Hexmaker hexworld book 2, p.5
Hexmaker (Hexworld Book 2), page 5
“You live here by yourself?” Mal asked, sounding stunned.
“Yes, but it’s one of the smaller apartments,” Owen replied. “Now, let’s see to your wound. I have some bandages in the bedroom.”
Mal continued to look around as Owen led him down the hall. “How many rooms?”
“The dining room is here,” Owen gestured to the right, “and the library here. The two bed chambers are beside each other at the end; each has a private bath. And of course there’s the pantry and kitchen.”
“Oh, of course,” Mal said.
Owen frowned. “Don’t get any ideas about the silverware.”
“I’m shocked at the very notion!” Mal put a hand to his chest. “You’ve done me a great injustice, you have.”
“The snuffbox Quigley found in your pocket suggests otherwise,” Owen said as they entered his bedroom. The walls were covered in gold cloth, which contrasted nicely with the scarlet bedclothes and upholstery, and the dark wood of the furniture. Mal craned his head back and gaped at the scene of clouds and angels painted on the ceiling.
“Sit down,” Owen said, steering Mal into the heavy chair. “Remove your shirt; I’ll fetch some water to clean up the wound.” Taking the basin from the wash stand, he went to the bathroom and filled it with warm water.
Mal awaited his return, having stripped to the waist. Owen’s step hitched slightly at the sight. The feral was slim but wiry, muscles showing beneath the pale skin of his shoulders and arms. A dusting of red hair covered his chest, and a thicker trail traced a path from his navel, vanishing beneath his worn trousers.
The strict propriety of The Folly had formed a welcome cage, more than capable of containing Owen’s desires. The thought of bringing a man back to his apartment for anything improper, of facing the scrutiny of guard, elevator attendant, and possibly neighbors, had been more than enough to keep him chaste. True, he might yet have gone to the poorer parts of town in search of company, but as he doubted his ability to avoid being robbed and beaten, he’d never done so. There had been no real possibility of indulging in any sort of desire. Certainly not in the weakness that most haunted his dreams.
And now a half-naked thief sat in his very bedroom.
Owen took a deep breath and put down the basin. Wetting a towel, he turned to Mal, forcing himself to focus only on the blood staining the man’s side. “Let me know if I hurt you,” he said, kneeling beside the chair.
“I appreciate this. I do,” Mal said. He let out a little hiss of pain as the towel touched the wound.
Owen carefully wiped away the blood. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?”
While Mal told his tale, Owen finished cleaning the injury. Though blood had been smeared all around it, the cut itself was shallow, and had already sealed. Setting aside the towel, he picked up the roll of bandages.
“They’re hexed to prevent infection,” he explained, as he wrapped the soft cloth around Mal’s slender torso. His fingers couldn’t help but brush against Mal’s skin, warm and hinting of hard muscle beneath.
“What money can’t buy, eh?” Mal said, sounding impressed.
His scent, of musk and something earthy, like the green shadows in the deep woods on a hot summer day, filled Owen’s nostrils with every breath. To Owen’s dismay, his prick started to harden. He’d removed his coat so as to avoid staining it, and could only hope Mal didn’t happen to glance down.
“There,” he said, struggling to keep his voice level. Unaffected. “How is the pain? I have hexes to ease any discomfort, if you’d like.”
For a long moment, Mal didn’t reply. Owen still knelt beside him; he’d have to crane his head back to see Mal’s face. Or stand, but that didn’t seem wise at the moment.
Then Mal shifted forward. Closer. Fingers trailed across the front of Owen’s trousers, drawing an involuntary gasp from him.
Mal had noticed, all right.
“No pain,” Mal murmured. “But maybe there’s something I can do for you? Want to switch places, have me on my knees in front of you?”
Shocked by the feral’s bold speech, Owen looked up. Their eyes met, Mal’s amber gaze seeming to strip him raw with its heat. Then a slow, vulpine smile curved Mal’s lips.
“Oh no,” he murmured. “I see how it is. You’re right where you want to be, ain’t you? You belong on your knees. On your knees, sucking my cock.”
