Old Sins, Long Shadow Read online

  Damian hurled one blade to Conrad, who caught it and tossed his own foil away. Then, to Conrad’s surprise, Damian threw him the other rapier, as well, and took two more for himself.

  “Oh, we’re fighting Florentine now, are we?” Conrad murmured with grudging respect. “I’m impressed.” It was a smart move, bold and risky, exactly the kind of thing he should have anticipated Damian would resort to if pushed.

  As most of Conrad’s experience had been gained in battle, his style was, admittedly, somewhat primitive, maybe even crude. It was brutal, yes, but effective and he had never found reason to alter it. Damian had seen his share of combat as well, but he was a child of a far different era; an era that emphasized style and grace and valued form as much as function.

  Changing the game in this fashion, by choosing a type of swordplay with which he was, arguably, more experienced was a clever, well-calculated move. It still could not remove Conrad’s built-in advantage, of course, but it did lessen it considerably. Conrad smiled. The game was about to become even more interesting.

  If he’d been expecting an answering smile, however, he was disappointed. Damian’s expression was grim, serious. He looked intent on winning, perhaps a little too intent. An odd feeling of alarm threatened to unsettle Conrad’s confidence. What could be motivating Damian to try so hard? Only one thing came to mind: the wager.

  As the battle between them was once again joined, Conrad cursed himself for not having thought things through. Why had he given in so quickly to Damian’s suggestion that the winner could demand whatever he wished? What had Damian been thinking of when he suggested it? He had to know there was very little Conrad would not give him freely, that was not his for the asking. What could Damian possibly want that he could only hope to gain by force?

  Once again, only one explanation presented itself. Could it be Damian wanted to leave him, after all? Yes, he’d sworn, just the other day, that he’d made no plans to do so, but making plans and having the desire were two vastly different things.

  Their fight took on a far different tone now. Tension mounted until the air seemed thick with it. The only sounds in the room were the occasional grunts of exertion, the steady slap of bare feet against the floor and the relentless, cold ringing of steel on steel.

  Conrad, his joy gone, fought patiently. This was not the time for careless error. He bided his time, waiting and watching for the moment he knew must come; for the single misstep that would give him what he needed. When he saw his opening, he took it. A quick swipe with his right hand, and the blade of his sword slid beneath Damian’s arm. It grazed the underside of his wrist and caught the rear quillon of his sword, wrenching the weapon from his grasp. At the same time, Conrad’s second sword crossed with Damian’s to block any other move he might attempt.

  “Yield,” Conrad demanded, as he held the point of his sword to Damian’s throat.

  Damian said nothing. His chin lifted slightly, the movement almost imperceptible. His black eyes met Conrad’s gaze and held. The expression in them was not one of fear or surprise or even dismay. They were filled, instead, with something darker, fiercer; something like rage, hatred, despair or some other, equally strong emotion.

  “Drop your sword,” Conrad insisted. Although Damian hadn’t moved, Conrad had an uneasy feeling he was about to—and not in a good way. Was it only his imagination, or was Damian steeling himself, as though he were preparing to step forward, to press against the blade at his throat, to force Conrad to either cut him or withdraw.

  How badly did Damian want to win—enough to risk injury to do so? Enough to risk death? How willing was Conrad to lose—and what choice did he really have when the only options open to him were either to hurt Damian or let him go?

  “Damian. Do as I say!” This time the order was issued with a snarl and accompanied by a venomous display of fangs as the beast, furious that his orders were being ignored, terrified by the possible loss of his mate, stirred angrily to life.

  “Conrad, give me the sword,” Julie pleaded, suddenly at his side. Her fingers trembled as she clutched his arm and gently shook it.

  “Go away, Julie.” Damn it, he’d forgotten she was even there. He swore silently. He was embarrassed that she’d been witness to his less-than-civilized behavior and more than a little concerned that, by continuing to shake his arm as she was doing, she’d inadvertently cause him to cut Damian. The beast rejoiced at the idea of blood spilling. The rest of him did not. “Leave us. Now.”

