Rabbit Heart

The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed;

And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly,

But coward-like with trembling terror die.”

-The Rape of Lucrece, William Shakespeare

White fields. Blue sky. And Lysandre couldn’t even go out there. The collar around his neck felt particularly heavy and oppressive in that moment, just like the eyes of the guard on the wall above where he leaned. If he walked out into the fields near the lord’s Castle, he’d be labeled as a runaway. His instructions had been clear: don’t go more than twenty feet from the gate.

The cloak he’d been loaned for his five-year sentence there, since a slave doesn’t really own anything, wasn’t thick enough, and he shivered as he stared at the fields. Out of the corner of his eye, the city of Mourning’s Edge was a vague blur as were the three figures approaching. Behind him, he knew the gate guards were likely watching him too.

It didn’t make him feel safe.

Jorwyn came closer, and Lysandre straightened up a little, although a part of him wanted to huddle against the wall. Or even better, run back through the gate to keep the wall between him and Jorwyn.

He hadn’t seen his stepfather in five years, and ten feet away, his presence was enough to make Lysandre’s skin crawl. He was twenty-five that day, and he hoped Jorwyn didn’t remember because he didn’t want anything from the bastard. Not even wishes for many more years to come.

Jorwyn watched him, as if expecting a hello. What did one say to a hated stepfather?

“I’m surprised they let you step outside,” Jorwyn finally said.

“I’m free in three days. Why would I run now?” He’d be taken right back, and another sentence would be slapped on. The lord allowed slaves to have a quick visit three days before release. Nothing more.

“You stole from the lord’s son.”

No, Lysandre hadn’t.

Jorwyn came close enough for Lysandre to catch the scent of the aftershave he wore. His stomach instantly tightened. The odor had been long seared into his memory, and it threatened to make him sick.

Behind Jorwyn, two men stood a distance away, their eyes constantly roving. He must have made enough in the past years that he needed protection. Or they were friends he’d brought for the walk.

“Are they fucking you?” The hint of jealousy in Jorwyn’s voice wasn’t comforting.

“I’m not a sex slave.”

“You don’t have to be a sex slave for an orc to try out his property. Either way, I’ll forgive you. Did you miss me?”

“No,” Lysandre replied flatly.

One of Jorwyn’s pointy ears, pierced at the tip, twitched, and his face darkened. Lysandre’s heart pounded, and his whole body tensed, expecting a slug. Of course, the guards would step in. Lysandre was property for three more days, so another elf couldn’t assault him. Still…he couldn’t stop the reaction.

“I’ll be here in the morning to take you home.” Jorwyn drew himself up and straightened his cloak. It was plain, and underneath, Lysandre caught the glint of silver embroidery. It was ragged with threads coming loose. Why would he wear something old? He had money.

Didn’t he? Unless luck hadn’t been on his side while gambling.

Lysandre had to force each word from his lips, even though Jorwyn couldn’t do anything to him right then and there. “I’m not returning home.”

“Really?” Jorwyn blinked his dark green eyes and fiddled with the piercing in his ear as he seemed to think the words over. “Do you plan to starve and freeze on the streets? Spring won’t be here anytime soon, and I don’t see what kind of job you plan to get. What are you going to do in the meantime without a single copper to your name?”

“I’ll manage.” The past seven words were the most daring Lysandre had said in years.

Truly, he had no idea what he’d do. If no one hired him, he would be starving on the street. His crime had been a lie, but that didn’t mean others would believe him, and a “thief” might not be the first choice to hire.

A slow smile grew on Jorwyn’s face. “I meant what I said. I’ve waited five years for you to come home. If you try to refuse, I’m sure my two friends can convince you. We’re getting married as I promised. I’ll see you in three days, and when I take you home, I plan to give you a very warm welcome in my bed.”

If Lysandre could have melted into the wall to get away, he would have. He didn’t dare let his eyes flick to the other two who were watching in silence.

Jorwyn turned and headed back the way he’d come without another word or glance. Lysandre’s shivers increased, but not from the cold.

His stepfather had said they’d marry before. Lysandre’s opinion and revulsion didn’t count, and with Mother dead and gone…

“Get inside, slave,” came a guard’s voice from above. “Back to work.”

Lysandre had imagined that on the day his five-year sentence ended and he was to be free, he’d feel something like relief. Not happiness, since he had no true family to return to and nothing specific out there to look forward to. But relief was a good word to use.

