stare back, mesmerized. Wanting him with a heat that spread from his cock all the way to his fingers and toes, pulsing in his bloodstream. Great Spark, he’d never wanted anyone like he wanted this boy.Tilrey smiled—a smile as sweet and beautiful as the gaze. Then he reached for Jorning’s cock, which was already pathetically hard, and palmed it and started stroking it with agonizing slowness.“I can’t let you have me,” he said. “Not tonight. Obviously.”Jorning’s breath caught hard. He was already perilously close to losing control, and he knew it wouldn’t take long. “Maybe . . . another night?” he whispered, then hated himself. His own plea echoed in his ears—high-pitched, needy.“Maybe,” Tilrey said, his hand moving faster. “But you won’t want me if I’m not tight enough. If I don’t heal right. So you’ll help with that, hmm?”Jorning wanted to reassure the boy, but his lips couldn’t form words. He moaned and pressed closer, trying to get more of that devilishly skillful hand.“Yes, you’ll help me. You’re my friend,” Tilrey said.And when Jorning came, closing his eyes to ride out the delicious spasm, he still saw Tilrey’s smile behind his eyelids. The beautifully shaped lips. The cold flash of teeth.He wanted to believe Tilrey was in his proper place now—obedient, eager to please—and the Fir’s chastisement was responsible. It felt so good to be in your proper place.But deep down, he suspected Tilrey would disagree.The clinician had an ointment that eased the soreness. An older Laborer with a blunt nose and seen-it-all expression, he assured Tilrey that nothing had been ruptured. Then he gave him a lecture on exercises to “make next time easier,” along with a bulbous dildo that was supposed to aid in the process.Tilrey wouldn’t touch the thing. Didn’t even want to look at it. He had bent over and dropped his trousers and briefs when told, but otherwise, he remained in a sullen haze. Eye contact was too much trouble. Speaking in more than monosyllables was out of the question.“You’d be surprised what the human body can accommodate,” the clinician prattled on obliviously. “I’ve had stream actors in here who really push the limits. If you know how to be safe, it can even be pleasurable. Good communication with your partner is key.”Tilrey contemplated the floor. But of course Jorning nodded earnestly, and when they left, he swept up the dildo and brought it along.Even sitting in the car hurt. Going to the Gym or Café was out of the question. Home again, Tilrey stripped off his tunic and trousers, put on sweats, and hunkered down in bed.He tried to read, but his mind wandered before the end of a sentence. And that wandering always ended up back in the moment when he’d felt the first push of Linden’s knuckle.Cold tremors gripped him as he relived Jorning flattening him to the mattress, while the Fir’s hand stretched him in a way he’d never been stretched before. There were tears on his cheeks, and he was whimpering under his breath, but he would not sob, because Fir Magistrate might notice. It took all his strength to pretend he felt no pain, no fear, nothing. A block of wood with an accommodating hole.Then the scene changed, and he was in this bed with Jorning, saying Maybe. Knowing the driver wanted him and not saying no, because Jorning felt like the only person who could stop him from tumbling off a precipice into darkness.Sooner or later, Tilrey would have to let Jorning fuck him. A young, hot-blooded man couldn’t be put off forever. He’d just have to ration his favors afterward, to keep the driver from taking them for granted.Good communication with your partner is key. He smiled grimly, because it was true in a sense. The Fir, of course, was no one’s partner. He owed no one anything. It was Tilrey and Jorning who were partners in surviving him.Whatever survival meant. When Tilrey’s cursed brain wasn’t in the past, it was speeding forward to his next night with Verán. Would the man be able to tell? Would he see Tilrey as devalued and blame him? Or would he just laugh and say, You’ll make a fine Brothel whore?Tilrey knew few specifics about the Brothel, but he assumed there was no dignity there, not even a pretense of consent. If they wanted you to star in porn streams where objects were stuck in all your orifices, so be it. Resist, and they’d put you on a steady diet of sap to mellow you out.I hate to think of you that way, Malsha piped up. So battered and worn out that you go numb. Don’t let that happen, Rishka.Tilrey had no patience for ghosts right now. What the fuck am I supposed to do about it?Malsha shrugged in his dry, eloquent way. You could jump off a building.Really, Fir? You want me dead? When there are still so many ways to torment me?I didn’t say it was a good solution. Malsha sighed. But you’re checking out, love. You sleep all the time now. It’s sad and boring and a bit distressing.Tilrey felt his face twist in disgust. With imaginary Malsha, at least, he didn’t have to hold back. Oh no! Am I distressing you?“Your friend’s here,” Jorning was saying—too loudly, as if he was repeating himself.Tilrey returned to reality with a start. He hadn’t even heard the door open. But there Jorning stood on the threshold—with Bror, who looked like he could already tell something was wrong.“Hey, Brorsha.” Tilrey hauled himself upright, making a heroic effort not to wince. Malsha had a point—he was really out of it these days. He hoped he hadn’t been drooling.“Hey, Rishka.” Bror sat down at the foot of the bed, keeping some distance between them. “You weren’t at the Café, so I thought . . .”“I’m kinda fighting a cold.” Tilrey exchanged a glance with Jorning, telling him silently to leave them alone.Jorning looked reluctant. “I’ll get you some tea and dumplings, yeah?”“You’re the best.” Tilrey forced himself to smile. That generally worked.Bror didn’t come closer, even after the driver had left. “You okay?” he asked quizzically, peering at Tilrey’s face as if searching for bruises.Tilrey opened his mouth to say yes, he was fine. But the words wouldn’t come. He stretched out full length and nudged Bror’s hip with his big toe. “Foot massage,” he demanded.