Song of Oestend (27 page)

“People die.” Aren thought of the lecture Simon had given Frances after Miron’s death.

“Sometimes things are just accidents. Like with Frances and the bull.”

“Exactly,” Deacon said. “Like Frances and the bull. Why do you think I knocked his ass in the dirt?”

It was such a strange comment for him to make. Aren had to stop and wonder, first

about why he’d said it, then about the question itself. Why had Deacon done that? To

establish discipline? Or was there more to it? Did he somehow think the punishment would make the guilt easier to bear?

And suddenly, Aren knew what to do.

“Deacon,” he said, and this time, he didn’t say it gently. He took all the sympathy out of his voice. He tried to sound absolutely sure of himself. He needed to be commanding. “I want you to go upstairs and take off your clothes.”

Deacon froze. He didn’t turn to face Aren. “Don’t think I’m really in the mood for sex.”

“I didn’t say anything about sex, and it’s not open for debate. I gave you an order. Go upstairs. Take off your clothes. And wait.”

Deacon hesitated and Aren wondered if he’d misjudged. He wished he could see

Deacon’s face. But then he saw something that was almost as good—he saw the way

Deacon’s shoulders fell. He saw how the tension suddenly went out of him. Deacon picked up the whisky Frances had left behind and swallowed it, then he set the glass down and walked out of the living room and up the stairs.

Once he was gone, Aren went to the bar and poured himself a drink with shaking

hands. He didn’t know if what he had planned was a good idea or not, but it was the only SONG OF OESTEND

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plan he had. He slowly drank the whisky, giving Deacon time to undress, giving him time to wonder, and giving himself time to find the resolve he feared he would need.

Aren went slowly up to the bedroom. Deacon had done as he was told. He stood in the

centre of the room, naked, his head down. He’d unbound his long hair, and it hung around his face. Aren could almost see the mantle of grief and guilt weighing him down. He wanted more than anything to simply comfort him. But Deacon wasn’t the type of man who could accept comfort.

Punishment, though. That he could accept. And Aren knew now why Olsa had given

him the riding crop.

“Get down on your knees,” he said to Deacon, and Deacon did. Aren grabbed the small

ottoman from the corner of the room, knocking his pile of laundry off it as he did. He moved it in front of Deacon.

“Bend over it,” he said.

Deacon looked troubled. He looked unsure, but he obeyed. He leaned over the ottoman

as he was told.

The rope Deacon had brought him the night before he’d left was still on his bedside

table, and Aren used it to tie Deacon’s wrists to the legs of the ottoman. It was a small piece of furniture. It fitted under Deacon’s chest, allowing him to rest on it rather than holding himself up with his arms, but it ended at the bottom of his rib cage, leaving his stomach and groin accessible—a point which Aren made note of for future use. Deacon looked unbelievably sexy bent over the ottoman, his naked ass sticking out at Aren.

But this wasn’t about sex.

“You let Garrett die,” Aren said as he picked up the riding crop.

“Yes.”

“You tried to save him—”

“Yes.”

“But you failed.”

“Yes.”

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“Do you think you should be punished?”

Deacon looked up at him in surprise, although he had to crane his neck to do so. It

seemed he was only now beginning to see where Aren was going.

“I said,
do you think you should be punished?
” Aren asked.

And he knew he wasn’t imagining the relief he saw in Deacon’s eyes. “Yes,” Deacon

said, relaxing onto the ottoman with a sigh. “I want to be punished.”

Aren didn’t allow himself to hesitate. He brought the crop down on Deacon’s back.

It wasn’t a hard blow. He pulled it at the last minute despite himself, but he imagined it still had to sting. He heard Deacon’s breath hiss out between his teeth. Aren’s hand was shaking. Seeing Deacon’s gorgeous, naked body bent over the ottoman was undeniably arousing, but Aren wasn’t sure how he felt about deliberately causing him pain.

“More?” he asked, wishing his voice didn’t shake so much, half-hoping Deacon would

say no.

A moment of hesitation, then Deacon said, “Yes.”

Aren was glad Deacon couldn’t see how his hand shook as he raised the crop. He

brought it down on Deacon’s back again.

