The Only Option (11 page)

“You've met all those but not a necromancer?”

Tilo made a face. “My father tended to only piss off people he could survive, but they showed up to pick fights frequently. Given how far he had to go to con people…” Tilo shrugged. “I've seen a lot.”

“Yes, I suppose you have,” Rochus said. “One would think it would improve your problem solving skills.”

Tilo narrowed his eyes, then all of a sudden, Rochus was being soundly manhandled again and spread out on the bed much like he'd been on the table several minutes ago. “Just because I must weigh nothing to a dragon doesn't mean you can toss me around—” The words were cut off by an artless but eager kiss, all teeth and tongue and hunger.

Far be it for him to argue. Keep arguing. Whatever. His arms and legs were effectively pinned so Rochus made the most of his mouth. Tilo seemed to have a weakness there anyway. He took back control of the kiss slowly, matching the hungry tone then mellowing it one teasing stroke or nibble at a time, until Tilo was trembling against him and his panting breaths were interspersed with the softest whimpers.

Tilo finally drew back, eyes like a bonfire, and licked his lips. He loosened his grip and Rochus tugged his hands free. He smoothed one hand along Tilo's chest, relishing the heat, the soft skin, the way Tilo moved under his touch. Tilo captured his hand again and leaned in to kiss him.

Blood filled Rochus's mouth, and he drew back with a groan. “You do that like it's the most natural thing in the world.”

Tilo frowned slightly. “Do what?”

“Give me your blood,” Rochus said, chasing his mouth when Tilo pulled too far away, fisting a hand in his hair and dragging him right back down where he wanted. “That's like the teeth: tends to distress people.”

He hadn't thought Tilo's eyes could blaze brighter, but fuck if they didn't turn into an inferno. “I like it. Feels possessive, like you're staking a claim, hoarding something no one else can have.”

Rochus ignored how much he liked that idea and settled for more kissing, scowling when Tilo wriggled free a few minutes later but mostly because the wriggling was primarily against his cock.

“Clothes,” Tilo said. “Get rid of yours.”

“And how am I supposed to do that when I have a dragon on top of me?”

Tilo shifted back and tugged him upright enough to strip off the shirt, then pushed him back down and grinded against him, mouth sucking and kissing along every strip of bare skin he could easily reach.

“Tilo!”

Looking up only long enough to smirk, Tilo began to crawl down Rochus's body, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. Deft fingers unlaced his pants and pushed them away enough to get Rochus's cock out, then that scorching mouth dropped over it and sucked even better than Rochus remembered.

“You're evil. How did I forget how evil you—” he broke off with a groan as Tilo sucked harder, fingers working into the edge of pants to score and prick with the tips of his claws. He pulled away, causing Rochus to swear loudly. “Get back here.”

Tilo laughed. “Patience.”

“Shut up,” Rochus replied and tried to grab him.

Tilo just laughed and pulled his pants off, cast them aside with the rest of their discarded clothes. “That's better.”

“It'll be better still when you get back to work.”

“One more moment,” Tilo said and retrieved his own pants long enough to pull out the small bottle stowed in them.

Rochus glared at him as he climbed back on the bed. “Did you come downstairs planning this?”

“Yes,” Tilo replied and took a long lick of Rochus's cock. “Can I fuck you?”

“I should hope so if you're not going to resume sucking.” The look in Tilo's eyes then, Rochus would have agreed to anything. “For someone so impatient earlier, you're certainly taking your time now.”

Tilo kissed him, draped across him hot and heavy, giving Rochus plenty to touch. He squirmed away a few minutes later, though, fingers teasing over Rochus's cock before he slicked them and dipped to tease other places. Rochus spread his thighs wide, giving him plenty of room—and swore, nearly coming off the bed, when it abruptly wasn't fingers swiping across his hole. “Tilo—”

That got him a brief husky laugh and then Tilo was right back to it, tongue lapping and then pushing in. Rochus moaned, head pressing hard into his pillow, hand holding tightly to the sheets. The last time someone had done this to him, he'd been young and not a necromancer.

“How did you—” he broke off to moan again as Tilo worked in a finger, “—learn to be so evil?”