“Yeah?” Bror tugged the covers back. He ran his enormous thumb up the sole of Tilrey’s bare left foot, and the sensation was so tickling and grounding at once that Tilrey closed his eyes and arched his back.For a few seconds, there was nothing in the world but his sole and Bror’s thumb, and it was perfect. “Yes. Please. More.”*There were no bruises, but something had happened. Something was wrong.Bror already knew it from the way Jorning greeted him in the coldroom. Not with the scowl of a potential rival, but with a guilty duck of the head. “Nettsha’s not feeling so good.”“Can I see him anyway?” Bror had no patience with the driver’s possessiveness, and the man’s size didn’t intimidate him.Jorning seemed to ponder this. “Okay,” he said, touching the sensor to open the interior door. When Bror tried to enter, however, the driver blocked the way. “Don’t want you getting up to any business with him, though, see?”Bror knew Tilrey didn’t want him bickering with the driver. But he couldn’t help snapping, “You got no say in what he does with his free time, man, long as he’s not with a Strutter. That’s how this works.”Jorning’s eyes flashed. When he spoke, though, his tone was almost meek: “I mean here, in the Fir’s apartment. What you two wanna do in the Vacants, that’s your business.”So he knows about the Vacants. That unsettled Bror, who actually hadn’t returned to the Vacants since the incident with Ansha. Sometimes Tilrey suggested going, but Bror always changed the subject, because Tilrey might invite Ansha again and insist on putting on a show for him, “practicing” for Verán. Bror had no tolerance for third wheels with Tilrey, not anymore.“Actually,” he said, “Tilrey and I are just friends, and I’m here to check on him. Appreciate it if you’d let me in.”Jorning did. On Tilrey’s threshold, he paused one last time to say, “He’s in a mood. Just warnin’ you. Help get his spirits up?”Bror promised he would.When the door opened, he saw what Jorning meant. Tilrey was awake, but his eyes weren’t focused. He didn’t seem to register their presence until the third time Jorning spoke.Bror had seen Tilrey zoned out like this before—after the Spring Fling and Election Night. He tried not to act as if he noticed anything out of the ordinary. But dread took root in him now, as he massaged Tilrey’s foot, pressing hard on the sole, putting all his love and concern into the touch.He wanted to be Tilrey’s hero, to huff and puff and promise to demolish whoever had hurt him, but he couldn’t delude himself. They both knew he was powerless. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but to rant would only make everything worse.So Bror didn’t ask Tilrey what had happened—not yet. He took a roundabout approach, massaging him while he chattered aimlessly, passing on the latest Café gossip. When Jorning brought the tea, he served it.Tilrey took a long swallow, then stretched out and closed his eyes. “Feels so good.”“I live to please.” Bror returned to the massage, digging both thumbs into one of Tilrey’s arches. Casually, he said, “Funny guy, that Jorning, fretting over you like a grandma. Said your spirits needed lifting.”The slightest smile curved Tilrey’s lips. He didn’t open his eyes, which Bror took as a sign he wasn’t agitated by the remark. “He is a weird one. Totally gone on me.”Bror cupped Tilrey’s heel in his palm. “You haven’t . . .?”“Fucked him? No. Not in any way that matters.” Tilrey continued to smile dreamily. “I will, though, you know. Sorta have to.”No, you fucking don’t! But if Bror said anything along those lines, Tilrey would be upset. He needed Tilrey to trust him. “Mmm, well. He’s weird, all right, but I guess he’s not ugly.”Tilrey did open his eyes, then, and gave Bror a cool, knowing look. “You don’t have to pretend you don’t care. In the Vacants, when I made Ansha watch us, you were pissed. That’s why you change the subject whenever I suggest going back there.”Of course I care. Of course I don’t want you fucking that asshole Jorning just to keep him cooperative. I . . .But Bror couldn’t say he loved Tilrey. Couldn’t say any of that. His selfish anguish would just add another burden to Tilrey’s load.He gave Tilrey’s calf a brisk pat. “You know, when you wanna be, you’re a jerk sometimes.”“Am I?” Tilrey sounded pleased by the playful insult, just as Bror had hoped he’d be. If Bror was teasing him, he was probably thinking, nothing could be that bad.I’ve outsmarted your big brain at last, Bror thought, but he took no pleasure in it. “Yeah. You know I do want to go to the Vacants with you, but only you. No Ansha.”Tilrey sat up, and Bror didn’t miss the care his friend put into the simple motion.What happened? Who hurt you and where? Was it the Magistrate, Verán, Jorning, someone else?But he didn’t say a word. Didn’t let on how worried he was. Because now Tilrey was cupping his cheek and kissing it and saying, “I know how you feel about it, sweetheart.” And his eyes were lively, full of schemes, not dead the way they’d been when Bror entered. “Maybe we can make a deal,” he whispered in Bror’s ear. “One more time with Ansha, and then the next time is just for us.”Bror couldn’t help groaning at the suggestion.“Then maybe we could find another audience? Lus? Ulli? Celinda? Or all four of them?” Tilrey’s breath smelled of sap. His impish smile yanked on something deep inside Bror that felt strained to the breaking point. “We just need to desensitize ourselves, Brorsha. To make it easier. You know that.”“I know, I know.”Bror rested his forehead against his friend’s, resisting the impulse to throw his arms around Tilrey and kiss him and hug him far too hard and say, Who hurt you? Let me find them. Let me kill them.This will end, he swore to himself. He would swallow his pride and go to Besha and Tollsha and beg them to lean on Verán to find a different living situation for Tilrey. He would change things. He would.But for now, all he could do was rest Tilrey’s head on his shoulder and stroke the soft hair and say, “Okay, if you insist. One more time with Ansha. Then just us.”

