I bring you the last bit of "extra" from the outtakes of Tristan Two. Some things you should know before you read.
These really are outtakes meaning they are not written in the order of a story. It may feel choppy.
I am considering making this a novella and if I do more will be added. The time line will have to be reworked a little and the final would come out different than what I've posted here. I wrote this piece for it where we get to meet Meren and now I like Meren even more than before. However, I may just leave this as what we've got an move on to write something else of Tristan's time in Aldrien as a Novella.
One of the scenes below is included in the second book but it's written from a bit of a different tense and so I always think that gives a different feel.
I just ... couldn't decide if I wanted to make this the novella or write something totally new. What I really want to do is write Tristan and Baya together and I think that would be done better at a point after all this has happened. Anywho, as I couldn't decide, I'm posting this for now. The novella of this version would follow (poor) Tristan naked for a lot longer before he got his clothes! Ha! I know he goes through a lot here but I hope it comes across as sarcastic and somewhat hilarious as it felt in my head.
The Heart of a Dragon Tamer Update:
You'd think since the book was already written it would have been up on Amazon by now. False. At least in my case. This first edit is taking forever BUT, I'm nearly done. The second round will go faster. Then I can share some excerpts. I have cut 30K from the original manuscript so far but it's still too long. Editors charge by the word. It's currently at 185K and that's WAY out of my editing budget. At this rate I'm going to have to start a go fund me for this book. Ha! If I could get it to 130 or 140K that would be ideal.
I am still accepting ARC readers. In case you're not sure what that is here's a little definition:
Advanced Reader Copy: These kinds of readers receive a free copy of the book once it's all edited and polished before release day so they can read it and leave reviews to help me pump up the book!
Oh! And if anyone has read any of my books and they could even just leave a rating on Amazon, I'm nearly at 50 ratings ... once I get to 50, Amazon helps me get more visibility. I would truly appreciate it. You don't even have to write a review. Though, those are fabulous and helpful too.
I have news! We got a new bunny. I think her name is going to end up being Arrow but I'll add a picture once it's for certain. I swear to you I wanted to name her Charlie but my husband liked Arrow better since she's fast as a flying arrow and I have to agree. Merlin picked her. I'll tell the whole story of how that happened next time!
For now, enjoy this!
Tristan's New Clothes 3/3
When we're there, Bayaden dismounts and hands his horse off to a naked male human—his cock bobbing to and fro—after he’s yanked me off the horse and half drags, half yanks me by my short hair toward the palace.
“Bayaden, lay off,” I say finally finding my voice after being subdued by the very public spanking I just endured. He lets go my hair but pushes me along saying things to me in Elvish I don’t understand, but it’s not hard to determine when someone is cursing you in any language.
I must look a disaster. I’m still dirty from earlier, my arse is probably red and bruised, my face is still heated and tear-tracked, my hair disheveled—I’m sure I look every bit the ragamuffin these Elves imagine us humans to be. “I’ve wasted half my day looking after you and you dare disobey me in front of my warriors? The other servants?”
“Slaves you mean.”
He grabs my entire jaw in his one hand. “I never wanted a pet, be careful or you might find yourself washed out with the other sewage.” He looks to mean it. I decide to keep my defiant mouth shut even though I want to scream more things at him, but I’d be screaming at the wrong person. It’s not Bayaden’s fault I’m here; it’s Andothair’s. And next I see him, he'll know just what I think.
Bayaden pushes and pulls me to the public baths. This time he puts me in the hands of some of the female servants, too irate to bathe me himself, and I choose not to remind him that I don’t need anyone to bathe me.
Seems wise at this juncture.
Since these could be my last moments on Earth (Bayaden does look like he wants to send me out with the sewage), I decide to have fun with the bath attendant girl. She’s naked like I am with a collar, but hers has no tag. She’s got nice, full breasts and big doe eyes, human of course. She’s pretty tiny too, no taller than below my nipples. I lean back in the white tub and smile my most charming Tristan smile. I’ve never been particularly attracted to women, I’m not particularly attracted to her now, but I do find her nice to look at and I will enjoy flirting with her.
I find out her name is Bethane and she is from Port Tyreadin, but that’s all she’ll tell me. “Bethane from Port Tyreadin,” I recite as she scrubs the dirt from my hair.
The hot water soothes my aching behind, and I wish I could be left to sit here to ferment and stay away from the dark Elf watching my every move. For the Gods’ sake, it’s not like I’m planning on running. Where would I go? I’d be caught in a second. No. Better to build trust and complacency and then attempt a true escape—right after I figure out how to get Diekin out of here.