All the air seemed to leave the room. How could Mal possibly have seen, have guessed, when no one else ever had? It was as though something in Mal recognized something in Owen; a connection that defied all logic.
Owen knew he should object to such effrontery, no matter its allure. He should grab the feral by the scruff and throw him out. Summon the police to take him away. Regain mastery of the situation.
But his prick had gone fully hard at Mal’s words. A shuddering hunger went through him; a base longing he had to resist.
The mere thought of giving in was madness. He couldn’t do this. It was too dangerous—what if Mal decided to blackmail him? Not that anyone would take the word of a criminal feral over that of a Yates, but could he risk the hint of a scandal so close to the wedding?
Mal leaned insolently back in the chair, deliberately spreading his legs wide. Displaying the erection tenting his trousers. “You’ve got your orders, copper. Now get to it.”
God, Owen wanted to. Every buried fantasy emerged to clamor in his brain, begging him to indulge just this once. Mal’s red hair and amber eyes seemed to glow, everything else reduced to colorless shadows, as though he were the only real thing in the room.
Just once. No one else would ever know.
Half-dazed with lust, Owen reached out with trembling hands and unbuttoned Mal’s trousers. The familiar lifted his backside from the chair in silent command, and Owen pulled them down, along with Mal’s drawers. Mal’s cock sprang free, the slit already beaded with clear fluid.
God.
With a groan, Owen leaned forward and lapped at the slit, tasting bitterness and salt. Mal’s hand cupped the back of his head, urging him forward, and he went. Swirling his tongue around the head, tracing the veins, then swallowing it all down at once.
“Fuck!” Mal swore, hips lifting from the chair again, involuntarily this time. The head of his prick hit the back of Owen’s throat, drawing tears from his eyes and nearly gagging him. He sucked harder, was rewarded with a string of curses and fingers tight in his hair.
“Fur and feathers, you’re good at this, ain’t you?” Mal gasped. “Good at taking a cock.” He tugged on Owen’s hair. “Leave off a minute and suck my balls.”
Owen pulled back uncertainly. He’d sucked pricks before, as Mal had guessed. But nothing so vulgar as what Mal was suggesting. “I…”
Mal’s hold tightened in his hair. “Do as you’re told.”
The rough order sent a shock of pure lust through Owen. He leaned in, lifted Mal’s cock out of the way to get better access. Mal’s musky scent surrounded him, making his mouth water and his own prick leak. He sucked one ball into his mouth, tongue laving the surface of the wrinkled sack.
Mal moaned encouragement. “Aye. Just like that. You’ll do anything, won’t you? Anything I tell you.”
No, Owen wanted to say. He shouldn’t even be doing this; shouldn’t be on his knees, pleasuring the balls of a two-bit thief. He was a Yates. He had the dignity of his position in society to uphold, he shouldn’t…he couldn’t…
Unable to stand it any longer, he reached for the buttons of his trousers. “Nay,” Mal growled. “Take yourself out, but no touching beyond that. The only hand that’s going to toss you off tonight is mine.”
Almost sobbing with need, Owen nonetheless obeyed. Mal pulled away, grabbed his cock, and aimed it at Owen’s lips in a silent demand. Owen could taste how close he was; two thrusts, and Mal let out a shout as he came down Owen’s throat.
Owen swallowed convulsively, gave a last, desperate suck as Mal drew free. His heart pounded, unattended prick bobbing in time. He wanted more, needed more, though what he didn’t even know.
Mal slid from the chair, straddling Owen’s thigh. Gripping Owen’s hair, he tilted his head back—and kissed him.
Owen hadn’t expected the thief to want that. For a kiss, it was hard, almost savage. Mal bit at his lips, then slid his tongue into Owen’s mouth at the same time his hand wrapped around Owen’s cock.
Owen groaned, the sound muffled by Mal’s mouth on his own. A long firm stroke, followed by another, and—
He pulled free of the kiss, crying out helplessly as he came. Lights flashed behind his eyes, and he bucked under Mal, jets of semen spattering white against the parquet floor of his bedroom.
It seemed a long moment before his lungs remembered how to breathe. Mal’s fingers slipped from his hair, curling around the back of his neck. “Mmm.” Mal nuzzled his ear, bringing an involuntary shiver from Owen. “Seems like it’s been a while.”
