Constant Page 42

  “Then I expect the two of you to join us for first-meal,” Ashari said as she approached them. “Captain Hesperos will make sure only the Monticore will guard the two of you until further notice. He has also volunteered to interrogate the former Basilisc.” She clacked her teeth, lips lifting in a silent snarl. “The traitors will have many regrets before the day is out.”

  Of that, Sohm’lan had no doubts.

  Bowing again, he returned to Mestor’s suite. Dr. Solon bustled through the doors, bristling like a sea urchin. When Mestor saw him, he groaned quite audibly. “I meant to return but I fell asleep!”

  “Do you know how much work went into keeping you alive?” Dr. Solon did not quite thunder, but his bellow was a close approximation. If he had been a GyrFalconi, his crest would have been puffed up. “Do you know how many nanite injections we had to give you to stay ahead of the venom?”

  Mestor snarled, obviously rankled by the dress down. “I did not walk around the palace. I had a hoverchair. And I spent the afternoon resting, really resting. Sohm’lan’s scent was here, and I was able to relax.”

  Dr. Solon deflated a little. “I understand, but all of this activity could have exacerbated your injuries, opening a way for the poison to be more destructive. If that happened, it will overwhelm the nanites and undo the repairs they have made.” He opened the hovercart door, withdrew a bottle, and after inserting a canna reed, gave it to Mestor.

  Sohm’lan helped Mestor to sit up, moving some pillows behind him so he could relax as he sipped the solution.

  “Now that Warlord Sohm’lan is here, I am assuming you will not be turning down this new healing technique.” Even Sohm’lan heard the censure in Dr. Solon’s voice.

  “He will be turning nothing down from me,” Sohm’lan replied boldly.

  He was sure Mestor was going to argue, especially since Sohm’lan was not giving him a choice, but Mestor only sucked angrily on the canna reed. His gaze turned molten right before his sex dropped. Mestor choked, the room filled with pheromones, and Sohm’lan was glad he had summers of practice schooling his expression, saving his amor any further embarrassment. With an unhurried movement, he grabbed one of the smaller square linens that Kryp had placed on the nearby table and dropped it over Mestor’s groin.

  Dr. Solon said nothing, only giving a loud, exasperated sigh. “Let me see to the wounds and then I will leave you alone.”

  Carefully, he removed the bandage. The nanites were doing their job well, the brown ichor trapped in the gel was foul-smelling, the scent of death increasing exponentially. Sohm’lan’s stomach rolled from the odor as well as with the thought of what would have happened if Mestor had not received quick medical care.

  The tears in Mestor’s abdomen and sides were ragged and a puffy red. He had not thought the back of Mestor’s leg could be worse, but it was.

  “A couple of rounds in the regen tank will help replace muscle groups and the blood supply to them. But the scarring will be deep enough that your scales will not recover in those areas.” Dr. Solon pursed his lips. “You might never recover to the point that you will not limp. We will see how your therapy goes first.”

  Sohm’lan almost allowed a sneer to break through his neutral expression. If any of the field healings after the battle were an indication, Mestor would not experience any adverse effects from his injuries. He would not even scar.

  While Mestor’s wounds were cleaned, Sohm’lan ordered a rather large late-meal for the two of them, letting the Monticore know it was coming and where he wanted the food placed. The time he spent with Shaneva had taught him how to better control his quickening. He planned on using those lessons to ensure Mestor walked out of the suite uninjured on the morrow. Then he would claim his amor so thoroughly that Mestor would think twice about foolishly jumping into danger.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Sohm’lan

  * * *

  By the time Sohm’lan returned to the sleeping chamber, Dr. Solon had finished cleansing and inspecting Mestor’s injuries. The slurping noise told him that the nutrient solution had been consumed, not that Mestor would need it. When he was finished there would be no need for the nanites and Mestor could pass them normally.

  When Dr. Solon glanced at Sohm’lan, he sighed. “I know you are impatient for me to be gone.”

  He thought he’d hid it better than that. “Ignore my impatience. Can he handle a healing?” A niggle of doubt about whether he could heal Mestor as completely as he initially believed pecked at him. Mestor’s previous injuries had been minor in comparison to these. He ruthlessly shoved the doubt aside. He would not accept anything less and he would keep trying until he reached his goal.