I reach to her sandy blonde hair when she leans over to scrub my chest and twirl it around my finger. I don’t know how to hit on a guy, with a woman I’m even more useless, but I’ve seen Lucca do something similar and it seemed to work for him. “You’re very beautiful,” I tell her.
I hear the sound of something breaking over where Bayaden is sitting, but I don’t look up too interested in watching Bethane’s blue eyes. “When you are finished with him, send him to my chambers—but scrub him good, I don’t want to see a speck of dirt on him,” he interrupts making me sound like I’m a child that’s been rolling in the mud. “I’m in need of his services.”
“Yes, be sure to wash behind my ears for fleas as well,” I say to her, but look at Bayaden. He smolders at me for a second but whirls off like a blustery day. Bethane, giggles.
“You like the Warlord.”
“Like him? No. I’m married. And even if I wasn’t, I would still hate that Elf.”
"Then why are you flirting with him?”
"I wasn't flirting with him; I was flirting with you."
“It’s the truth.”
She keeps saying okay, but I know she doesn’t believe me, so I shut up and stop flirting with her, hoping she’ll just wash me so I can get out of here.
But my day suddenly brightens when I see the thin, khaki pants slung over another bath, abandoned by their owner momentarily. I’m sure they have another pair; I don't feel bad stealing them. Huh. I’ve spent all this time looking for clothes when all I had to do was come to the bathhouse.
Bethane, who I now realize has loyalty to these maniac-elven-slave-traders, smirks but won't dare challenge me. I still hold some level of respect with her because of my former title. I often went to Port Tyreadin with Father.
The material feels scratchy, having been naked for so many days. My body has to remember what it's like to be encumbered with every step. I think about going off to do some more exploring, but even I can respect that the Aldrien Warlord is out of leniency with his unruly pet. I guess it’s back to his chambers then.
When I appear in his chambers, he's staring out the window or I thought he was, but as soon as I'm in the door I'm being held by my throat. The thick black collar is removed, and his teeth sink viciously into my neck. I cry out until he cups his hand over my mouth. I want to scream more, which is quite unlike me, also illogical. No one will save me or care. Even the humans of this place have some kind of deranged loyalty to their masters.
I cease my cries and submit to him opening my neck. It's natural, like breathing. I can't pretend to resist this man’s dominance. The suctioning grip of his teeth releases with a squishy sound, taking some of the skin of my neck with them; the holes that are left behind gush blood. He pulls his face away half an inch and I see the same burning in his eyes as when he'd detained me in the village, only now, it's laced with pure desire—he wants me. I can hardly believe it, but he does—the pain of it etched clear on his beautiful face.
He hates it, hates that he wants me. I’m the flea-ridden human that has been thrust into his life, and he somehow feels obligated to ensure my survival. He demands something of me in Elvish, I don't know what, so I don't respond. "Undress, I wish to view you," he says in Markaytian, frustrated with my lack of knowledge of his language. He looks over the pants I said I'd get. I smile at the small victory, and I swear I see him crack a half-smile, but it’s gone before I can be sure.
As for him viewing me, he's had plenty view of me already. Besides, I don't want him to see what his manhandling of me has sprouted, he'll get the wrong idea. "Forget it, Bayaden." I try to push past him to my bed. I want to forget this day ever happened and all the days to come till I'm back with my husband.
Bayaden's not going to let me. Like the insatiable calling of the crow, echoing in your brain forever—I know in that moment I'll always remember Bayaden.
"Take them off or I'll rip them off."
"Damn it Bayaden!"
"Now," he says in Elvish, I recognize.
I'm furious, but I do as I’m instructed. I don't intend on putting my new pants anywhere near him, but he snatches them from me. Stupid, agile Elves. "You said I could have pants if I acquired them myself." I full-on pout at him.
He tosses the pants away; he doesn’t care about them, more interested in my hardening cock. "See, you desire me."
"I am a male Bayaden, it has nothing to do with you," I lie. I hate myself and I hate him more. I'm married and I still want him. Badly. I like what he’s doing to me, even as the blood runs down my neck. By the Gods, I've never felt like this. My heart is still thumping in my chest, it does that for him—races without rhythm, about Bayaden. It feels like the height of battle.
We both stand breathing, facing off. I'm naked again, my hard cock throbs, I’m sore, bruised, bleeding, but he is the vulnerable one and we can both feel it in the air: he's about to lose something.
"I want you to suck me," he says.