Tilo's free hand dug into his thigh, and then he drew back to work in two fingers, mouth wet and gleaming from his efforts. “I told you, we used to get a lot of visitors. Most of them weren't much better than my father; others thought they'd use me as revenge or something. Some were nice, though, and them I was happy to play with and learn from. None of them were like you.”

Rochus snorted at that, but didn't reply except to adjust his legs as Tilo withdrew his fingers and slicked his cock. He settled between Rochus's thighs and lined up his cock, then braced himself and slowly pushed in. Rochus pulled him close, dragged his tongue across Tilo's hot, sweaty skin. “Are you a kit or a dragon? Show me what you can do.”

Tilo's eyes burned and he growled softly before obeying, pulling out and thrusting back in, making Rochus gasp. “Better, magus?”

“Better, but room for—” Rochus stuttered a broken groan as Tilo slammed into him again, sinking as deep as it was possible to go, hot and hard and the best thing Rochus had felt in more years than he cared to count. He held fast as Tilo continued with the hard, driving pace. If this was how dragons plundered, he was definitely all for it.

At least as long as he didn't think about anything else for too long. But thought was easy to surrender as Rochus happily lost himself in heat and movement and gasping demands for more, until Tilo pounded into him one last time and came with a hoarse cry, fingers gripping so tightly they'd probably leave bruises in Rochus's skin.

Rochus followed a moment later, dragging Tilo close for a wet, sloppy kiss.

They lay in a sweaty heap for several minutes, Rochus in no hurry to be deprived of the warm weight draped across him. Eventually, though, Tilo's weight began to outstrip the warmth, and Rochus finally nudged him. “Come on, as much I would love to lie abed all day, there is work to be done. We have the last bone wyvern to get rid of and then I have to go hunt a necromancer while you put your territory back in order.”

Tilo grumbled but obediently sat up, folding his legs in front of him as he stared at Rochus. “I don't even know where to start.”

“You start with Her Majesty. Well, no, you take the paperwork you are going to gather and the letter and reports I am going to write to my uncle and he will arrange an emergency petition to the queen. Then you will tell her everything that has transpired over the past several months. It will probably take several months more to bring the matter firmly to a close, but it will finally be done. You'll not only have your people back, but a good deal more wealth—and you'll never again be in a position where you're forced to desperate straits to save them.”

Tilo opened his mouth, but then snapped it shut.

“What?” Rochus asked.

“Nothing,” Tilo said and turned to climb out of bed. He retrieved his pants and pulled them back on as he said, “I'll get dressed and meet you downstairs.”

He was gone before Rochus could reply. What was that all about?  Rochus shook his head. It didn't matter. A few more days and he would be gone hunting the necromancer, and after that he'd be able to head home and put this whole damned mess behind him. Tilo could concentrate on his home and the life he should be living.

Somehow the thought wasn't as cheering as it should have been.

It took him two months to hunt down and kill the rogue necromancer. He hadn't planned on killing the bastard unless absolutely necessary, but one month into the search, a kill order was delivered via royal falcon, alongside a letter from his uncle confirming Rochus's suspicions that Hoffman was behind it all. He'd gotten further confirmation by way of the necromancer right before he'd followed orders and killed the man. Rochus took no pleasure in killing, but he didn't mind adding the foul necromancer's spirit to his collection.

One month after that, he finally returned to home. The annulment papers came two months later, waiting on his desk when he came home from a trip to the town a few days away for supplies. The thick packet sat on top of a stack of correspondence he nearly pitched into the fire in a fit of temper. Instead, he'd made himself to go bed, and had taken a tonic to ensure he stayed there.

In the morning, he carefully went through every last bit of correspondence before finally facing the annulment papers.

He didn't know why he was so upset. It was exactly what he'd asked for, and Tilo hardly had reason to cling to their farce of a marriage.

Not that he'd know if Tilo felt otherwise; the only word he'd had regarding Tilo since leaving Rothenberg had been whatever his uncle bothered to mention in his letters, and that amounted to very little. Rochus had tried to keep in touch, however pathetic that made him, had sent letters to Tilo whenever he sent reports back to his uncle. The reports received replies. The letters had not. He supposed that was really all there was to say on the matter.