  “He is well enough, I believe. I have read the field medic’s reports on the use of saliva and spoke to the Monticore who healed Prince Azaes. Though, Prince Azaes has impressed upon me that your previous healing of Prince Mestor went far beyond what he experienced. I hope that you will allow me to run some tests in the future. I would like to document how well we can encourage repair to the body and if the ability varies from person to person.”

  Mestor hissed. “He is not experimenting on anyone but me.”

  “Excellent! I will put you both down.” Dr. Solon packed up his cabinet, a bit merrier than he was when he had first arrived.

  Sohm’lan scowled at Mestor, wondering what his amor just volunteered them for. When the doctor was finally gone, Sohm’lan practically vibrated to get his hands on Mestor, but first, “Come to the lavatory with me and wash. The scent of death still clings to you like a pesky barnacle.”

  With gentle care, he helped his amor to rise.

  “I am dizzy,” Mestor warned before trusting Sohm’lan with his weight.

  “I will always catch you,” he promised.

  They shuffled across the room, going at the pace Mestor set. The lavatory had an open concept layout, with the small waterfall in the corner open to the rest of the room. White and yellow flowers hung from the ceiling that drew excess moisture to them, keeping the space from developing mold.

  As they approached the falling water, the floor slanted gently until they walked into the calf-deep pool. Sohm’lan had Mestor sit on the boulder that was more chair than decoration. He stepped into the spray and grabbed a soap stone, washing away the grime of travel and a long afternoon in a stuffy room. Then he grabbed a linen and turned his attention to his Tori, who watched him with a hungry gaze, his sex on full display.

  Kneeling before Mestor, he started at the bottom of his foot and worked up. “Tell me what happened after the Oethra 7 left The Gorgon’s bay. I do not recall you being on the away team roster.”

  Mestor’s grin was mischievous, though pain clung to the edges. Sohm’lan had read Azaes’ classified report once he had been given access in that morning’s briefing. He had stopped at the point where Mestor approached the V’Saar. Then he skipped to the part where Azaes pulled Mestor out from under the S’aae. He concentrated on breathing evenly as Mestor told him what had happened.

  Mar’Sani were a contradiction. They were warriors who valued peace, but they also took pride in the evidence of conflict, wearing the wounds as proof that they survived, that they had prevailed. But he had learned some harsh lessons being the waterfather to the Vondorian young. He hated seeing them injured. He hid this weakness from them and everyone else. Time, and the young’s maturity, did not lessen how he loathed when they were harmed. As he listened to Mestor detail his experience with the V’Saar, all he wanted to do was find an island far from civilization where he could protect his amor from danger and his own recklessness.

  “You are hiss-growling, Sohm,” Mestor said after a long pause in his narrative.

  He squeezed water out of the linen, his claws ripping the material in his vehemence. “You and Zeus are going to be the death of me.”

  Mestor’s grin was toothy. “I watched the vids of the battle. His bug was pretty large.”

  The reply only made Sohm’lan snarl louder and
shove his face closer to Mestor’s. “I forbid you from crossing swords with another V’Saar without me at your side. Valdor wonders why Zeus always charges into battle alone when he could have a coordinated attack with the soldiers under his command.” Sohm’lan’s words were harsh with worry. “He learned that bad habit from you. He always mimicked everything you did as a youngling. I still despair that either of you will exercise common sense in the heat of battle.”

  “I love you, too,” Mestor replied cheekily.

  He rested his forehead on Mestor’s shoulder, struggling to regain his composure. Only Mestor tested him like this. That was not strictly true. Zeus’s stunt had stopped his heart. He was afraid of what would happen if he ever witnessed Mestor leaping in alone instead of going in with a team.

  “I never want to leave you, Sohm. You know that,” Mestor whispered in his earhole.

  “And yet you almost died. If Azaes had not thought ahead and ordered a cryochamber brought, you would have passed into the fade before they got you into The Gorgon’s infirmary.” He thumped his tale and water splashed. “If not for Valdor’s reassurance at the debriefing, I would have lost my mind when I found out you had been injured.”

  “I am here and not going anywhere. Come, I am impatient to get my hands on you.” His Tori sounded as imperious as ever.

  “As you wish.” He rose to his feet, bringing Mestor with him.