The Handler, who handled the branding, the slave’s duties, and punished them if needed, or because he felt like it, wouldn’t hit him for small offenses or for nothing. He wouldn’t be stuck endlessly cleaning the fancy hallways and sitting rooms so stupid courtiers could sit and titter about their boring lives. He wouldn’t have to worry about accidentally catching the attention of someone who’d think him good enough to use. Nobody had touched him there, but the possibility had always been in the back of his mind.

There was no relief when he woke up that morning. How could he have been stupid enough to think Jorwyn would forget about him?

It was cold when he dressed in the tiny room he’d slept in for the past five years. It was blank with a basic bed and a small chest to keep clothes in. Slaves owned nothing, but the lord, who was oh-so-generous, allowed slaves to take a pair of trousers, drawers, a tunic, a cloak, and shoes when they were freed. Each slave got three of each, not counting the cloak and shoes, to wear there during their sentence. The items were secondhand. Maybe even thirdhand.

When he’d been arrested, he’d been dressed in trousers and a coat with a good weave. The sort a middle-class man would wear with a guest at dinner. He imagined they’d been sold. Since the lord didn’t want to put freed slaves outside in the nude, the bastard should have let them keep whatever they’d been wearing while arrested.

As he did the laces on his crummy shoes, he was tempted to put on all three shirts. The trousers too. It’d keep him warmer, although not by much, since the shirts were threadbare and patched. The chest would likely be checked, and a second offense would earn him a few more years and a dozen lashes. He might be sold elsewhere and used for unspeakable things.

He went through the back passage and upstairs. Other slaves and paid servants were up and about. No one said hello to Lysandre. The Handler didn’t like the slaves getting friendly with each other, and he often snapped at servants for being too chatty with them.

Of course, some did, and some even slept together in secret. Lysandre hadn’t developed any friendships. He certainly hadn’t wished to sleep with anyone. For the most part, no one had attempted to get friendly with him, and he’d preferred it anyway. It was best to try to stay invisible for the most part.

He emerged into a main hallway of the Castle upstairs and passed sitting rooms he’d spent years meticulously cleaning, whether or not they were used. One hall opened into a large space with others branching off, and he hurried across the cloth carpet to see through the massive windows overlooking the front yard.

Mourning’s Edge was about a good fifteen-minute walk from the gate. It almost looked like a toy or something from a painting. The roofs were frosted white, and he couldn’t make out much detail. Draskow Lake beyond was a pale smear. He remembered from years past how the edges had always been clogged with chunks of ice in winter. It often didn’t fully freeze, and every child was warned to never step out onto the icy surface even if it appeared sturdy.

Much closer, not far from the gate, stood three figures. One was his stepfather. Lysandre swallowed and told himself it was to be expected. Jorwyn was obsessed with him, and if he said he’d wait, he would. Hope was for fools.

He’d married Lysandre’s Mother, Jana, when Lysandre was only sixteen. At the time, he hadn’t really liked Jorwyn. Mother had seemed happy to have the attention of a slightly younger man with money even if he drank a bit much at times and tended to be a little crass. He ran the largest general shop in Mourning’s Edge with a few others in various cities with several employees, and he’d done well with buying and selling goods to those of a higher class.

Lysandre had kept his minor dislike to himself. There had been nothing specific to point at, and why would he say anything when the man had willingly offered to pay for Mother’s herbs?

It was only after they’d married that Jorwyn had started looking at his stepson with a different gaze. When it turned out Mother’s pains weren’t merely from rough monthlies, she was dying, and likely no medicine would help, Jorwyn had taken things a step further. First, he’d forbidden Lysandre from seeing his friends, taken him out of school, ended his sword and archery lessons, and moved his room across their new, large house. He’d given bullshit excuses and bought Lysandre things to make him remain quiet.

He’d said maybe the lessons would continue later once Mother was better. Business was slow, and he needed the money for the herbs to reduce her pain. Lysandre needed to stay home and help with Mother. Eventually, she’d ended up bedridden.

When he’d started raping Lysandre, he hadn’t said anything, afraid of upsetting Mother. He’d been too afraid to get help or to tell anyone. Jorwyn’s threats had been convincing.

The rapes had increased once Jana passed. Jorwyn had wanted Lysandre from the start, and he’d said in a couple of years, they’d get married. It wasn’t wrong since they weren’t blood-related, and he couldn’t help himself. He wanted pretty, young Lysandre all to himself.