Someone was touching Tilrey in a way that hurt. Fingers explored him, which was nothing new. But there were too many of them, pressing deeper in a purposeful way.

He hadn’t fallen asleep. He knew perfectly well where he was. The lamplight of Fir Magistrate’s bedroom shone through his closed eyelids. But until this moment, he’d been in a pleasant, trance-like haze that was almost better than sleeping. More and more these days, he found himself slipping into this state of absence. Maybe it was a kind of natural anesthetic, his body reacting to the pain of the belting. Maybe it was a terminal stage of boredom.

Now, though, the pain jolted him back to full awareness. His legs were spread, a pillow elevating his hips. Breath hissed through his teeth, and he had to fight the impulse to rear up on his elbows. What the fuck is he doing? This is new.

“Shhh.” Jorning sat at the head of the bed, stroking Tilrey’s shoulder. “It’s okay. Relax. You’re ready.”

The fingers inside him belonged to Linden, then. Tilrey winced as they probed deeper, stretching and filling him in a way he’d never experienced before. Is that his whole fucking hand?

He forced his breath into an even, soothing rhythm, desperate not to clench up. Raised his head enough to shoot Jorning a worried glance.

Jorning just kept patting him. Under his breath, he said, “It’s all right. He knows how.”

Tilrey knew about fisting. People joked about it at the Café. But it was always something that happened to other people, often hapless Brothel whores. Boys who couldn’t say no, whose physical perfection wasn’t a precious commodity. Who were disposable.

That can’t be me now. It can’t be.

Then he felt the nudge of a knuckle, and terror made him surge up onto his elbows and knees all at once. It hurt, but Linden’s hand slipped out of him.

The problem was, there was nowhere to go. Leaving the bed would be an act of rebellion. “I can’t,” he said in a low voice, because Jorning was the only person here he could reason with. “Verán wouldn’t want . . .”

“Right, right. You’re okay,” Jorning replied calmly, as if Tilrey had expressed a mild objection. As he spoke, he threaded fingers through Tilrey’s hair and shoved him prone again—not roughly, but hard enough to hold him fast.

“He just needs to take it slow, Fir. First time.” Jorning spoke to the Magistrate now, in his most servile way. “More sap?”

