The Immortal Who Holds the Demon Lord's Heart novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: The Inspection

A rival marshal arrives to take the prisoner; Han claims him in public, and at night the Demon Lord kneels and shows what he does with his mouth.

Marshal Fu Linghai walked into the Hall of Azure Gate.

He wore full gold armor, a silver beard trimmed to a point, and a smile that stopped well short of his eyes.

Four hundred Crimson Banner soldiers filled the courtyard behind him.

"Zhaohe," he said warmly. "My dear colleague. I came the moment I heard."

"Marshal Fu."

"Is it true the Demon Lord walked through your gate?"

"It is."

"And you did not kill him."

"He is a prisoner of war," Han said. "Under Court law, he belongs to the marshal who took him until the Throne rules."

Fu's eyes moved past Han's shoulder, to the tall white-haired man in a binding sleeve who stood one pace behind him.

Mo bowed with great courtesy.

"Marshal Fu. I've heard so much about you."

"Have you?"

"Not a word, but I like to be polite."

A Crimson Banner soldier coughed into his fist.

Fu's smile held.

"Take him to the Court prison, Zhaohe. It is safer."

"It is half a li from here."

"Is that a problem?"

"Yes," said Han, and left it there.

Fu's eyes dropped to Han's chest, only for an instant.

It was a look Han knew from battlefields, the look of a man pricing a horse.

"There is a rumor," Fu said, very gently, "that the Lord's heart will not come out of you."

"It's a rumor."

"If it is true, the Court will want it examined."

"Then the Court may ask me in the Court."

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then Fu laughed and spread his hands.

"Of course. Three days, then. I will have the Emperor's herald call you both, and we shall see what the Throne says."

He turned to go, and in the doorway he looked back at Mo.

"Welcome to Heaven, my lord. Do enjoy it."

"I'll try," said Mo. "Though I notice the weather's awful."

Fu left.

Han's shoulders dropped as the tension left him.

"He wants it," Mo said, behind him.

"I know."

"No, listen. He wants it. Not the Court's way. He was looking at your ribs like they owed him money."

"I know, Xuanyi."

The name left his mouth before he could stop it.

Mo went quiet.

Han did not turn around.

"Let's go upstairs," he said, "before I say something worse."

The bedchamber was dark and warm, and the door shut behind them with a soft click.

A one-eyed crow was waiting on the bedpost, in a feather collar and a very small black robe.

"Lord," it said, in a dry voice. "Three hundred years, and you have still found trouble."

"Wen Qi." Mo's whole face changed. "You're alive."

"I'm a crow. We're hard to kill."

"Where were you held?"

"A Crimson Banner cage in the south yard. I got out. That man's soldiers lock doors poorly."

Han looked at the crow and then at Mo.

"Your steward?"

"My oldest friend," said Mo. "He'll stay, if you'll allow it."

"He may sleep in the lamp room." Han paused. "Wen Qi, no one comes in this room tonight."

"Understood, Marshal." The crow bobbed his head. "I've heard a great deal worse than what I'm about to not hear."

He flew out through the window slit.

Han turned the lock, and when he turned back, Mo was sitting on the edge of the black lacquer bed, looking at him.

"Take that off," Mo said.

Han's armor was already off.

He meant the inner robe.

He did it slowly, because his hands wanted to shake, and he let the cloth slide off his shoulders and pool at his feet.

Mo's eyes went down his body, long and unhurried.

"Zhaohe," he said. "Come here."

"You don't give orders in my room."

"I'm asking."

"You're not asking."

"Come here," Mo said, very gently, "and I'll show you why I don't need to."

Han went.

He stood between Mo's knees, bare, and Mo's hands settled on his hips, rough and warm.

"When was the last time someone touched you?"

"You touched me last night."

"Before that."

Han looked at the wall.

"Two hundred and fifty years," he said.

Mo's hands tightened.

"Then I won't hurry," he said, and slid off the bed onto his knees.