I knew this would come, not only is it common to fuck the spoils of war—well unless you are Markaytian—Andothair had mentioned this. But I thought I would be made to do this, tied down and fucked. I didn't expect how I'm feeling now.
I want to suck his cock.
I'd like to say that I'm only thinking of Diekin's life, because in some small measure I am, but mostly, I want him. "I'm going to bed."
He grabs me by the face. "You are mine." He’s fucking breathless.
"I am not yours. I belong to Corrik."
And thereHe does not like that. He drags me and unless I want my head detached from my body I have to follow. He throws me on the bed, not my bed, but his. I freeze. Bayaden isn't Bayaden right now, he's something else. ‘The Elves are creatures; they are of a different breed than us Markaytians,’ my uncle had said.
And they are.
I’ve made the mistake of thinking about Elves as human even though I know they aren’t. It’s hard not to. In many ways they resemble humans and so we humans anthropomorphize them. But inside they are wired differently, and it took being with Corrik to see that. Arousal possesses them and they turn animal. When that happens, it’s need and it has to be satisfied, there’s almost no stopping the tumble of passion at that point.
He cages me with his arms planted on either side of me and sniffs up my body slowly, inhaling my scent. When he reaches my neck, he licks his thick tongue across the blood still seeping in tiny rivulets from where he bit me. The holes seem to patch themselves over, he nuzzles his nose across the mark I can feel there and I sense he wants to bite it again—he knows he can't without killing me. As it is, I could have bled out, but he’s bit just shallow enough. "That's funny, you smell like you’re mine."
I can’t breathe. There's something frighteningly vicious about Bayaden everyone senses, especially me, but he's got a sarcastic humor that's hard to spot when you're busy being terrified, and when you finally do, it's soothing—you know he's not going to murder you, he just likes you to think he’s going to murder you.
Besides, danger turns me on. Bayaden is the perfect mix of deadly and hilarious. Ugh. I have a type.
I sigh relief. He's not going to gut me, but he may still fuck me. I might prefer the first. His fingers trail over my body like he's trying to figure out if I'm real or just an apparition. His eyes darken, and his mouth latches onto mine. It's not a kiss, he's trying to suck the tongue from my mouth.
My body bends with his. Bayaden is a force that cannot be denied and tonight I won't deny him. I know I've got to do this, but it’s not just ‘got to’, I want this … I need this and so I continue to let him. I wish I would have tried to say no a few more times, but I want him too badly. The Gods help me, I want him.
Elves are promiscuous creatures, but Corrik’s shown what a possessive arse he is, many times he’s expressed how much he wants me all to himself. But is he really the monogamous sort problem or will he see this as betrayal?
The resentment surfaces.
I was forced into the marriage. Taken from my home. My identity ripped away. I dreamed of the day I would become Warlord upon Father’s retirement, I earned my place as his successor, but Corrik didn’t care about that. Nobody did.
Honestly, I wasn’t called a slave as I am now, but I would have been one all the same. Now I have nothing. I’ve been reduced to a slave and there’s a something I want before me—something I genuinely want with no one to take it away from me. I didn’t get to want anyone other than Corrik in order to save my virginity for him, I wasn’t going to get to choose anything once we returned to Mortouge; Corrik would have dictated what my life would be.
Oddly, I wasn’t called a slave as I am now, but I would have been one all the same.
I hate Bayaden and I want him. I’m going to enjoy the fuck out of this.
One thing that’s certain about me and Bayaden, is that we have chemistry, and more than one person has noticed. I’ve been trying to deny it, but there is no more denying it. I attempt to kiss him back, but he doesn't let me and moves down from my lips to my swollen neck, gentle there, then attacks my chest and torso with bites that hurt, but don't break the skin. When he reaches my throbbing cock, I'm already gone, gone, gone.
“I did not expect you to taste so good, Tristan.”
He called me, Tristan.
I don’t get to think about that for long, he’s on me again, prowling on top of me, and I push my aching cock toward him. “If you’re going to fuck me, just do it already.” The waiting is torture.
“Is that what all this poor behavior is? You just needed a good fucking? Will that inspire better behavior, little human?”
“Unfortunately for you, I doubt it.” I smirk at him.
I expect anger at a remark like that, but he’s wrapped up in some sort of spell. “I know the Gods are taunting me, but I must have you Tristan.”
“Then do it.”
But he doesn’t move, hovering over me, his jaw hard and eyes dancing with a dangerous mix of lust and rage. Does he want… permission? I reach my hand up toward his face. He flinches, but lets my hand settle on his sandy brown cheek. “Fuck me, Warlord. Don’t leave anything behind.”