There was some shifting on the bed. Linden must be going for a vial. Jorning wedged his knee between Tilrey’s shoulder blades, making it hard to breathe, and Tilrey stopped struggling. No point.

A moment later, Jorning eased up and poked a sticky finger between Tilrey’s lips. “Suck that. There we go.” He bent over to whisper, his breath hot: “Don’t be scared, don’t flail around. Only get hurt that way.”

Tilrey sucked the sap off Jorning’s fingertips. If this had to happen, better to have a cushion of numbness. “No damage,” he warned the driver as forcefully as he dared. The Magistrate was a blizzard, unpredictable and unreasonable. That made Jorning the emergency brake, the only one in this room who could enforce Verán’s will.

Jorning removed his fingers and stroked Tilrey’s hair soothingly. “You can take it. Just stay real still.”

Part of Tilrey’s brain kept panicking, but there was a calm part, too, that stood aside and watched. This second part noticed that Jorning spoke as if from experience. Which part had the driver played?

And then Linden’s plump fingers were dancing over his ass, squeezing and probing, and he forgot about Jorning.

When they poked inside again, stretching him, he managed to breathe evenly. He’d never taken four before, but he could, couldn’t he? Never mind the humiliation—that was all in his head. Just turn it off.

Jorning was right—this didn’t have to cause any damage. He could hold objects now. He knew how to relax the muscles and retighten them later. None of this was rocket science. It didn’t even hurt that much.

But fuck, sometimes it did. And when that knuckle slipped inside again, Tilrey lost his grip on himself. Shudders coursed over him, bringing tears to his eyes and saliva to his lips. Suddenly he was glad Jorning’s strong hand was planted between his shoulder blades, flattening him to the bed.

“Oh shit,” he gasped. “Please.”

The driver’s other hand continued to stroke Tilrey’s hair—tenderly, as if he thought please was a request for more and not Please stop right fucking now.

He said, “It’ll be over soon.”

Tilrey was whimpering deep in his throat, so deep that probably only Jorning could hear him. He wasn’t resisting anymore, but long spasms continued to rock his splayed-out body. Jorning caressed the boy’s back as well as his hair, humming deep in his own throat. Relax, relax.

That usually worked.

At Jorning’s first posting, in the deepest Wastes with nothing but snow and howling wind for hundreds of miles, his CO had had creative ways of enforcing military discipline. If you goofed off when you were supposed to be patrolling in the waist-deep snow, the captain might have you slung over a table and belted raw. Or, if you were small, good-looking, and a repeat offender, he might use you with his fist. Never his cock, because that would mean he was enjoying it rather than in complete control of the situation. And a good CO was always in control.

The captain had explained this to Jorning in detail, during those long winter nights. The point, he said, was for the offender to understand he had no control over his own life. The only way to become a true soldier, useful to the Republic, was to grasp that following orders gave you meaning. Once you saw yourself as a tool for your superiors to manipulate, you would know power, purpose, and freedom. You would never again feel bored, depressed, or dissatisfied.

Jorning needed that lesson. Growing up in Thurskein, he’d had trouble sitting still in school. Words and numbers fell out of his head, useless. He’d started cutting class, which led to hanging around bars and running errands for smugglers, which landed him in a detention cell on the cusp of eighteen. They’d offered him the choice of serving a sentence or enlisting, which didn’t feel like a choice at all.

Once Jorning got to the base, however, he made a momentous discovery: All he’d ever needed was a strong arm to whip him into shape. A single lengthy belting was all it took to turn him into the captain’s indispensable right hand. He soon learned to wield the belt himself.

And when Captain Korvasz wanted to humiliate a subordinate in a more intimate way, Jorning was there to hold the offender down and whisper steadying words in their ear.

You can take it. It’ll be okay. Relax. This is what you need.

Jorning himself had only endured the captain’s fist three or four times, when Korvasz was in a mood and no one else was around. It had hurt, but Jorning hadn’t needed anyone to hold him down. He was proud of how still he stayed until it was over.

He would have done the same for Fir Magistrate, without asking a single question. Stripped and rolled over and spread his legs, happy to be of use to the highest-ranked person in the Republic. But Fir Magistrate didn’t want Jorning that way. He wanted Tilrey, and who could blame him?

Tilrey’s shudders were less violent now, with more space between them. Jorning gripped the boy’s nape with a palm, showing him he was safe, still humming deep in his throat. You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay, he said without words. See, all you have to do is surrender and be used.

He mouthed Tilrey’s name, careful not to utter it aloud. Verán wanted the boy to be called Nettsha, and Verán’s orders were law. But Bror and the redheaded kettle boy called him Tilrey and Rishka. Privately, to himself, Jorning used those names, too.