Owen pulled away sharply. How had he allowed this to happen? Bad enough he’d let his control slip enough to give into the feral’s charms, but to have done it in such a way? To have eagerly followed orders like some cheap whore, utterly forgetting his place in the world?
Just as he had always secretly wanted.
Shame burned his face, and he stood hastily, tucking himself back in. “That’s none of your business,” he said brusquely.
Mal arched an impertinent brow. He sprawled on the floor still, making no attempt to cover his flaccid cock. “Ain’t it?”
“No.” Owen scowled, though disapproval seemed to have no effect on Mal. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll go to the Coven. Chief Ferguson will make sure you get real protection. I work in a laboratory, so likely you and I will never set eyes on each other again.”
A sly grin slid onto Mal’s face, and his eyes lit up with mischief. “Oh, didn’t I say?” he drawled. “Dr. Owen Yates…you’re my witch.”
Owen cradled his head in his hands as his coffee slowly cooled in front of him. When he’d waked this morning, he’d half hoped the events from the night before would prove to have been a terrible dream. But the damp towel and empty basin in the bathroom dashed that wan bit of optimism.
This was a disaster. An unmitigated disaster.
He’d spent most of his life devoted to the art of making hexes. Yes, he’d scored high on the witch tests, but there were always far more witches than familiars. He’d never built his future around the assumption he’d bond; although there was naturally some overlap, most hexmen weren’t witches. Not to say the thought hadn’t occurred to him at all. In his idle imaginings, his familiar had been regal. Cultured. Commanding.
Mal had certainly been commanding last night…
No. He lifted his head and took a deep breath. That had been a terrible mistake. If he’d known Mal was his familiar, he’d have never displayed such weakness. How could he expect Mal to respect him now?
If only that had been the worst of his problems. Admittedly, having a familiar would be useful…if he’d intended to stay with the MWP, at any rate. He could test new hexes himself, without having to wait for a bonded pair of detectives to find the time to make the journey down to his lab.
But the fact remained that Mal was a thief. A thief, for God’s sake. An uneducated criminal who couldn’t even speak proper English. The scandal if anyone found out…
He could only imagine his parents’ disapproving eyes. He’d spent his entire life trying to live up to their standards. His only excuse, that it wasn’t his fault, that he hadn’t chosen Mal, would fall on deaf ears.
There were no excuses in the Yates household. Only success or failure. And this was undeniably in the latter category.
A slender figure appeared in the doorway to the dining room. Owen glanced up and found himself glad he’d dismissed the servants after they laid out breakfast. Mal’s red hair was damp from washing, and he wore nothing but a silk dressing gown, which did little to hide his lithe form.
Something of Owen’s thoughts must have shown on his face, or perhaps Mal simply read him as easily now as he had last night. “Well. Good morning to you, too,” he said with the arch of a brow.
Owen flushed. “Forgive me. Did you sleep well? How is your wound?”
“Feels better than I’ve any right to expect,” Mal said, opening the dressing gown to display his naked body. Had he no sense of propriety whatsoever? “Even managed to re-bandage it myself, see?”
Mal’s nipples were hard, perhaps from the cool air—all the rooms in The Folly were provided with steam heat, but winter still made its presence known. Owen tore his gaze away with effort. “I…see.”
“Something wrong?” Mal asked warily.
“No. Not at all.” Owen cleared his throat. “Please, help yourself to breakfast.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Mal sat down and began to grab whatever was in reach, piling the food on his plate all at once. He popped an entire boiled egg into his mouth, then used his thumbs to tear open one of the soft biscuits.
Dear God, the man had no manners whatsoever.
“I sent the servants away so we can speak freely,” Owen said.
Mal’s ravenous chewing barely slowed. “So talk.”
It was a slim hope, but Owen forced himself to voice it. “Are you certain I’m your witch?”
“Aye. Knew it the moment I clapped eyes on you.”
“So why didn’t you say anything at the Jacobs house?” Owen countered.