He nods, taking one hand away from the bed to undo the buckle to his armored skirt in one, swift motion, tossing it to the ground with a clang. His member is huge, like huge and I regret telling him to fuck me, but not enough to take what I said back. It’s darker than the rest of him and leaking, his black hair falling against the wet tip. He takes my leg and is surprisingly gentle as he pushes it toward my head then uses his shoulder to hold it there so he can slide a thick finger into my arse.
I inhale and cry out when he hits my prostate. I feel myself getting wet and chalk it up to Elven magic, of course they have a lubing-spell. I have to arch my back to keep up when he gets faster and adds another finger. I press down needing more, wanting to feel him inside me, owning me.
Making me forget.
He finally presses the thick head of his cock against my entrance, and I look down, watching, fascinated until he’s seated all the way inside me. All day I’ve been in a dance with Bayaden, both of us trying to prevent this very thing from happening, but it’s happened and now both of us hate ourselves even more. We use it. Once he’s in and I’m relaxed enough I won’t tear, he pulls back to get enough momentum to slam inside me again. He’s not careful with me and I’m not careful with him. I treat the large Elf like he’s a leather sandbag, used for sparing, whacking at his arms when he thrusts, which remain firm as granite. I claw at his shoulders and kick my heel into where his kidney sits. It doesn’t affect him other than to ratchet his arousal yet another notch.
He likes the raw violence.
He’s equally brutal, slamming into my ass, stretching my legs too far, slapping me across the face each time I kick him too hard. We make each other angrier, which results in another level of violence: two Warlords in a sexual battle.
At one point, I try to flip him. I can’t of course, it’s like moving stone, but the trying amuses him. “I don’t think so, you’re meant to writhe on my cock, my lovely.”
I bite his arm and he cries out, digging his hand into my short hair the moment I release him. “You fucking brat.” He fucks me harder as if doing so will subdue me.
I won’t be subdued.
But in between all of that is the sex and it’s incredible. It’s how I’ve always pictured it might be with a future mate, except we’d be on the field in the mud. It would be after a long training session. We’d start out with metal swords before we moved to our other ones. He’d take me roughly and leave me bruised and satiated.
Bayaden hits all my buttons as he continues to hit my prostate, while we continue our skirmish. “Stroke your cock, little human.”
I do and that sends me over the edge. I come all over my belly moaning loud enough I’m sure I can be heard several doors over. Bayaden seems proud of that. “Open up,” he says, and I don’t get much time before his large cock is stuffed down my throat. He’s close though and in a few strokes he’s coming. I try to swallow, but his cock is too large and my mouth too small. I do the best I can.
He collapses beside me in a much better disposition than he came in here with. He reaches out for me, which is unexpected, finding my hip and placing his meaty hand there as a sign of ownership. “I’m not done with you,” he says.
And he’s not. He takes me seven more times after that and as promised, he doesn’t leave anything behind. When he’s done with me, he discards me like a chicken bone to my pet bed on the floor beside his. I can hear him snoring above me before I’ve even settled onto my pillow. I couldn’t think about Corrik before, I think of him now. He’s all I think about as I fall into a restless sleep.
In the morning, the sun is bright and hot. I wake up thinking for the briefest of moments that I am home in Markaytia—the sun here is like Markaytia’s. But that’s where my illusion ends. I rub my eyes and realize I ache all over. I’m full of bite marks, not to mention my arse is sore in two ways, but that’s not what surprises me; I hear the clinking of the chain before I see it.
My thick, black collar is replaced by a metallic silver one and attached to it is a length of cold, grey steel, bolted into the wall—I really am a pet now. I’ll kill Andothair for this even if it was Bayaden who chained me to the wall. I agreed to be a manservant, not a pet, though I suppose either which way, I’d have agreed to it in exchange for Diekin’s life. My pants are beside me so I quickly put them on not knowing what to do with this new predicament. I can only guess that he used magic to knock me out. There’s no way I would have remained asleep for something like this. Changing my collar alone would have woken me.
My stomach decides my next move for me, growling loudly. I eat the food that’s been left for me; hard dried bread, one cold sausage, a slice of purple fruit and water. Then I proceed to try and pry myself from the wall without breaking my neck.
It’s useless. I’m stuck here until Bayaden returns. Finally, he does (thankfully before I have to piss) and I attack him, unworried over his fierce gaze or the way the room seems to get smaller when he walks into it. “What is the meaning of this? I am not a pet and I refuse to act like one no matter how worthless you find my race.”