  “Please,” she begged, continuing to clutch his arm, behaving as though he hadn’t even spoken. “It’s over now. You won. You don’t have to do this, okay? Just let me have the sword.”

  Out of all his household, was there no one left who could follow the simplest command? “Juliet, do not make me repeat myself. This matter does not concern you.”

  Damian’s eyelids flickered. “Conrad,” he chided. “Stop it. You’re scaring the child.”

  Conrad chanced a quick glance at Julie’s face. “Is this true? Am I scaring you?”

  “A-a little bit. Won’t you please give me the sword now, Grandfather?”

  Against the anxious, pleading look in her eyes Conrad had no defense. He dropped his arm in defeat, releasing his grasp on the rapier. Julie took it and held her hand out again. He looked at her questioningly. “What now?”

  “The other one too, please?”

  Sighing in aggravation, Conrad presented her with that one as well. “Happy?”

  Julie nodded. “Thank you,” she said as she turned away.

  “Wait.” Conrad gestured at Damian. “What about his?”

  Julie looked startled. Damian positively smirked. “Muchismas gracias, querida,” he murmured, bowing low as he handed off his sword. “I am deeply in your debt, Señorita.” His eyes tracked Julie as she went to put the weapons back on the wall. His expression was full of warmth and love and pride and everything else that was absent when he gazed at Conrad.

  Once again Conrad found himself consumed with jealousy. “Stay where you are, Damian,” he growled. “I’m not yet done with you.”

  Damian’s eyebrows rose. He crossed his arms and regarded Conrad coolly. “Very well. As you wish.”

  “Why don’t we all go to the kitchen for some water,” Julie suggested. “You both must be so thirsty after all that exercise.”

  “Leave us,” Conrad told her. “Your uncle and I still have some business to attend to.”

  “Are you sure? I really don’t mind waiting.”

  “Go!”

  “Run along, chica,” Damian said, smiling mildly. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

  “And lock the door behind you,” Conrad added.

  “What?” Julie’s gaze flew to Damian’s face, her eyes wide, worried.

  He nodded reassuringly. “It’s all right. Go on, now. Do as you’re told.”

  Julie hesitated for a moment longer, but finally she left. Conrad waited, listening to make sure the lock was engaged and she was really gone, then turned back to face Damian again. “So. She takes her orders from you now, does she? How many others have you turned against me?”

  “What’s that you say?” Damian blinked in surprise. “Oh, what foolishness. It’s no such thing. She was merely concerned for my safety.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I assure you, Conrad, had the roles been reversed and it was you with a blade poised at your throat she’d have been equally concerned with your welfare.”

  Conrad was not at all convinced that was true. And why should she worry about either of them? “What did she think I was going to do to you anyway?”

  “As to that, I have no idea,” Damian answered, his gaze slipping nervously away. Liar. The slight hitch in his shoulder as he shrugged gave Conrad his answer.

  She must have seen the scars there, or the ones on Damian’s throat, and knew it was Conrad who’d put them there. She knew he’d hurt him before and feared he meant to do so again. “Perhaps she’s right,” he said bitter
ly, his heart heavy with regret. “Perhaps she has reason to be concerned.”

  “Oh, please.” Damian rolled his eyes. “Are you trying to frighten me? It won’t work, you know. I know you too well.” His refusal to view Conrad as a threat—even now—rankled. It was naïve, stupid; why, even the children knew better! Such ignorance was insupportable. It could not be excused and if definitely could not be allowed to continue.

  “And why should you not be afraid?” Conrad inquired, determined to force a reaction. “Did I not just win this very ill-considered contest you proposed? Am I not now in a position to demand from you whatever I wish? Who knows what I might think to ask for?”

  “Ah, sí.” Damian’s lips twisted in distaste. “A worthless victory, I believe you termed it. Did you not?”

  “I may have been a trifle hasty in my judgment,” Conrad admitted. “After giving the matter some thought, it occurs to me there are still a few things I might want from you. Things I have not had in a very long time.”

  “Are there really?” Damian’s smile betrayed his disbelief. “Then pray, by all means, enlighten me, Señor. For I confess I cannot imagine to what manner of thing you could possibly be…be…but… You…” Damian’s voice stuttered to a stop. The smile dropped away from his face. A flush suffused it. He stared at Conrad with dawning awareness.