Thank Lilith he hadn’t gotten pregnant.

Staring down at Jorwyn and his two buddies, he went over his options, which were few and terrible. He had to go downstairs. He felt too sick to eat, so he could scratch breakfast from his list of things to do.

He’d be called to present himself to the lord who’d officially free him and have the collar removed. Afterward, he’d be branded. Currently, he bore the lord’s crest on his shoulder, and an X would be burned over it to prove he’d finished his sentence. Nobody could claim he was a runaway.

Afterward, he’d be free to leave. He could go outside and let Jorwyn take him home with his two guards following. The abuse would continue, and Lysandre would be forced to marry the bastard who wanted a pretty toy in his bed. He was part water elf and a Lilith’s Chosen Male, so he could get pregnant. He’d surely have to bear Jorwyn’s children. Besides that, he’d have to bear the shame of others hearing about their marriage. What kind of man married his stepfather?

Not that Jorwyn would let him out much.

He could refuse when he went outside and tell Jorwyn to fuck off. With the lord’s guards right there at the gate and on the wall, Jorwyn and his two lackeys couldn’t do much. Grabbing someone, beating them down, and then hauling them off was technically assault and kidnapping. They’d be arrested if they did it there, so Jorwyn wouldn’t touch him. He’d have to let Lysandre walk away.

He’d follow.

Once in the city, Lysandre had nowhere to go. He didn’t have a single coin to his name. His only “possessions” were the clothes on his back, and they wouldn’t fetch anything. He hadn’t spoken to his old friends in years. Some might have even moved, and if they hadn’t, how was he supposed to show up on their doorstep and ask to be taken in so his stepfather wouldn’t kidnap and rape him?

If he told the lord he was afraid to leave, Lord Caspian would demand to know why. How was Lysandre supposed to explain it? He’d sound insane. What man abused his stepson with plans to marry him? Lord Caspian would ask why Lysandre hadn’t said anything before. Why hadn’t he reported it?

Lysandre had no proof of the rapes. Those bruises had faded a long time ago. And more likely, the orc would brush things off. He wasn’t exactly caring of elves, to put it lightly, and it didn’t matter that his stepson was one. It also didn’t help that Lysandre had supposedly stolen his son’s dagger.

If he tried to hide out there in the city, it was only a matter of time before he was found. Jorwyn’s two men would search for him, and they might have other friends willing to hunt him down too. Afterward, things would be worse, and Jorwyn would make sure it hurt.

There was nothing he could do. No one he could depend upon to believe him and offer help. He wouldn’t even have a weapon. If his things were still at home, he couldn’t go back to fetch them. He started imagining horrible things, like Jorwyn enlisting the city guard to help with fibs.

“My stepson isn’t well. Ever since his Mother died…and you know he robbed the lord’s son. Clearly, his mind has suffered, and I’m trying to get him home to take care of him. He’s acting crazy.”

Sweating under his clothes, Lysandre pictured himself being dragged “home” by armed men who’d ignore his pleas.

Jorwyn raised his head and looked up as if he knew exactly where Lysandre was. He hastily stepped away from the window and bumped something behind him.

“I didn’t expect to find you up here.”

Lysandre clenched his teeth as he jerked away. In the past five years, it was the closest he’d gotten to the man who was responsible for his enslavement. Dorian had stared at him a few times over the years, Lysandre had pretended not to notice, and nothing had happened.

Being so close made him want to run, but then he’d look guilty, and Lord Caspian would say he’d been “up to something.”

The black-haired elf was slim with a bit more muscle than Lysandre. His clothes were much finer. Being the orc lord’s stepson certainly had perks. Like making up bullshit to get other elves arrested. The prick probably wanted to seem more orc than elf since he’d one day take over.

Dorian smiled, although it didn’t reach his grey eyes which were wandering down Lysandre’s body. “You remind me of Hopsy. He was my bunny when I was a kid.”

Dorian came quite close. Lysandre forced himself to remain still as his heart hammered. Every fiber of his being itched to run as Dorian gently pinched a strand of his white hair to lift.

“His fur was pure white. I got him from someone else. I don’t know if they were mean to him. My poor little Hospy always seemed nervous around others even though I doted on him, and he lived like a king.” Dorian’s smile seemed almost genuine. “That’s what you look like now. A scared rabbit.”

Lysandre had no way to reply to that.