The Fir’s movements were slowing down. He got tired easily, and it wasn’t like the poor old fellow could actually come. Like the captain, he was simply making a point.

As the Fir withdrew his hand, Tilrey moaned and writhed in Jorning’s grasp. A single great shiver racked his sweat-glazed body. Jorning continued to stroke him and hum until he went still.

“All done,” Jorning said, patting the boy’s flawlessly muscled ass. He wanted to tell him, You’re so beautiful, every part of you. Your shoulders and your thighs and your jawline and even the shape of your ears. He wanted to say, You’re barely bleeding. You stayed so still. You did so well.

But Tilrey wouldn’t want to hear any of that. He might even laugh at Jorning. He was way too clever for a fuckpiece (which was all he was in the end, wasn’t he?), and sometimes his scolding remarks cut Jorning like a knife.

Funny how the kettle boy was so quick and smart-mouthed, while the Fir was dull and slow and never even explained his orders. But then, age and illness did that to you, Jorning supposed. Underneath the slowness, Fir Magistrate was obviously far cleverer than either of them. And he clearly sensed that Tilrey was prideful and could use a little discipline, even though the boy never mouthed off to him—just the opposite.

The Fir left the bed and tottered across the carpet to the bathroom. Jorning knew from experience this was their cue to leave.

Tilrey groaned when Jorning hauled him upright. His blue eyes were brimming, tear tracks on his cheeks. But he managed to rise and stand, with Jorning’s help. Blood threaded down his thigh, but it was no risk to the carpet yet. Just a slow trickle.

Jorning walked the boy into his room, one of Tilrey’s long arms draped over his shoulder. He deposited him on the bed, then returned to the Fir’s room for the boy’s discarded clothes. The bathroom door was closed in there, tap running.

In fifteen minutes, Jorning would return to help the Fir out of the tub and bring him his pills with tea. If the Fir snapped or spat at him or slapped him, he would pretend it hadn’t happened. Not fun, any of it, but that was his job, and it was better than many.

For the moment, he sped back to check on the boy.

Normally, Tilrey would be in the shower. He always cleaned off as soon as he could, sometimes staying in so long that Jorning was shocked by the waste of hot water.

Tonight, however, Jorning found him sprawled on top of the bedclothes, face buried in a pillow, as if he lacked the will to move.

Jorning fetched a cloth from the bathroom and swabbed off the blood, then parted the boy’s legs and made a quick examination. “You’re fine,” he assured him.

Tilrey flinched once, then went still. His pain tolerance impressed Jorning. Most of the troublesome recruits he’d dealt with flailed and yowled when you touched them afterward.

“Go take your shower,” he said, giving the boy a final pat. “I’ll be back soon. Bring you tea and a pain pill.”

It took him another twenty minutes to get the Fir off to bed. At least the old man wasn’t spoiling for a fight. He seemed half asleep already, leaning heavily on Jorning as they made their way from tub to bedroom.

As he settled back against the pillows with his handheld—the moment when he usually dismissed Jorning—Fir Magistrate said, “Bring the boy to the clinic tomorrow.”

“Yes, Fir.” Jorning kept his gaze down, heartened by this reminder that the Fir was still on the ball. A checkup made sense, to be sure their Jewel hadn’t been damaged.

The Fir waved his hand. “Go.”

If he was satisfied with his treatment of Tilrey, for Tilrey’s sake or his own, you couldn’t tell. But then, it wasn’t Jorning’s place to question the Fir’s reasons. Fir Tollsha and Fir Linbeck didn’t grasp this. They’d laid into Jorning for the awful time when he’d held Tilrey still so the Fir could give him his licks—as if it was Jorning’s fault the boy’s jaw had broken. As if he’d wanted that. Actually, he’d practically been sick afterward, seeing the boy lying so pale in that hospital bed. He hadn’t wanted Tilrey hurt, ever.

Orders were orders. If you didn’t follow them, your life fell apart. But Jorning understood now that Fir Magistrate sometimes took things slightly too far. And when that happened, someone had to stop him. Me. I have to.

The responsibility hurt his head. It didn’t seem right to have contradictory orders. It didn’t seem fair. So, instead, he focused on Tilrey.

When he returned with the tea, the boy was a hump under the blankets—on his side, hair damp. He tried to sit up when he saw Jorning, wincing.

Jorning propped his head up with a pillow and dribbled tea into his mouth, followed by the painkiller. “More bleeding?”