  Conrad leered at him. “Indeed, I believe you can imagine it—and in very great detail, I’ve no doubt.” He prowled closer, a predator circling his prey, smiling when his ears picked up the rapid pattering of Damian’s heart. “Oh, dear,” he murmured in mock concern. “Your heart is fairly racing, hidalgo, my little lordling. Could it be that you’re afraid after all?”

  Damian’s eyes narrowed. He swallowed hard and nodded. “Sí. Terrified.”

  Conrad stopped in his tracks, caught off guard by the unexpected confession. He’d anticipated another denial. Pain sliced at his heart. Despite everything he’d just now said—everything he’d ever claimed or told himself to the contrary—he really hadn’t meant for things to go this far. Fear had never been any part of what he’d wanted from Damian.

  Snarling viciously, Conrad completed his circuit, taking perverse pleasure in the persistent shivering of Damian’s muscles as he slid up close behind him; close enough to whisper in his ear, “So then tell me, my love, what exactly is it you’re so afraid of?”

  He’d have the words from him, damn it. He’d force Damian to admit to his fear, his repugnance, his loathing—maybe he’d even make him beg for mercy. It would serve them both right if he did. Perhaps it would even be enough to finally kill the craving he still felt for him.

  Damian turned his head to look at Conrad over his shoulder. “I’m afraid I shall wake up presently and find these last few minutes have been nothing more than a dream.”

  A dream? Is he saying he wants this? Conrad studied Damian’s expression in stunned surprise. He rocked back on his heels, shocked by the revelation. He is! He wants this! A broad smile spread across his face and he could not have stopped it by any means. “Well, in that case, I suppose I must do everything in my power to assure you do not wake up too soon.”

  “Sí.” Damian dropped his gaze. Turning his face once more to the front, he murmured quietly, “Muchas gracias.”

  Conrad’s hands were trembling as he unknotted the scarf at Damian’s throat. Every right! Every reason! The beast sang joyously. Take him now! But when he caught sight of the marks on Damian’s neck, Conrad’s heart faltered. No. I can’t. He deserves more. He deserves better.

  For centuries Damian had been his closest companion, his most trusted confidant. He’d been his partner, his co-parent, his lover, his friend. He deserved to make his own choices and not have yet another mistake forced on him because it was what Conrad wanted.

  “Caro,” Conrad murmured, though it was a struggle to get the words out. “If you wish to stop this, now would be the time to say something.”

  Damian stiffened slightly. He shook his head once but said nothing.

  Why? Because he really does want this all of a sudden? Or because he’s simply too proud to beg? Conrad had no way of knowing. He very much feared it was the latter. Either way it didn’t matter, he had no more will left with which to resist. So be it. He’d done his best.

  Growling impatiently, he speared his hand in Damian’s hair and pulled his head to the side, exposing more of his neck. There. Right there. He bit swiftly, filling his mouth with the sweet taste of Damian’s blood. Damian cried out in response, his body jerking hard against Conrad’s, his knees trembling with the impact. Conrad wrapped him in his arms—one spanning his shoulders, the other his waist—and held him tight. He bit again; delivering a double dose of venom, erasing any remaining doubt, ensuring Damian would remember nothing but the pleasure of their joining. When Damian’s legs began to buckle he eased them both to the floor and settled Damian on his back.

  Damian stared up at him with wondering eyes and slowly raised a hand to trace his fingers lightly along Conrad’s jaw. “Conrad…”

  “Mi amor?” Conrad gazed back at him, questioningly.

  A hesitant smile trembled on Damian’s lips as he slid his hand to the back of Conrad’s neck. His fingers tightened, urging Conrad closer. Conrad gave in to the pressure, the longing and the need. He lowered his head.

  Their mouths still fit together perfectly.

  How long, Conrad wondered, his head reeling once again with joyous relief. How long since they’d last kissed? He couldn’t recall. It didn’t matter. At the first taste, the years dropped away. Made for me. Now. Then. Always. He was made for me.