Rochus sent the signed papers out and concentrated on his work, which thankfully turned busier than usual and kept him away from the tower for another three months. Kept him so busy, in fact, he barely had time to notice when the marriage marks faded from his fingers.

By the time he'd returned home again, he'd almost managed to stop thinking about Tilo and wishing there could have been something more than lust between them.

A cool, early autumn breeze drifted through the tower as he settled in his reading room to enjoy a well-earned lazy afternoon. He stretched out on his favorite settee, a book in his hand, a small glass of blood wine at his elbow, and Memory purring at his feet.

Any other day, he would have been happy and relaxed with such an arrangement. Hopefully he would be again soon, and for the present, the book would ideally prove a suitable distraction.

“Magus…” The soft voice of Anel, his housekeeper, drew Rochus's attention. She dipped her head in apology. “I know you weren't to be disturbed, but a strange package arrived with today's post and I thought you'd prefer to see it as soon as possible.”

“As always, you're correct,” Rochus said with a smile. “Bring it along.”

She smiled in reply, then dipped a hasty curtsy before slipping away. A couple of minutes later, she returned, followed by a footman carrying a large, heavy-looking chest. They faded off when he dismissed them, and Rochus stared, confounded, at the large wooden chest sitting in the middle of his reading room.

There was a note affixed to the top, his name written in dark purple ink on expensive, cream colored paper. He broke the wax seal and read the brief message inside:
A gift of courting that hopefully proves my suit is in earnest.

It wasn't signed, but it also wasn't hard to guess, though
believing
was something else entirely. Gift of courting, was he serious? Just who was the old man here, honestly? Rochus set the note beside him on the floor as he knelt to undo the buckles and flip the trunk open.

Three small casks were nestled inside, stamped with the marks of an expensive winery—one that produced blood wine. A small roll of paper was tucked in the back. Rochus pulled it out and read about the wines enclosed. One was much like the cask he already had, the other two were new vintages ready only in the last year: one with a dragon blood base, another with a faerie blood base. He hadn't known either of those was possible. Excitement and affection rushed through him, and Rochus wished more than anything that Tilo was there so he could express his gratitude.

But courting gift? Really? If he wasn't entirely indifferent to Rochus after all, why ignore his letters? Why say nothing for months except to keep his promise regarding the annulment? Then suddenly this.

No name, though, so he wasn't quite willing to send a note demanding Tilo explain himself.

Rochus called for Anel, bid her see the casks were stored—and the dragon blood one opened.

When he finally tasted it, he both loved and hated it. Everything that reminded him of Tilo was in there, along with the flavors of things he'd not tasted for decades. He was tempted to keep drinking, but he also wanted it to last as long as possible, so once the half-carafe Anel had brought him was gone, Rochus made himself stop for the day.

Try as he might, though, he could not return to his book. The taste of dragon blood lingered, and the note crinkled in his pocket. Curiosity and frustration gnawed at him, and with a soft curse, he finally gave up any attempt at reading and decided to go for a ride.

The next gift came three days later, just as he was beginning to shrug it all off as some sort of jest. It was a velvet box, the kind intended for jewels, large enough it must contain a necklace. He opened the note affixed to it.
Took me longer than expected to get them back, but I was determined. The first time I saw you I thought of them.

Rochus frowned, half-afraid to open the box, but he was a grown man and jewels weren't going to hurt him, even if he never felt entirely comfortable wearing them. He flipped the catch and pushed the lid open, and then simply stared.

He thought for a moment they were onyx or black diamonds, but they were sapphires so dark they looked black except where the light struck and drew out the blue. They were oval cut, with delicate black pearls set between them and forming the rest of the necklace.

A beautiful necklace, and it was going to stay exactly where it was because who was he going to impress wearing it? His lazy cat? His housekeeper? Rochus snapped the case shut and gave it to Anel to put in the vault with the rest of his jewelry and other valuables.

Another three days passed before he got the next gift, which proved to be a beautiful new saddle and matching bags, made of black leather and stitched with flowers and birds. “Idiot,” he muttered as he traced the impressive stitching. “The third gift is supposed to be given in person.” Memory meowed from the settee. “Be quiet.” Where was the note? The last two had come with notes.