He pretends to be no more interested in me than Lucca and I used to be interested in my mother’s cross-stitching lessons. He walks by me and to his closets. I move to follow him, but my leash won’t allow me to reach his closets. “Bayaden.”
He reappears holding a little jar and throws it at me with words in Elvish that I know are orders, but I don't know what the orders are. I say as much in Markaytian. He answers me, yet again, in Elvish.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Bayaden. You know I don’t speak much Elvish.”
He speaks slower, still refusing to speak in Markaytian. I can pick out a couple words, but I still don’t understand. Frustrated, but too stubborn to cease his foolish protest, he swipes the jar from me, makes a show of taking something off the top once it’s opened and rubs some into one of the bite marks on my torso—ahhh, it’s a healing salve. I snatch it from him. And fine, he won’t speak Markaytian? Two can play at that game. “Forget it. If you think I’ll speak a word of Elvish now, you’re wrong. That wasn’t part of the bargain I made with Andothair.”
He smirks at me and just like that we have a new challenge between us.
Beneath his folded arm is a wide, hand-held mirror. He passes it to me and when I gaze upon myself, my jaw drops. I’m covered in markings. With the mirror, I can see the full effect of what he’s done to me: not a patch of skin is left unmarred and the markings carry up under my new collar. He’s proud of his work and leaves before I get the chance to berate him for his ill-treatment of me, (the ill-treatment I enjoyed thoroughly) and I’m left with a jar of healing salve, chained to a bed.
Now that I’m fully awake, I can look down at myself and assess the damage without the help of the mirror. I have to remove my pants to access everything I need to rub salve onto and return to using the mirror when I apply it to my face. No wonder my fucking body feels like tenderized meat—it is. I’ll get my chance, and when I do, I’m cutting his balls off. Not his cock though, he can do too many wonderful things with his cock that I like and want him to do again.
I’m sticky and I shouldn’t lie on my bed, but I don’t care, so I lie on the bed and get it sticky too. I now have all the time in the world to ferment over what happened last night. The guilt I didn’t feel yesterday pours over me like molasses—slow then sticks to me and won’t come off.
I had to do it, but I didn’t have to want to do it. I didn’t have to enjoy it so much. But I did and I don’t know what that means.
I have struggled with being married to Corrik since the moment I knew it would happen. There was a time I hated him with my very soul, but somewhere that changed despite my best efforts. Corrik knew I would fall for him. The arrogant bastard practically gloated about it. Like with Bayaden, there was chemistry with Corrik from the start. I seem to have a pattern; vehemently hate the guy first, act like a fucking brat, fuck him wildly and then fall madly in love.
I’d like to at least try to skip the last part with Bayaden. But with the way I’m feeling now, well, guilt overtakes me again. I lie there wrapped up in the guilt of loving Corrik, while craving the cantankerous Warlord, until said Warlord returns. He’s got food for me like a good pet owner should and I find it ironic that he’s serving me, aren’t I supposed to be bringing the food to him?
But I guess that’s the point of this lock up—I’m not to go anywhere.
It’s stew this time, but not enough to feed the likes of me. At least he’s brought enough water and some bread with butter. “Bayaden, stop this nonsense.”
“Eat,” he says in Elvish. I know that one. I want to throw the food at him, but I’m too hungry and it smells so Gods damned good. I eat, but I talk too since he’s decided to stay and watch.
“Why? What did I do to deserve such treatment? You didn’t give me any rules, Bayaden. If you do, I’ll follow them. I promised Andothair I would.”
He responds with something in angry Elvish I don’t understand. There’s no pleasing this Elf.
He leaves again and I begin to go mad. I can’t stand being locked up. Once, my father confined me to my room for an entire fortnight. It was the worst punishment I’d ever endured. I begged him to strap me every day, he never relented; I almost went insane.
I hope this confinement isn’t going to last long. In the least, I’d like to find out what I did to earn this treatment so I can avoid earning it again.
By the time Bayaden returns, I’m ready to beg him and I’ll use sex if I have to—he seemed to like some of the things I did last night, perhaps he’d like if I did them again?
He’s got another meager meal for me. “Let me suck your cock again, you’ll like that … just please don’t leave me again. I’m a dragon, you cannot cage dragon,” I plead. The corners of his lips twitch, but he’s not swayed.