  For a long, long moment it was enough. Conrad was content with just a kiss, more than pleased to revel in the play of lips and tongues and breath. Eventually, however, the need to take more asserted itself. Still, it was with extreme reluctance that he broke the kiss off and sat up, shoving at Damian’s shirt until it was bunched beneath his armpits. The nipple rings that had so tormented him at the party the other night glittered in the low light, catching his eyes once again. On a whim, he bent his head and snagged one on a fang, twisting and tugging, flicking the turgid, hardening flesh with his tongue until Damian whimpered in response.

  Conrad smiled at the sound. Perhaps this small lesson would teach Damian to mend his teasing ways. Or perhaps it would have the opposite effect. It was hard to know which result to hope for. Still smiling, Conrad transferred his attentions to the other ring and continued the assault.

  Then he moved lower, lips skating along Damian’s chest, his abdomen, his hips. Sitting up, he tugged at Damian’s pants, shoving them down his legs, far enough to let his cock spring free. Conrad gazed at it in hungry fascination. It was tall. It was proud. It was his. And he would waste no time in renewing his claim to it. Growling with pleasure, he quickly fisted the base and ran his tongue across the crown, lapping up the glistening dew—that, too, belonged to him.

  Damian groaned, hips pumping helplessly. Conrad smiled at the sight. He would so love to draw things out, to pay Damian back for all the empty years, to torment him until he begged for release, and then draw things out even longer. But he lacked the patience for such games tonight. Those would have to wait for another night. And there would be others, Conrad was certain of that. There had to be. He would accept nothing less. On this night, however, his need rode him too hard. He needed to taste Damian on his tongue, needed to feel him yield to his touch. He needed it now.

  He brought him off fast, stroking, sucking, struggling to temper his force so as not to cause him any hurt. He feasted on the small sounds and restless movements Damian gave up, the endless pleas for more.

  Damian lapsed into Spanish as he came, letting loose with a torrent of words too rapid, too garbled, too out of breath for Conrad to make any clear sense of. It didn’t matter. The fluid filling his mouth was explanation enough. He swallowed it down with greedy pleasure then sat up to finish the job of removing their clothes. He stripped Damian’s pants from him quickly.
His own clothes followed. Damian watched his every move, heat kindling anew in his eyes.

  Naked now, Conrad slid back on top of his lover. He kissed him again, lush and leisurely, a deep, dominating kiss. A possessive kiss. Mine. Always. This time, there would be no doubt left in either of their minds. He would make sure of it.

  “Turn over,” he ordered, sliding a hand beneath Damian’s shoulder to assist him. He loved the startled rasp of Damian’s breath, the flush of blood that colored his face, the faint trembling in his limbs. Damian was already settled on his stomach when Conrad realized he had made a mistake. Damian was still wearing his shirt. An oversight. He should have made him remove it before he turned him over.

  He was reaching for the hem, intending to at least push it up far enough to bare his back when Damian grabbed at the shirt, stopping him. “No. Don’t.”

  Conrad glanced at him in surprise. “Why? Is something wrong?”

  Damian turned his head to gaze pleadingly up at him. “Conrad, please. How much longer do you intend to torture me in this fashion?”

  Conrad’s breath fled. “Torture?” he repeated, struggling to hide his dismay. “Is that how it seems to you?”

  “How can you even ask?” Damian groaned. “Have I not already waited long enough? Leave the shirt alone. Will you not just take me now?”

  Why? Was he so anxious to get this over with? Had Conrad misread his emotions? Perhaps it was not rapture that caused him to moan. Perhaps he was merely impatient for his torment to end. “Perhaps you’d prefer it if I were to bring this game to a close right now and let you go. Is that what you wish?”

  “What?” Damian’s face paled. He dropped his head, turning it to hide his face in the crook of his arm. “No. No, of course that’s not… Please, Conrad, don’t…don’t do that. Please. Please don’t.”

  “Then tell me what you want,” Conrad snapped, too confused to make sense of things, too needy to think. “Say it now or be damned.”

  “You!” Damian answered, his voice muffled by his arm. “Te quiero para mí. I just want you.”