Dorian dropped the strand and stared at his face. While Lysandre’s eyes were dark blue, the limbal rings were pure gold, a trait of Water Elves. He was half, since his Father had been one. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had gawped since there weren’t many of his kind, full or not, in the area.

“Can you shift?” asked Dorian.

“No.” Water elves could shift their lower bodies, and with the tail of a fish, it allowed them to swim better than anyone with two legs. Lysandre couldn’t, being only half.

“Hm. Follow me.” With the air of someone used to others obeying his commands, Dorian turned.

Lysandre hesitated. Why? He didn’t need Dorian to go downstairs and present himself. Unless he meant to follow to his bedroom or…

Dorian seemed to realize he wasn’t being automatically obeyed. He glanced behind him, and his cheek ticked. “We might as well get this over with. My Father has other things to deal with. Hurry up.”

So Dorian planned to help his Father with tasks, and Lysandre was just a pesky item to cross off the list. Without a word, he followed. He wondered if he should have taken the clothes and risked the theft. How was he going to get away from Jorwyn?

What if Lysandre left the city? Evening Glory was closest, but Lysandre wasn’t about to go there. He’d rather stay away from the Caspians in general. The next nearest town would be quite a haul on foot without proper clothing, food, or shelter in winter. If he made it, it might throw Jorwyn off his trail.

Or Jorwyn would catch up halfway along and drag him back anyway.

He hesitated on the stairs and forced himself to follow. It wasn’t worth risking the anger of Dorian. Maybe the lord’s son also wanted to say a few last words. Lysandre hadn’t stolen his dagger, but there might be some choice insults thrown in his face as a last “fuck you.”

“You don’t talk much,” Dorian said easily as they reached the entrance hall, and he turned to Lysandre who took the last step.

Lysandre didn’t want to talk to the man who’d framed him for theft. He still couldn’t quite figure out why. He had a couple of ideas, but no proof, and he certainly couldn’t ask.

“You know, you’d like my home. My other one, I should say. Father was kind enough to give me Evening Glory.”

Everyone knew that. Lord Caspian was technically still the lord there, but he’d given his son a measure of control. Half of the rents and taxes there went right to Dorian, and he took care of the place. In the past two years, he’d gone back and forth.

“I don’t have a husband yet,” said Dorian. “Father said I could marry whoever I want, but now, he’s impatient. He said two years was long enough to choose. If I don’t marry soon and get to work on an heir, he might take away Evening Glory. He has someone in mind, but I don’t like him, and I said I’ll only marry an elf.”

Was Lysandre supposed to care about the pretty boy’s petty troubles? Boohoo, he might have to move back home with Daddy and marry someone he didn’t like. Nobody was expecting him to marry his stepfather. The way higher-ups could be so absorbed in themselves was rather boggling to Lysandre.

“Would you like to see Evening Glory?” continued Dorian.

No. Why was he even asking? Unless…

Unless the lord’s son had decided he wanted a pretty sex slave to keep him occupied until he found a spouse. Maybe Lysandre’s sentence was about to be extended.

Dorian was looking at him expectantly, and Lysandre tried to keep his face blank even though his heart was pounding. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you, m’lord.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “How much trouble can you be, I wonder?”

Huh? Lysandre hadn’t even fucking done anything to him to start with. Dorian had planted his fucking dagger. Why was he talking about Evening Glory as if he were going to take Lysandre there?

Dorian continued, leaving Lysandre with no option but to follow. The entrance to the Gallery was more toward the back of the entrance hall. As they approached, voices drifted out. Lord Caspian kept a court of rich friends along with cousins. Distant family members of other lords also stayed there and pretended to be important. All were orcs. The only elves at Lord Caspian’s court were slaves or servants. That’s all they were good for.

Well, except for Dorian and his dead Mother who had died due to pregnancy complications. She must have been special since Lord Caspian had married her.

The Gallery was brightly lit with windows on either side. A slave who was dressed in black like Lysandre waited by one, ready to run and fetch anything required. An orc seated on one of the cushioned seats lining the room had his slave kneeling by his feet. The poor man, whom Lysandre had seen before, had clearly been bought for sex, and he was forced to be nude at all times. He kept his dead eyes focused on the floor before him.

Dorian strolled up the blue runner toward the dais where two great chairs sat. The lord sat in the larger one. Lysandre lagged and tried not to look at the courtiers. Watching elves be enslaved or freed was entertainment much like any other to them, so they’d have something to gossip about later. Lord Caspian, roughly seven feet in height, frowned at his son. “I thought the guards were bringing the criminals.”

