I Killed the Alpha King's Father, Then He Bought Me at Auction novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: The Dead King's Bed

The king comes in the dark to scent his captive and pin him to the iron bed, until a mocking line stops him and a bitter smell turns up in the pillow.

Kit did not sleep.

He sat on the floor with his back against the iron bed and listened to the lodge settle around him.

At three in the morning the key turned.

He was on his feet before the door opened, and he did not remember standing.

Ewan came in and shut it behind him.

He had taken off the coat and wore a dark sweater with the sleeves shoved to his elbows.

His eyes were gold, and they did not look entirely human.

"You're up," he said.

"You woke the whole floor with that key."

"I woke nobody. The floor is empty."

He crossed the rug in three strides, and Kit gave ground until the back of his knees hit the bed.

Ewan stopped a hand's width away.

He breathed in slowly through his nose, and his whole chest rose with it.

"Rules," he said. "One. You stay in these rooms."

"Heard that."

"Two. Every night I ask you one question, and you answer it."

"Same question every night?"

"Same question."

"Then I'll give you the same answer every night."

Ewan's mouth twitched, and it was not a smile.

"Three. Nobody touches you but me."

Kit laughed, short and hard.

"That's not a rule, that's a threat."

"It's both."

"And my rule is, you touch me, I bite back."

"Good," Ewan said. "I'd hate for you to be dull."

He lifted his hand and laid it flat on the back of Kit's neck.

The burn throbbed under his palm, and Kit's breath went out of him in a rush.

It should have hurt.

It felt like being held up.

"Why is the wound still open?" Ewan said, low. "You should have healed by now."

"Silver doesn't close fast."

"It's been six hours since the chain came off."

"Eight."

"Don't correct me."

"Then don't ask stupid questions."

Ewan's grip shifted, and he turned Kit around and bore him down onto the mattress.

Kit hit the iron bed on his back with a king over him and the springs shouting under both of them.

He got a knee up, and Ewan trapped it with his thigh.

He got a fist loose, and Ewan caught the wrist and pinned it above his head.

Then Ewan put his face against Kit's throat and breathed him in.

Kit froze.

A nose dragged slowly up the side of his neck, from the collarbone to the hinge of his jaw.

It lingered on the burn, and Ewan made a sound deep in his chest that was almost a growl.

"You smell like him," he said roughly. "Like the Gap. Like that night."

"Get off me."

"You smell like blood and snow, and I've been hunting that smell for three years."

His teeth grazed Kit's pulse, not hard, only enough to feel.

Kit's hips came up off the mattress before he could stop them.

He felt Ewan's cock against his thigh, thick and hard through the wool of his trousers.

He felt his own, shamefully, pressing up in answer.

Ewan felt it too.

He went very still.

Then he ground down once, slowly, so Kit felt every inch of the hard line of him dragged against his own.

Kit swore and bit his lip until it bled.

"There," Ewan said into his throat. "Your body doesn't lie as well as your mouth."

"It's been a long time," Kit said through his teeth.

"Has it."

"Eight years of sleeping in barns, Your Majesty. A warm weight's a warm weight."

He made himself smile up at that gold stare.

"Don't flatter yourself. You've been alone a long time too. I can smell it."

Ewan lifted his head.

For half a second there was nothing in his face at all.

Then he let go of Kit's wrist and rolled off, and stood by the bed breathing hard.

His hands were shaking.

He closed them into fists and put them in his pockets.

"Question," he said, and his voice came out ragged. "Why was my father smiling?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes you do."

"Then ask me again tomorrow."

Ewan looked at him a long moment.

"I will," he said.

He went out, and the key turned.

Kit lay where he was with his heart going.

His mouth tasted of his own blood.

His neck still felt the exact shape of that hand.

After a while he rolled onto his side and dragged the pillow under his head.

The smell hit him then, sharp and sour under the old man's tobacco.

It was bitter, like crushed leaves left to rot in a cup.

He knew it.

He had smelled it three years ago on a dying man's breath.

He shoved his fingers into the pillowcase and found the seam open at one end.

Inside was a folded scrap of paper, brown with age.

It was part of a label, in a careful old-fashioned hand, with half a word left on it.

"...sbane," it said, and under that, "three drops at night."

Kit read it twice.

Then he put it back exactly where it had been, and lay very still, because someone had hidden it here.

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