“Salve,” he says, pointing. I recognize the Elvish word from earlier. I haven’t checked on my marks but I know they are already healing because I can’t feel them anymore—this must be magical Elven healing salve. I do as I’m instructed, and he watches me this time. When I’m finished, he wastes a whole lot of time instructing me to kneel before him, in Elvish. If he would just speak to me in Markaytian, we could avoid all of this frustration. But whatever’s he trying to prove to himself is worth it to him.
He instructs me to eat yet again, I do, he goes to bed. I think about slitting his throat in his sleep but abandon the idea quickly knowing he’ll catch me well before that happens, and it’s too soon in my captivity to alert him to the fact I'm going to kill him.
Another dawn brings another day, only this time, I’m awake before him. I won’t be caught off guard like yesterday. I look over my torso to inspect the marks on my body, but they’re gone. Gone. Not a single trace of anything having happened to me sex or otherwise, except I imagine, under the metallic collar—the first bite he gave me throbs. Couldn’t put salve on that one.
He must sense I'm awake. He peers over the bed with one eye open and the other still squinting with sleep, his hair is all mussed and it makes me think of my own hair, now short and choppy. Suddenly, I’m angry at him, even if he had nothing to do with my haircut.
“Am I still to be punished for Gods knows what?” I say, because I can’t think to say anything else to him. When he stares at me with all his focus, I freeze. He hops off the other side of his bed and comes around to view me—he’s naked of course, his cock boldly at attention. “You can forget it Bayaden, I’m not sucking your Gods’ damned cock before breakfast. Maybe never again if you don’t let me out of here. I’m not pissing in a pot again.” That was fun times last night.
His face darkens and he swears at me in Elvish. I roll over and pretend I’m going back to sleep, but that’s not to be. I feel something secure around my ankle before he pulls me up by the leash and undoes the collar. I try to run for the door immediately without any plan as to where I’m going to go, but he expected me to bolt. He’s faster than me snatching me by the ankle, dragging me back to the bed. He attaches the chain to the anklet and hands me the salve. He points to my neck and says what I presume is ‘neck’ in Elvish. I’ve still got the hand-held mirror by my bed; I pick it up and see that the bite mark is the only mark left marring my skin. Once that’s all sorted, he leaves me for a knock at the door. Food has arrived. He shoves me a small plate and says one word.
“Breakfast?” I guess, repeating the word he’s said in Elvish. I might as well learn a bit of his language even if I never intend on speaking it. He nods. I eat, while he does the same and dresses himself—apparently, he is capable. When he moves to leave, I cry outraged. “No, please. I’ll stay by your side the entire time. I won’t wander off to the village … is that what this is about? I can be a good squire!” I say, guessing he’ll be going off to train. I would at this time of day if I were Warlord. And I was a good squire, the best in fact. I had passed my father’s scrupulous requirements and he’d allow me to be his squire when I was a boy.
Bayaden moves over to me and I think he’s going to punish me for all the speaking out of turn I’ve been doing—surely a pet, slave, manservant, whatever I am, isn’t permitted to sass him as often as I’ve been doing—so I brace myself, but all he does is grab my chin in one hand, yank my head sideways and ghost his hand over the mark I just salved. When he’s satisfied, he lets go saying something I of course don’t understand. “Bayaden,” I whine, “For the sake of the Gods. Say something I can understand. Ple-he-ease. At least tell me what I’ve done.”
He growls fed up with me. I’m fed up too. I can see he’s not going to release me, and it has something to do with the mark still on my neck. Fuck him. We decide on silence for several moments while we have a stare down until he turns heel and storms out. I sit on my bed to pout.
I know I deserve punishment for a great many things, some more than others, so rather than continue to stew, I accept that I’m confined here for yet another day. When Bayaden returns, the sun is high in the blue Aldrien sky, and he surprises me by releasing me. It doesn’t escape my notice that the end of my confinement comes when I am fully healed.
Was that why he locked me up? But why would he care if anyone saw how beaten and battered, I looked?
“Do you want me to do anything for you, sir?”
That shocks him into speaking Markaytian. “Sir? That’s all I had to do to get you to call me sir? Lock you up for a day and a half?” He’s almost laughing. He laughs more easily than Corrik I can’t help notice.
I’m embarrassed I’ve given away my weakness so easily. “Is that all I had to do to get you to speak Markaytian? Call you, sir?” I fire back.
His laughter is replaced by a scowl, and he turns to leave.
“Wait! Bayaden, am I allowed out?” My sentence dies on my tongue as I realize he’s leaving the door open for me, clearly saying without Elvish or Markaytian that I may do as I please and he can’t care one way or the other.