Tilrey shook his head. Closed his eyes.

“Still hurt?” Another headshake. But Jorning could tell by now when the boy was lying about pain. So he followed up: “Sharp like needles, or throbbing, or sort of an ache?”

“Just an ache.” Tilrey’s throat bobbed, as if he were swallowing bile. “Throbbing a little.”

Jorning put the tea on the nightstand and settled onto the bed—slow and unthreatening, his calves and feet dangling off the side. He massaged Tilrey’s back and shoulders through the blankets, keeping them between him and the boy’s bare skin.

He took all this extra care because he actually wanted to squeeze Tilrey tight in his arms, to kiss him, to bring the boy’s cock to life, to splay him out, to fuck him. Not in front of the Fir, the way he was allowed to do sometimes, but here in this room, in private.

Not now, though, of course. Not with Tilrey in pain. Jorning wasn’t selfish or cruel, only human.

The boy was the one who’d been cruel, last time they’d been in bed together like this. He’d mocked Jorning, saying Jorning enjoyed way too much what happened in the Fir’s bedroom. It had made Jorning feel small. And it wasn’t fair. A man couldn’t help what got him hard, only what he did about it.

Jorning eased the blankets down and kneaded the small of Tilrey’s back. “I told you it would be okay,” he said.

Tilrey was silent for so long Jorning thought he might be asleep. Then, without opening his eyes, he asked, “Who did it to you?”

Jorning gave a start. Had he told Tilrey about Captain Korvasz? He didn’t remember doing that. Hadn’t meant to. “Did what?”

Tilrey’s sigh vibrated through his whole lanky body. “Did you ever get to like it?”

“I wasn’t supposed to like it,” Jorning said without thinking—then realized he’d just answered Tilrey’s first question. The boy was too quick for him sometimes. “Well,” he added gruffly, trying to make up for his accidental confession, “I figure I needed it. Kept me in my place.”

Tilrey made a sound in his throat. Maybe a chuckle. “You think that’s important, don’t you? Everything in its place.”

Then he opened his eyes directly into Jorning’s. They were so enormous and blue that Jorning could only stare back, mesmerized. Wanting him with a heat that spread from his cock all the way to his fingers and toes, pulsing in his bloodstream. Great Spark, he’d never wanted anyone like he wanted this boy.

Tilrey smiled—a smile as sweet and beautiful as the gaze. Then he reached for Jorning’s cock, which was already pathetically hard, and palmed it and started stroking it with agonizing slowness.

“I can’t let you have me,” he said. “Not tonight. Obviously.”

Jorning’s breath caught hard. He was already perilously close to losing control, and he knew it wouldn’t take long. “Maybe . . . another night?” he whispered, then hated himself. His own plea echoed in his ears—high-pitched, needy.

“Maybe,” Tilrey said, his hand moving faster. “But you won’t want me if I’m not tight enough. If I don’t heal right. So you’ll help with that, hmm?”

Jorning wanted to reassure the boy, but his lips couldn’t form words. He moaned and pressed closer, trying to get more of that devilishly skillful hand.

“Yes, you’ll help me. You’re my friend,” Tilrey said.

And when Jorning came, closing his eyes to ride out the delicious spasm, he still saw Tilrey’s smile behind his eyelids. The beautifully shaped lips. The cold flash of teeth.

He wanted to believe Tilrey was in his proper place now—obedient, eager to please—and the Fir’s chastisement was responsible. It felt so good to be in your proper place.

But deep down, he suspected Tilrey would disagree.

The clinician had an ointment that eased the soreness. An older Laborer with a blunt nose and seen-it-all expression, he assured Tilrey that nothing had been ruptured. Then he gave him a lecture on exercises to “make next time easier,” along with a bulbous dildo that was supposed to aid in the process.

Tilrey wouldn’t touch the thing. Didn’t even want to look at it. He had bent over and dropped his trousers and briefs when told, but otherwise, he remained in a sullen haze. Eye contact was too much trouble. Speaking in more than monosyllables was out of the question.

“You’d be surprised what the human body can accommodate,” the clinician prattled on obliviously. “I’ve had stream actors in here who really push the limits. If you know how to be safe, it can even be pleasurable. Good communication with your partner is key.”

Tilrey contemplated the floor. But of course Jorning nodded earnestly, and when they left, he swept up the dildo and brought it along.

Even sitting in the car hurt. Going to the Gym or Café was out of the question. Home again, Tilrey stripped off his tunic and trousers, put on sweats, and hunkered down in bed.