Deacon tensed when the crop hit him, but only a heartbeat later he relaxed. “More,” he said and Aren obliged. Red welts were forming on Deacon’s back, and Aren began to

wonder if the crop had been a very bad idea. “More!”

Aren smacked Deacon with the crop again.

“Blessed Saints,” Deacon said. But this time, his voice was different. This time, Aren heard the stress. He heard the way the words strained to hold back the emotion behind them.

He could almost feel the weight of what lay on the other side, waiting for the dam to burst.

He hit Deacon again.

“I killed him,” Deacon said.

Aren hit him again.

“I let him die!”

Aren hit him again.

“I let all of them die!”

And again.

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“Oh, Saints, Aren,” Deacon cried and his voice broke. “Why does it have to be me? Why does it
always
have to be me?”

Aren knew now they were getting close. “Because there’s nobody else.” Aren brought

the crop down again.

“I want somebody else to do it!”

Aren’s hand had stopped shaking. He was sure, now, and he brought the crop down

again.

“I want it to be somebody else’s fault.”

“There’s nobody else.” Aren hit him again. “This is
your
job.”

“No!” Deacon said, then he burst into tears. “I don’t want it anymore!”

Aren hit him again.

“I’m so tired of it always being me.”

Aren hit him again, although not quite as hard.

“I don’t want men to die because of me.”

“They don’t,” Aren said. He hit Deacon again, although only half as hard as he’d been doing before. “They die because of wraiths.” He hit him again. “They die because of bulls.”

And again. “And they die because they’re boys out here trying to be men.” Again. “They die because people like the Austins get lazy and let their generator die.” He hit him again. “But they
don’t
die because of you.” He hit him one last time, then stepped back to catch his breath.

Deacon’s broad back was a mess of bright red welts. His entire body shook from the

force of his sobs. So much grief, Aren wondered how he’d ever held it in at all. For what felt like ages, Aren simply let the man cry. When the flood started to abate, Aren put down the crop. He laid his hand carefully on Deacon’s back. He waited, his touch soft and gentle, until he felt Deacon still.

“Men die because of your choices,” Aren said, “but they live because of them too.” He knelt and began to untie the ropes, freeing Deacon’s hands. “You beat them into submission.

You force them to respect you. Some of them may hate you for it. But no generator on this ranch will ever run dry. The wraiths can’t touch the BarChi. You keep them as safe as they can be in this Saints-forsaken place.”

His hands free, Deacon sat back on his heels and covered his face with his hands.

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“It’s your job, Deacon,” he said. “
Somebody
has to do it. And there’s nobody else here could do it right. If anybody else tried, even more men would die than do now.”

Aren reached out, wanting to comfort Deacon, but found himself a bit distracted by the big cowboy’s naked body. He trailed his fingers down Deacon’s bare chest.

Deacon dropped his hands and when his gaze met Aren’s, there was gratitude in his

eyes, but there was something else there, too—a naked hunger that took Aren’s breath away.

There was something predatory about him.

“Aren,” he said, his voice husky and breathless.

It took nothing more than that look to bring Aren’s cock to life. He felt the ache of arousal deep in his belly. He was glad he wasn’t standing, because his knees were suddenly weak. He closed his eyes, letting the sudden wave of desire carry him under. “Yes,” Aren said, not knowing what he meant, not even caring what the question was.

“Oh, Saints,” Deacon breathed.

Then he was on him. Aren was overwhelmed by Deacon’s strength. In their times

together, he’d never used it, but he used it now. He pushed Aren down, crushing his mouth with his own. His hands tore at Aren’s clothes. Aren counted it as a blessing that he was able to reach the salve from where he was and spread it on Deacon’s hard cock in time, because he wasn’t sure Deacon would have stopped. Deacon hooked his elbow behind one of Aren’s knees, pulling to angle Aren’s hips up, and he pushed in. Aren cried out, partly from pleasure and partly from pain, and his cry seemed to spur Deacon on. He slammed into Aren hard and fast, driven by something more than lust. There was some primal need that seemed to demand this of him, and Aren had no desire to fight him. It felt good to be fucked by Deacon. It felt good to be
needed
by him. Even though he was the one on his back, even though it was his body being pounded by Deacon’s large cock, it felt like control. It felt empowering.