  With quick, sure strokes, he dried off Mestor then himself before directing them back to the sleeping chamber. Mestor used his tail more than once for balance. Sometime while they were in the lavatory, the lights had dimmed indicating dusk approached.

  “I am going to love you hard once you are healed properly,” he promised, helping Mestor back into the nest Kryp had fashioned.

  His amor’s eyes took on an ethereal light, his claws poking holes in the layers of linens. Their arousal had waned while Sohm’lan washed them but at his promise, Mestor’s sex slipped from its sheath again. His prince quickly grabbed his penis, keeping it from coming in contact with the closest wounds, moaning even as his breath quickened.

  “Soon,” Sohm’lan rumbled, crawling on the platform between Mestor’s legs.

  The groaned that came from his amor was a mixture of pleasure and pain. Sohm’lan wrapped his fingers around Mestor’s where they encircled his rigid shaft. “I promise, but first I will heal your wounds. It seems to me you are rather careless with your wellbeing.” Sohm’lan swung his tail like a pendulum, his gaze roving over Mestor’s exposed scales, allowing his hunger to show. “This is the third time you have injured yourself enough to need medical assistance, and though I have come to love seeing you spread out on the sleeping platform, naked and waiting for me, I am already yours, so stop getting hurt.”

  “Whatever you want.” Mestor grinned wide, playing along.

  Sohm’lan licked the air with his split tongue, tasting the delicious pheromones Mestor was releasing. The more possessive he was, the more decadent Mestor’s scent became. As he savored the heady scent, he sensed his quickening build in the core of his body.

  “Your eyes are glowing,” Mestor whispered. “There is nothing more beautiful.” As he spoke, Mestor’s sunrise-yellow eyes swirled with their own light, his quickening answering Sohm’lan’s.

  He burned within and when he looked down at his hands, his brown scales looked like glowing jewels floating in firelight.

  Experimentally, he licked the edge of the wound in Mestor’s leg, causing Mestor to jerk then hiss. “Poseidon’s balls, your mouth is almost too hot.”

  The next swipe of his tongue dragged a moan from Mestor. Beneath his touch, black scales illuminated. He watched Mestor closely as he gently licked the wound. Shaneva had given him an idea how to use his quickening, directing it where he wanted instead of allowing it to spill over everything haphazardly. She was not the same as him, but her instructions were learned from Canry. Sohm’lan had always been a good student and as he worked, he sensed many things about Mestor’s body. He could almost ‘see’ the lingering traces of the bugs’ venom and, instinctually, he knew how to neutralize it before drawing the last vestiges from Mestor’s body. As the poison left, his energy burned it away, leaving nothing behind.

  In his mind’s eye, he catalogued the internal damage the poison had wrought. He wanted to roar his anger to all who could hear. The events of the day proved he was not immune to the horror of almost losing Mestor. His secret terror made him want to track down every V’Saar prisoner held by Galactic Imperial Patrol and eviscerate them, one by one, slowly so that they would know this all-consuming fear before he snuffed out their life. But vengeance would have to wait.

  Placing his mouth over the wound, Sohm’lan used his energy to delve into the damaged tissue, burning away the venom and encouraging rapid growth on a cellular level. His body had automatically done the same every time he had healed Mestor, not needing to be directed simply because Sohm’lan had unnecessarily used all his energy to mend the minor wounds. But now he could fine-tune the healing, accessing the knowledge already within him to stitch torn muscle, blood vessels, and scales back together, leaving behind no evidence of Mestor’s terrible altercation with the bug.

  While Sohm’lan worked, Mestor gasped and moaned, his energy answering Sohm’lan’s, assisting Sohm’lan as well as attempting to lure him to somehow mix their energies. The knowledge given to him only scratched the surface of what he sensed he was capable of. What would happen if he answered the call of Mestor’s quickening, he did not know. So, he ignored the enticement and moved to the horrendous wounds on Mestor’s abdomen.

  “Sohm?”

  He rolled his eyes up to see Mestor’s solemn expression, his newly-shining black scales so bright and beautiful. His eyes had darkened to a molten red-gold, the brilliance swirled around the harsh slash of the elliptical pupil. How had he gotten so lucky to have Mestor’s love?