He tried to read, but his mind wandered before the end of a sentence. And that wandering always ended up back in the moment when he’d felt the first push of Linden’s knuckle.

Cold tremors gripped him as he relived Jorning flattening him to the mattress, while the Fir’s hand stretched him in a way he’d never been stretched before. There were tears on his cheeks, and he was whimpering under his breath, but he would not sob, because Fir Magistrate might notice. It took all his strength to pretend he felt no pain, no fear, nothing. A block of wood with an accommodating hole.

Then the scene changed, and he was in this bed with Jorning, saying Maybe. Knowing the driver wanted him and not saying no, because Jorning felt like the only person who could stop him from tumbling off a precipice into darkness.

Sooner or later, Tilrey would have to let Jorning fuck him. A young, hot-blooded man couldn’t be put off forever. He’d just have to ration his favors afterward, to keep the driver from taking them for granted.

Good communication with your partner is key. He smiled grimly, because it was true in a sense. The Fir, of course, was no one’s partner. He owed no one anything. It was Tilrey and Jorning who were partners in surviving him.

Whatever survival meant. When Tilrey’s cursed brain wasn’t in the past, it was speeding forward to his next night with Verán. Would the man be able to tell? Would he see Tilrey as devalued and blame him? Or would he just laugh and say, You’ll make a fine Brothel whore?

Tilrey knew few specifics about the Brothel, but he assumed there was no dignity there, not even a pretense of consent. If they wanted you to star in porn streams where objects were stuck in all your orifices, so be it. Resist, and they’d put you on a steady diet of sap to mellow you out.

I hate to think of you that way, Malsha piped up. So battered and worn out that you go numb. Don’t let that happen, Rishka.

Tilrey had no patience for ghosts right now. What the fuck am I supposed to do about it?

Malsha shrugged in his dry, eloquent way. You could jump off a building.

Really, Fir? You want me dead? When there are still so many ways to torment me?

I didn’t say it was a good solution. Malsha sighed. But you’re checking out, love. You sleep all the time now. It’s sad and boring and a bit distressing.

Tilrey felt his face twist in disgust. With imaginary Malsha, at least, he didn’t have to hold back. Oh no! Am I distressing you?

“Your friend’s here,” Jorning was saying—too loudly, as if he was repeating himself.

Tilrey returned to reality with a start. He hadn’t even heard the door open. But there Jorning stood on the threshold—with Bror, who looked like he could already tell something was wrong.

“Hey, Brorsha.” Tilrey hauled himself upright, making a heroic effort not to wince. Malsha had a point—he was really out of it these days. He hoped he hadn’t been drooling.

“Hey, Rishka.” Bror sat down at the foot of the bed, keeping some distance between them. “You weren’t at the Café, so I thought . . .”

“I’m kinda fighting a cold.” Tilrey exchanged a glance with Jorning, telling him silently to leave them alone.

Jorning looked reluctant. “I’ll get you some tea and dumplings, yeah?”

“You’re the best.” Tilrey forced himself to smile. That generally worked.

Bror didn’t come closer, even after the driver had left. “You okay?” he asked quizzically, peering at Tilrey’s face as if searching for bruises.

Tilrey opened his mouth to say yes, he was fine. But the words wouldn’t come. He stretched out full length and nudged Bror’s hip with his big toe. “Foot massage,” he demanded.

“Yeah?” Bror tugged the covers back. He ran his enormous thumb up the sole of Tilrey’s bare left foot, and the sensation was so tickling and grounding at once that Tilrey closed his eyes and arched his back.

For a few seconds, there was nothing in the world but his sole and Bror’s thumb, and it was perfect. “Yes. Please. More.”

There were no bruises, but something had happened. Something was wrong.

Bror already knew it from the way Jorning greeted him in the coldroom. Not with the scowl of a potential rival, but with a guilty duck of the head. “Nettsha’s not feeling so good.”

“Can I see him anyway?” Bror had no patience with the driver’s possessiveness, and the man’s size didn’t intimidate him.

Jorning seemed to ponder this. “Okay,” he said, touching the sensor to open the interior door. When Bror tried to enter, however, the driver blocked the way. “Don’t want you getting up to any business with him, though, see?”

Bror knew Tilrey didn’t want him bickering with the driver. But he couldn’t help snapping, “You got no say in what he does with his free time, man, long as he’s not with a Strutter. That’s how this works.”

Jorning’s eyes flashed. When he spoke, though, his tone was almost meek: “I mean here, in the Fir’s apartment. What you two wanna do in the Vacants, that’s your business.”