The silver chain slithered on the floor.

His face was level with Han's stomach, red eyes lifted, the white hair falling over his shoulders.

Han was already hard, and he hated that, and he did not care.

Mo looked at him for a long moment.

"You're beautiful," he said, as if it were a plain fact.

He put one broad palm flat against Han's chest, over the scar.

Han's heart leaped into it.

Then Mo bent his head and kissed the tip of Han's cock, once, softly, and Han's whole body jerked.

"Mo..."

"Mm."

He dragged his tongue slowly along the underside, root to tip, and Han's hand flew into the white hair.

"Oh, gods."

"Say my name."

"Xuanyi."

"Again."

"Xuanyi, please."

Mo took him into his mouth.

It was wet and hot and very slow, and Han let out a sound he had not made in two and a half centuries.

Mo sucked him deep, hollowing his cheeks, until the head of Han's cock pressed the back of his throat.

His hand never left Han's chest.

Every time Han thrust, a little, helplessly, Mo's palm slowed his heartbeat.

Each stroke stretched out into something long and cruel and delicious.

"You're doing it on purpose."

Mo hummed around him, and Han's knees buckled.

He caught himself on the bedpost.

"Faster," he said. "Please. I'm going to..."

Mo pulled off, with a wet sound, and looked up.

His lips were red and shining.

"Not yet."

"You bastard."

"I've been in a tomb for three hundred years. I'm going to enjoy this."

His palm pressed, and Han's heart went slow as a bell.

Mo took him in again, working his tongue under the head, and one big hand slid around to grip Han's ass, hauling him in.

Han's thighs were shaking.

His breath came in ragged pieces.

He felt the heat gather in his spine and tried to come.

The slow pulse would not let him, so he hung there, shaking, aching and close.

"Mo Xuanyi," he gasped. "Let me, please, let me, I can't..."

Mo's hand lifted.

Han's heart slammed back to speed all at once, and he came so hard that the room whited out.

He heard himself cry out.

He felt Mo swallow around him, taking all of it, one hand still steady on his hip.

When it was over his legs gave out, and Mo caught him and pulled him down into his lap on the floor.

Han lay there, shuddering, his face against Mo's neck.

"Are you all right?" Mo asked, very low.

"No," Han said. "That was ridiculous."

Mo's chest shook with silent laughter.

"I haven't done that in three hundred years either," he admitted. "I wasn't sure I remembered how."

"You remembered."

"Hm." Mo's hand slid up Han's back and held there. "Your heart's still going hard."

"It's yours."

"Is it?"

His thumb rubbed slowly over the scar.

"Funny," Mo said. "I came here to take it back. It's the first time I've wanted to leave it where it is."

Han turned his head and kissed him, slow and wet, tasting himself on Mo's tongue.

Then he looked down, and saw that Mo was still hard under the open trousers, flushed and dark.

"You didn't finish," Han said.

"I was busy."

"Get on the bed."

Mo raised an eyebrow, and then he did, stretching out on the black lacquer with his white hair all over the pillow.

Han climbed over him on his knees and wrapped a hand around his cock.

"Zhaohe..."

"Watch me," Han said. "You made me watch myself fall apart. It's your turn."

He stroked slowly, thumb across the slick head, and put his other palm flat on Mo's chest.

Mo's heart beat hard under it, Han's own rhythm, and Han slowed it.

Mo's whole body went tight.

"Oh, you devil."

"I learned from the best."

Han held him there, right on the edge, his hand steady and his thumb circling.

Mo's hips came up off the sheets, and the red in his eyes burned bright.

"Please," Mo said, and it was the first time Han had heard him say it.

Han let the pulse go, and Mo came with a shout, hot over Han's fist and his own stomach.

His head was thrown back, his throat working.

Han watched every second of it.

Then he lay down beside him, boneless, and Mo's arm closed around him.

"The heart is mine," Mo murmured into his hair. "But you are a man I would keep."

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