  His father used to speak of fate, and Sohm’lan had rejected the idea because that meant Niobe had been fated to die no matter what he had done. Therefore, he could not believe in fate or destiny; but being with Mestor, touching him, tasting him, listening to his laughter and rousing his anger—every single part of it felt right in a way he struggled to comprehend.

  He paused to take in the full scope of the injuries. The V’Saar had clawed through the battlemech in its efforts to disembowel him. The close-knitted scales had been torn off before the thick hide was sliced through to the muscle. With renewed determination, he licked the wound, pouring energy into Mestor. He held nothing back, needing Mestor to be hale and whole. He paid attention to each wound on Mestor’s sides, stomach, and groin, mending damage within and without, holding Mestor’s hips down as he shivered and writhed, not stopping until finally the scales beneath his tongue reappeared, brilliant and unblemished.

  “Sohm’lan, please.”

  Oh, how he loved the way Mestor begged. His energy flared when Mestor shuddered, moaning. The urgency… the need had Sohm’lan taking one last look at the new scales across Mestor’s stomach before dragging his chin over the expanse of Mestor’s chest. Mestor grabbed his biceps, urging him up until they were face to face.

  He pressed his brow to his amor’s, the hiss of their scales sliding against each other adding to his arousal.

  “Do not stop,” Mestor begged, his expression filled with lust as well as with adoration.

  “Of course not,” Sohm’lan rasped. “I told you that I would love you hard tonight. I have not even started.”

  Mestor grasped Sohm’lan’s nape, holding him in place. “Do you know much I adore you? What I would give up just to be your mate?”

  In that moment, he could not only see Mestor’s love, but there, buried just under the surface, was Mestor’s pain and fear. Though he was gratified that Mestor allowed him to see this part of him, Sohm’lan knew he was partly responsible. He’d denied Mestor’s affection for so long, taking a confident bull and making him not only second-guess himself, but Sohm’lan as well
. His struggle and indecision had wrought this disbelief. But somewhere along the way, he stopped questioning why Mestor chose to love him and accept him. He would cherish Mestor for however long he would have him. If that was for only ten summers or the entirety of his lifetime, then so be it.

  “I will make you mine,” Sohm’lan promised, “and I will be yours. Everyone will know, they will scent my mark on you. They will see the shine of your scales and smell my pheromones on you. No one will doubt that you are loved deeply.”

  Mestor whimpered, his energy flared, making him glow brighter. “Finally.”

  When Mestor rubbed his cheek against Sohm’lan’s, he shuddered and rolled, placing Mestor on top of him. This small gesture of submission made Mestor go wild. Sohm’lan spread his arms and legs, loving the sibilant snarls coming from his future mate.

  “Mine. Mine. Mine,” Mestor chanted, almost too softly for Sohm’lan to hear.

  Soon Sohm’lan was the one writhing as Mestor explored every centimeter of him. The hissing slide of their scales rubbing together, spreading pheromones over his body, made him moan in pleasure. He squirmed as Mestor’s teeth tested the scales in sensitive spots, licking down Sohm’lan’s torso until his sex was before Mestor’s mouth.

  When Mestor ran his long tongue over the length of Sohm’lan’s penis, his muscles contracted, and he curled over Mestor’s head. He trembled as he barely refrained from grabbing Mestor. He wanted to grind his sex against Mestor’s face but refused to wrest the reins from his amor. His reaction seemed to goad Mestor, turning him into a wild bull claiming his mate. He relished the feral look in Mestor’s eye that promised he would ravish Sohm’lan. Mestor laved his cock as if starved.

  They usually rolled, entwined, as their scales scraped, reaching their mutual release. It had been so long since Sohm’lan had been touched like this he had forgotten what it felt like. Then Mestor massaged the edges of his penis’ sheath and he writhed as if electrified. The testes were internal, situated on either side of the slit. They were quite sensitive when bulls were aroused, their erection pushing the testes closer to the surface. Mestor worked the sheath expertly, the motion helping to release the chemicals that would relax Sohm’lan’s sphincter. He slapped his thick tail on the platform, both in anticipation and fear. The thought of what would come next caused him to tense. Niobe was the only one who had touched him like this. That had been awkward and slightly painful. Sohm’lan was unable to hold back a small noise of worry.