Mal’s brows climbed toward his hairline. “Oh aye, just blurt it out to some rich nob I’ve never even set eyes on before?” He shook his head. “What a kick in the balls, eh? A copper as my witch.”
Owen gaped at him. “I hardly see that you have any place to complain, considering you’re a-a thief! My familiar, robber of widows and orphans.”
Mal straightened in his chair. Any trace of playfulness vanished, and his look grew serious. A minute ago, Owen would have thought it an improvement, but he found himself preferring Mal’s impertinent grins.
“You listen here, copper,” Mal said, brandishing the remains of the biscuit at him. “I ain’t never stolen from a poor man. I ain’t never taken bread out of the mouth of any woman or child, neither. Maybe I ain’t lived the most honest life, but I’ve only ever taken from rich nobs like you, or the swells throwing away their money on cards.”
Owen frowned. “I hardly think I, or men like me, deserve to be robbed.”
Mal snorted. “You’d never miss it. Jacobs wouldn’t have, neither. He’d have been angry, but he’d still live in a fancy house, drinking fancy wines and abusing the servants whenever he felt like it.”
“What do you mean?” Owen asked.
Mal looked at him a long moment…then helped himself to another biscuit. “How do you think I got past all those expensive hexes on the windows?”
“I don’t know. Honestly, that’s one of the things that has high society beside itself in terror, that you and the murderer managed to get inside.”
“I don’t know how the killer got in,” Mal said, washing down his breakfast with a swallow of strong coffee. “As for me, I noticed the maid with the bruised face. A little bit of charm, a few glasses of whiskey, and a sympathetic ear was all it took. Jacobs had a temper, and everyone from the lowliest kitchen girl to the butler himself bore the brunt of it.”
Owen sat back. He’d met the man, many times. “I had no idea. He never seemed…that is, he seemed an upstanding sort.”
“They always do,” Mal said, a trace of bitterness in his voice. “At any rate, everyone hated the fellow, only stayed on for the pay or because they didn’t have anywhere else to go. He threatened to withhold a recommendation from anyone who left before he was done with them, you see.”
“Still, I don’t understand what any of this has to do with how you broke into the house.”
“I’m getting there, ain’t I? Don’t rush a fellow.” Mal lounged back, looking rather as if he enjoyed being the center of Owen’s attention. The silk robe slipped open, revealing one nipple, and Owen had to force himself to remain focused on Mal’s face. “The alarm companies tell people they need a different deactivation phrase for every window and door, don’t they? And change it every month or two? But that makes a lot of work in a house that big. Easier for the butler if he just uses the one. Less to remember, and makes the work go quicker in the morning. And of course people are going to overhear him, ain’t they?”
“I see,” Owen murmured.
Mal’s look sharpened. “Don’t you go making trouble for the servants. If Jacobs didn’t want someone stealing his things, he should’ve treated them better. Ain’t no one to blame but himself.”
Owen rather doubted most people would agree. Certainly none of the so-called Four Hundred who formed the pinnacle of New York society. But if Jacobs had been abusing the servants…
“I don’t wish to cause trouble for anyone,” Owen replied. “But as you’re my familiar, I feel I need to understand what happened that night. You truly don’t know who the killer was? You weren’t his…well, his accomplice?”
Mal’s mouth tightened. “Nay. I don’t hold with violence. I got to the door, saw Jacobs lying there. I came inside to see if he was still breathing, and when I turned around, there was the killer holding the clock, or whatever it was. At the time I thought he was going to kill me, but now I’m wondering if he was trying to sneak off behind my back, without me noticing.”
Was Mal telling the truth? He seemed sincere…but he was a thief, and probably a liar as well. Still, one detail seemed worth pursuing. “Why did you come into the room? Why not run when you saw Jacobs on the floor with his head bashed in?”
“Well I couldn’t tell if he was dead, could I?” Mal looked at Owen as if he’d lost his mind. “What was I supposed to do, let him lie there until someone found him in the morning? If he was just badly hurt, that would’ve been the end of him, wouldn’t it? I wasn’t going to be responsible for some poor bastard dying in his own blood. I figured if he was still alive, I’d slip outside, around the front, and do something to wake up the house. Then I’d run, let them find him.”