Dorian brushed back a strand of his shoulder-length hair. “They’re not here yet, so we should do what we discussed first.”

Discussed? Lysandre being freed shouldn’t be worthy of discussion between Lord Caspian and his son.

“I thought that was tomorrow,” said Lord Caspian.

“No, it’s today.”

Lysandre paused a foot behind Dorian and bowed while trying to look unbothered. After the earlier comment, he felt like a rabbit, cornered on all sides.

Lord Caspian had two large teeth, or tusks, sticking up at the corners of his mouth. His skin was dark green, and if the backs of his hands were any indication of the rest of his body, he was a hairy man. Like always, his brown hair was pulled back and slicked down.

He opened his mouth slightly and paused, like he needed a moment to remember the slave’s name. “Lysandre, you’re here today since you’re to be freed. You were given ten lashes and sentenced to slavery for five years. It was a lenient sentence, considering the cost of the dagger.”

It was bullshit considering he’d stolen nothing.

“My son has something to say.”

Dorian turned on his heel and glanced around. “While it’s unusual, Lysandre caught my attention. Obviously, it wasn’t hard, especially with those eyes. But he kept my attention.”

Lysandre froze. What?

“He’s more than his looks and his status as a slave. He admitted the crime was due to family financial problems, and he’s deeply sorry. Inside, he’s a good man-the kind I’d like to spend the rest of my life with. I’ve spoken to Father about the matter, and he’s graciously given his permission.”

Lord Caspian looked like he’d swallowed a few lemons.

“I’ve decided to make him mine forever. We’ll be getting married tomorrow morning and returning to Evening Glory together the next day.”

Lysandre’s mouth went dry as the room tilted. He’d heard wrong.

“From slave to lord,” Dorian said loudly. “Isn’t that a dream come true? I told you I’d make you mine forever as soon as you were free, and I always keep my promises. We can finally be together.”

Lysandre’s pulse pounded in his ears as snorts and giggles broke out in the room. He’d heard wrong. He wasn’t marrying the man who’d accused him of theft. What was all this bullshit about Lysandre apologizing and…he could barely think.

“This is funny?” Dorian demanded, and the orcs watching clamped their lips shut and tried to look pleased at the announcement. “My impending marriage is amusing to you?”

“This is wonderful news,” piped up one, looking like she was about to start laughing. “Congratulations, Dorian. You fit well together.”

“He’s such a pretty thing,” said another. “Half water elf. Lucky you.”

Lysandre caught a word from someone. Wet. He took an involuntary step backward and looked at the lord in desperation. “Lord Caspian-”

The lord lifted a hand. “I was surprised when Dorian insisted. I don’t know how you captured his attention, especially after you stole from him, but you’ve done it. I expect you to learn how to carry yourself as the husband of my son. You can start by not staring at me like a simpleton.”

Whispers broke out as Dorian reached for Lysandre who jerked back. He was supposed to marry the man who’d lied and had him whipped and enslaved? What the fuck? Why was Dorian doing it? Was it some kind of strange obsession, like Jorwyn?

“No.”

The word was enough to make the others quiet as they gawped, like they couldn’t believe a slave would dare to reject the offer. Dorian stiffly smiled as he snatched Lysandre’s wrist and gripped him so hard, it hurt.

“Don’t be shy, darling. You always get so nervous.”

“You can take him away.” Lord Caspian waved a hand.

“M’lord-” Lysandre managed to get out as Dorian started to pull him down the runner.

Dorian’s grip tightened so much, Lysandre had to bite back a shout as he was tugged into the entrance hall. Dear Lilith, it had to be a sick joke. It had to be. There was no way he’d escaped the fire only to jump into the fry pan as he’d heard from Grandma.

“I want to leave.” Jorwyn was outside. Dorian was right there. Lysandre had been cornered. “I’m free, and I’m not-”

Dorian had him against the wall before Lysandre could blink.

“Think before you speak,” said Dorian, gripping the collar of his shirt. “You were supposed to be freed today, but you’re not actually free until the collar is removed, and you have your X. Father’s leaving the task to me. You have neither, and you won’t get either until I decide it. He didn’t actually free you in there.”

Lysandre grunted as Dorian took a good handful of his hair and pulled his head back.