So he knows about the Vacants. That unsettled Bror, who actually hadn’t returned to the Vacants since the incident with Ansha. Sometimes Tilrey suggested going, but Bror always changed the subject, because Tilrey might invite Ansha again and insist on putting on a show for him, “practicing” for Verán. Bror had no tolerance for third wheels with Tilrey, not anymore.

“Actually,” he said, “Tilrey and I are just friends, and I’m here to check on him. Appreciate it if you’d let me in.”

Jorning did. On Tilrey’s threshold, he paused one last time to say, “He’s in a mood. Just warnin’ you. Help get his spirits up?”

Bror promised he would.

When the door opened, he saw what Jorning meant. Tilrey was awake, but his eyes weren’t focused. He didn’t seem to register their presence until the third time Jorning spoke.

Bror had seen Tilrey zoned out like this before—after the Spring Fling and Election Night. He tried not to act as if he noticed anything out of the ordinary. But dread took root in him now, as he massaged Tilrey’s foot, pressing hard on the sole, putting all his love and concern into the touch.

He wanted to be Tilrey’s hero, to huff and puff and promise to demolish whoever had hurt him, but he couldn’t delude himself. They both knew he was powerless. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but to rant would only make everything worse.

So Bror didn’t ask Tilrey what had happened—not yet. He took a roundabout approach, massaging him while he chattered aimlessly, passing on the latest Café gossip. When Jorning brought the tea, he served it.

Tilrey took a long swallow, then stretched out and closed his eyes. “Feels so good.”

“I live to please.” Bror returned to the massage, digging both thumbs into one of Tilrey’s arches. Casually, he said, “Funny guy, that Jorning, fretting over you like a grandma. Said your spirits needed lifting.”

The slightest smile curved Tilrey’s lips. He didn’t open his eyes, which Bror took as a sign he wasn’t agitated by the remark. “He is a weird one. Totally gone on me.”

Bror cupped Tilrey’s heel in his palm. “You haven’t . . .?”

“Fucked him? No. Not in any way that matters.” Tilrey continued to smile dreamily. “I will, though, you know. Sorta have to.”

No, you fucking don’t! But if Bror said anything along those lines, Tilrey would be upset. He needed Tilrey to trust him. “Mmm, well. He’s weird, all right, but I guess he’s not ugly.”

Tilrey did open his eyes, then, and gave Bror a cool, knowing look. “You don’t have to pretend you don’t care. In the Vacants, when I made Ansha watch us, you were pissed. That’s why you change the subject whenever I suggest going back there.”

Of course I care. Of course I don’t want you fucking that asshole Jorning just to keep him cooperative. I . . .

But Bror couldn’t say he loved Tilrey. Couldn’t say any of that. His selfish anguish would just add another burden to Tilrey’s load.

He gave Tilrey’s calf a brisk pat. “You know, when you wanna be, you’re a jerk sometimes.”

“Am I?” Tilrey sounded pleased by the playful insult, just as Bror had hoped he’d be. If Bror was teasing him, he was probably thinking, nothing could be that bad.

I’ve outsmarted your big brain at last, Bror thought, but he took no pleasure in it. “Yeah. You know I do want to go to the Vacants with you, but only you. No Ansha.”

Tilrey sat up, and Bror didn’t miss the care his friend put into the simple motion.

What happened? Who hurt you and where? Was it the Magistrate, Verán, Jorning, someone else?

But he didn’t say a word. Didn’t let on how worried he was. Because now Tilrey was cupping his cheek and kissing it and saying, “I know how you feel about it, sweetheart.” And his eyes were lively, full of schemes, not dead the way they’d been when Bror entered. “Maybe we can make a deal,” he whispered in Bror’s ear. “One more time with Ansha, and then the next time is just for us.”

Bror couldn’t help groaning at the suggestion.

“Then maybe we could find another audience? Lus? Ulli? Celinda? Or all four of them?” Tilrey’s breath smelled of sap. His impish smile yanked on something deep inside Bror that felt strained to the breaking point. “We just need to desensitize ourselves, Brorsha. To make it easier. You know that.”

“I know, I know.”

Bror rested his forehead against his friend’s, resisting the impulse to throw his arms around Tilrey and kiss him and hug him far too hard and say, Who hurt you? Let me find them. Let me kill them.

This will end, he swore to himself. He would swallow his pride and go to Besha and Tollsha and beg them to lean on Verán to find a different living situation for Tilrey. He would change things. He would.

But for now, all he could do was rest Tilrey’s head on his shoulder and stroke the soft hair and say, “Okay, if you insist. One more time with Ansha. Then just us.”