Page 33 of A Brat's Tale
“Then why all the possessive posturing?”
“Because I am. Can’t help it sometimes, doesn’t mean I don’t understand it when I’m of sound mind.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway. Corrik’s not here … or is this your strange way of telling me you want someone else in on this?
He squeezes me to him, tightly. “No. No one else. It’s time for sleep, Tristan.”
“But it’s barely—”
“—don’t argue.”
A bit of the old Bayaden seeps into him, the cool Warlord who hated humans. But this time I know it’s because he’s guarding himselffrom breaking apart. “You’re staying with me?” I ask. I’m not sleeping by myself tonight, not after all that.
“I’m staying with you.”
I nod and close my eyes.
It’s dark and Bayaden’s shaking me awake like he often does. “Tristan, I need you.”
From there, it’s teeth and hot lips and bruising fingers. Bayaden is consumed with need. His dark eyes glitter in the moonlight, as he sinks into me and he’s wild, flipping me over, tossing me, covering me with marks not caring where he places them.
I do the same. I always give just as much as I get when we fuck. I scratch down his back and he cries out, I bite into his flesh hard enough to draw blood. You have to bite hard to sink your teeth into Elven flesh and even then, you’ve got to be careful as a human. I’ve had my teeth mended through magic a few times from biting Baya in places that are too tough. Their skin is softer just above where the neck meets collarbone and a few other places. I also suspect some areas are specific to Bayaden. He love-hates when I bite where the inner thigh meets crotch. It makes him hard, but it also fuckinghurtsif the sound he makes is anything to go by—he won’t admit it though.
It’s not until I’m on top looking down on him, fucking away on his cock that I notice.
Hair.Myhair.
It’s surrounding me, everywhere, already sticky with sweat. Sex is halted while I run fingers through, admiring the silky texture. He gave it back to me, my gorgeous dark hair, only, there are improvements. Mixed in with the black are streaks of blue and purple. I stare at it in awe, relishing in the way it feels to run my fingers through it again and I never run out of hair as my arm extends to full-length; there’s another solid few inches below that point which I allow to fall away from my fingertips. “It’s beautiful.”
I cry, the tear drops thick because if he’s given me this, I know it’stime to say goodbye. This means I have a station again—can’t have station as a slave.
“Yes. They represent your colorful personality, or perhaps the colors your arse turns after a run-in with my paddle, haven’t decided.” He succeeds in making me laugh through the tears that stream down my face. “But really, it’s so that you have something of me, surrounding you, forever. No one can cut this. Well, they can try, it will grow back by nightfall.”
I bend down to kiss him, sniffling; it’s a wet, messy kiss.
Bayaden must see I’m about to fall apart, he flips us so he’s on top again, taking over. “Are you going to come for me, little human?” he whispers, hot into my ear. Bayaden hits my prostate just so, reaching out to stroke my cock until all the sensations are too much and I come despite my crying.
He’s not far behind me, releasing his seed into me. I know it’s for the last time.
The large war Elf stares down at me, suddenly turned to stone. “It’s time for you to go, Tristan.”
I knew this was coming, but I won’t accept it. “What do you mean?No.I’m here with you. I stay with you. That was the deal.”
“No. It was never right. Andothair should never have taken you, I never should have accepted you.”
“I’m a spoil of war, Bayaden. I always knew there was a chance for this, especially had I become Warlord. All’s fair in love and war.”
“Love and war are never fair, no one knows that better than you and I.” He can’t move, he’s fixed in one spot, hardening himself for this moment. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“I don’t want to go back, Bayaden. Please don’t make me.” I can’t help the tears that keep coming, but if they serve to make him feel guilty, then good. This is a terrible thing to do.
The tears soften him some. He switches to my home tongue, to Markaytian. “You are like me, Tristan. Your first duty is to your homeland, everything else is secondary.”
“Screw Markaytia. Markaytia abandoned me and shipped me off with Elves.”
“No. The marriage might have been arranged, but you didn’t fight it. You did so with pride, for your people. The dishonor you feel not fulfilling your side of the bargain has you burning up my shirts at two a week.”
“Is this about shirts? I’ll get better at laundry. I’ll have Mary teach me. I’ll be so good at it. They’ll say ‘that Tristan, he was once good with a sword, but you know what he’s better at? Laundry. Stains beware.’”