“In case you forgot, any commoner who owns a slave must release them once their sentence is up. A lord and his family have no such obligation in Gelordey. My Father could keep you here, dusting and cleaning, for another five years. He could put you down as one of the slaves the rest are permitted to use and forget about you for ten years. You have no rights and no say in what is done or how it’s done. Everything from the drawers you wear to the food you put in your mouth comes at our discretion, and more specifically now, mine.” He leaned in. “I could turn you around and take you right against the wall here if I so choose. I’m the lord’s son. I’m not restricted to those allowed for sexual pleasure. I can have and do anything I want, and that includes you.”

Lysandre stared at a point just past his head. Dorian was right. The only slaves who had rights were called pleasure slaves, and they had contracts and pay. They could break their contracts and leave too. Real slaves like Lysandre had no rights. “No” wasn’t allowed, and anything could be done to him.

“Do you understand me?” Dorian asked. “I expect an answer.”

“Yes.” Lysandre’s voice was barely more than a whisper. He heard the squeaky back door as it opened.

“But I’m not going to take my future husband against the wall like a slut.”

“Hurry up,” a male voice snapped.

Criminals were being brought in for sentencing, but Lysandre couldn’t look. Calling it marriage was a sham. He’d basically be a sex slave intended to breed and produce an heir so Dorian didn’t lose his precious Evening Glory.

Dorian released him only to hook two fingers under Lysandre’s collar. He stumbled as he was hauled toward the stairs.

“You’re going to live with me in Evening Glory, and as long as you behave and don’t make trouble, we’ll get along fine. If you behave, the collar can come off, and you’ll get your X.”

Lilith, no. He’d rather take his chances with trying to escape his stepfather, not a man with money and guards at his disposal. He stumbled at the top of the stairs and choked when Dorian yanked upward, trying to keep him on his feet.

“Knock it off. I can be nice, but if you insist on being an ungrateful brat-”

“You’re hurting me,” Lysandre gasped in a small voice.

It was the same thing he’d said the first night, trying to fight off Jorwyn and not fully understanding things. The intention had been clear with Jorwyn trying to get his sleep pants down, but he hadn’t fully understood because it seemed impossible that his stepfather would actually want to fuck him.

And when it continued happening, he’d kept feeling a sick sort of desperation afterward as the realization settled: this was his life now. There was no way out.

Dorian tugged him into a sitting room on the first floor and shut the door. Lysandre shoved at him, thinking he meant to hold his new toy down on a couch to try him out.

“Did I not just make myself clear downstairs?” Dorian gripped him by the shoulders. “Stop it. I’m not asking much. Be my husband, bear me an heir, and be pleasant. I’ll be pleasant to you, and we’ll get along. I own you, but I can treat you like an equal.”

“I didn’t do anything to you!” Lysandre screamed at him even as Dorian fought to get a hold of his wrists. “I didn’t take your fucking dagger, and I’m not a thing for you to breed!”

Dorian caught his wrist just before Lysandre’s knuckles collided with his nose. Lysandre tried to run for the door. It didn’t matter where he went as long as there was distance between them. He’d throw himself on the floor at Lord Caspian’s feet and beg to be released. He’d run and never look back at the city.

Dorian slammed him into the wall hard enough to knock away Lysandre’s spinning thoughts. For a moment, the only sound was his heavy breathing and Lysandre’s, sawing in and out of him.

“This is not the kind of behavior I’ll tolerate.”

“Why do you hate me so much?” Lysandre whispered. “I didn’t do anything. Why would you even want to marry someone you hate so much? Marry some other elf to keep Evening Glory.”

Dorian’s mouth tightened. “Who says I hate you?”

Lysandre would have laughed if things weren’t serious. His supposed future husband had slammed him against the wall and was refusing to free him unless he behaved. Behaving meant he’d have to lie there, take it every time Dorian felt like raping him, and pop out a kid as soon as possible. He’d likely be slammed into walls again, hit, and worse once they were in Evening Glory.

Dorian released him and stayed practically against him. “I need a spouse and an heir. You’re a Chosen Male.”

“There are other m-males-”

“None so readily available. I want to keep Evening Glory, and you’re going to ensure I do, whether you like it or not.”

Lysandre avoided his eyes. Dear Lilith, he was insane.

“You’re useful, and if you give me what I want, then I’ll give you what you want,” finished Dorian.

“You lied about the dagger. You planted it in my room. Why?”

Dorian watched him for a long moment. “Lysandre, just shut up.”