It didn’t take either of them long. Deacon’s big, rough hand grabbed Aren’s cock,

pumping hard, and Aren came, crying out as he did. Deacon slammed into him one last time, holding him tight, groaning as he spent himself.

He collapsed on top of Aren, breathing hard. “I’m sorry,” he panted into Aren’s neck.

“Did I hurt you?”

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“No.” It wasn’t exactly true, but pain or not, he’d enjoyed every moment of it, and he wasn’t about to give Deacon more reason to feel guilt.

“Aren,” Deacon tightened his arms around him and he kissed Aren’s neck, suddenly

gentle. “Thank you.”

“For the riding crop or the sex?”

Deacon laughed. “Both.”

“You’re welcome.” Aren rubbed his hands gently up Deacon’s broad back, feeling

healed scars and the newly-raised welts against his fingertips. He tangled his fingers into Deacon’s thick, black hair. He felt sated and safe. All the fear and tension of worrying about Deacon while he’d been away were gone. The horrible sense of waiting while Deacon dealt with Jeremiah and Simon, of waiting for it to finally be his turn, was gone as well. Deacon was safe. Deacon needed him. Aren felt unbelievably at peace. “I’m glad you’re home,” he said.

“Why, Aren?” Deacon asked. Aren thought for a minute he was asking why he was

glad he was home, but then he went on. “Why does it have to be me?” It wasn’t guilt or a need for reassurance. It seemed to be an honest question.

“It takes somebody strong,” Aren told him. “And there’s nobody here even half as

strong as you.”

Deacon was still for a moment, thinking about that, then he kissed Aren’s cheek. “That’s not true,” he said, smiling down at Aren. “I can think of one.”

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They ate breakfast together the next morning as always. Afterwards, Deacon assigned

the men to their chores. Deacon had to meet with Jeremiah rather than working himself, which meant the hands were once again two men short. They also had three more horses than usual, so Aren volunteered to muck out the barn. He was still there when Deacon found him two hours later.

“You’re slow,” Deacon said, leaning on the stall door to watch him.

“I know.” Most of the other men could do it faster than him, but it was still one less job they had to do themselves. “What were you discussing with Jeremiah?”

“Deciding when I’d go back,” he said.

“To the Austin farm?” Aren asked. The thought filled him with dread. He didn’t look at Deacon as he asked the question, for fear Deacon would see how much it bothered him.

“Yup. You gonna be able to keep up on the books for two ranches?”

Aren stopped what he was doing to look up at Deacon. “What do you mean?”

“Brighton was set to inherit the Austin farm, as part of Shay’s dowry. Now the whole

family’s gone. Good land up there. Cattle and horses. Nobody else’ll bother to claim it.”

“You’re saying Jeremiah now owns it, too?”

“Now he has one ranch for each son he’s got left. Just have to get the generator going so he can start getting that one back on its feet.”

Aren thought about that. He thought about Deacon having to go back. He thought

about what might happen if he couldn’t get the generator fixed before nightfall.

“Will you tell me now what Olsa meant about the wraiths not taking you?”

Deacon sighed, pushing his hat back to rub his forehead. He looked down at the

ground, scuffing his boot in the straw. “It’s just folk tales.”

“Then tell me the folk tales.”

Deacon glanced up at him, smiling. “Should’ve known you’d say that.” Aren laughed

as he turned back to his work, and Deacon took a deep breath and started to talk. “The Old SONG OF OESTEND

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People—well, first I should tell you, they don’t call themselves that. They’re called the Ainuai. And there ain’t too many of them left. Olsa’s the only full-blood one I know of.”

Aren wondered why Deacon didn’t count himself, but he didn’t want to interrupt. That

question would have to wait.

“When the settlers first came, the Ainuai tried to be friends but things went bad fast.

Now, you ask any good Lansteader, he’ll tell you nothing happened that hasn’t happened in a hundred other places. He’ll tell you the Ainuai were uncivilised and naïve. He’ll tell you the settlers tried to help them and educate them. Gave them jobs and such. The descendants of the Ainuai will tell you different. They’ll say they was all but exterminated. Men was killed. Women taken. Survivors, which was mostly just kids, were put up for auction as slaves. It was a bloody time.”