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  He gave in to the urge, pressing his nose against Prince Mestor’s temple and inhaling. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  Chapter Five

  Mestor

  * * *

  Mestor gave all his weight to Sohm’lan, confident the warlord would not drop him. He had not been hurt this badly in a long while. He tried to console himself that fighting a son of Poseidon… he shook his head, almost disbelieving what he had been told. All Mar’Sani, no matter their shape or having scales or hide, called themselves the youngling of Poseidon. Though most of their origin lore was lost, everyone knew the Waters of Poseidon was the prehistoric birthplace of their species. They were descended from the Ancients who seeded Andromeda Galaxy with many different life forms. Poseidon was one of those Ancients. A being with an affinity for water, he had settled on Atlainticia where he gave life to the Mar’Sani before he, like all the other Ancients, came to the end of his life and passed into the fade. Or that was what everyone, what Mestor had believed until that morning. Poseidon was very much alive, and he had living offspring. The knowledge was difficult for Mestor to grasp. This changed the countless things he held as absolute truths.

  He did not have time to examine his life philosophies, history, and spiritual beliefs. That would have to wait until he returned home. What he could focus on without shorting out his brain was how his whole body throbbed with agony. Pain he could deal with. Anger he could manage. But right now, he would settle for relief. That he swam away from an altercation with an actual son of Poseidon with only a few injuries was miraculous. Slivers of anger slithered through him as he remembered the raw energy rolling off the tailless skink. If he had been paying more attention, he would have registered that Nethus was extremely dangerous. But all he had seen was his little brother in mortal danger.

  When he and Azaes had been pulled into the Dream, Nethus had been choking the life out of Zeus. And Canry… at the time, Mestor had only seen someone desperately attempting to free Zeus, but to learn that the same being was their lost brother simultaneously filled Mestor with joy and a black fury that greatly surpassed any rage he had experienced in all his life.

  Stars above, he could not wait to tell his parents about his little brother. Canry looked differently than he had imagined. The only portrait they had of him was created when Canry was one moon old. At the time he sported the same black scales as the rest of the family. His tail had been a stubby little thing that had fascinated Mestor. As a youngling, he could not believe that Canry’s tail would grow to be as long as his and Azaes’. The summers Canry spent away from the family left them at a disadvantage; Mestor did not get to see him change and grow. Now Canry was like Zeus and tailless. His black scales had been replaced with a combination of leathery yellow hide, much like sharkskin, and a clustered pattern of blue-green scales in the shape of sharp stripes down his neck, arms, and back. Canry’s spiked ridge now circled his head like a crown, but his eyes were the same stunning green. He had facial features like Zeus with a prominent nose and a supple mouth with protruding lips. Zeus always said his human mouth was made for kissing whereas Mar’Sani did not have the musculature. Mestor could not manipulate his lips or tongue like Zeus could, but since Canry’s features seemed to resemble Zeus’s, Mestor imagined Canry would have the same capabilities. With all the changes, one other thing remained the same and that was the vibrant red of the barbs, the color that the direct descendants of Pegasus the Explorer carried. That alone proclaimed Canry as kin despite lacking any other resemblance.

  The agony in his leg wrenched him from his ruminations and he snarled. Sohm’lan moved him slowly across the floor, every step making him wish for the oblivion of unconsciousness.

  “Should I call and have pain meds delivered?” Sohm’lan asked, his arm tightening around Mestor’s waist. Did Sohm’lan just nuzzle his temple?

  As much as he loved that Sohm’lan held him, the pain was too prominent, keeping him from fully enjoying being held by the bull he had been in love with since he was fifteen summers. He snapped his teeth together, cutting off another snarl. “No, I am fine.” Which was not quite a lie.

  Sohm’lan snorted, his disbelief evident. Deciding to take advantage of the situation, Mestor leaned more heavily against Sohm’lan. This could be the only time Sohm’lan would allow him this close. Besides, his leg was throbbing. The walk from the Oethra 7 had aggravated the wound. Perhaps he could have made the lavatory on his own… possibly. But he did not need to find out.

  When they finally entered the washroom, Sohm’lan bid Mestor to lean against the prep counter. Mestor had removed his jacket in the greeting room. His shirt had been cut, allowing Mayra to reach his wound after verifying there were no more injuries on his torso. What material remained hung in tatters on his frame.

  Sohm’lan worked the clasps at Mestor’s wrists and neck without meeting his gaze. He had been attempting to catch Sohm’lan’s attention for a little over a summer now, and at every turn, Mestor had been rebuffed. His farseeing had warned, time and again, that their situation was precarious and not because Sohm’lan was his waterfather or his superior on the battlefield. Mestor valued Sohm’lan’s unwavering friendship, but he yearned for so much more. He could have Sohm’lan as his lifemate, but he had to move carefully, or the consequences would be catastrophic and not only for the two of them.

  Two summers prior, Mestor contracted an agency that provided anonymous surrogates. He had determined that if Sohm’lan would not take him as a mate, then he would never settle for another. He met with Meme in private and explained to her, without revealing he had set his sights on Sohm’lan, what he had decided. Meme had acquired that glint in her eye that promised they would speak more on the matter later, but she had supported his choice, accompanying him to the agency where they had met the director. She helped him sift through the egg donor candidates. Those selected would be set aside under Mestor’s name. When he was ready to start a family of his own, he would initiate the impregnation clause. If he had a partner, they would both be biological parents to any youngling born. At the time he had arranged the visit, he had given up hope that Sohm’lan would ever take him seriously and that he would be a single father summers down the road. But in the dark of night, he indulged in the secret hope that one day Sohm’lan would see him, love him, and choose to have a young through the agency with him. Mestor would love to have a son or daughter with Sohm’lan’s beautiful and rare blue eyes.

  Then last summer, when Mestor’s farsight had hit him hard with persistent visions of possible futures, hope had been reborn, and he turned a serious eye on Sohm’lan. Except for Zeus, Shaneva, and Meme, the Vondorian family had the ability to see future events, but not in the same way. The stronger the seer, the further they could see, but the consequences—days-long migraines, sickness, and disorientation—was a deterrent that kept them from overusing their abilities.

  When it became apparent that he and Azaes would inherit the Vondorian foresight, their father took them into his confidence, sharing his own ability with them. The ‘sight’ ran in his ancestors’ bloodline, though with varying degrees and abilities. Mestor and Azaes took after their father but developed different types of farseeing. Azaes’ talent was more precise whereas Mestor only saw pivotal moments with everything in between a hazy mess. A touch clairvoyant, Mestor could concentrate with intent then touch an item belonging to someone other than himself. For a few fleeting moments, he would see into that person’s future.

  What happened to Mestor last summer was not his normal farsight. He had been on an errand when the vision came upon him with the sudden viciousness of a physical attack as the second-sight unexpectedly revealed all the possible futures of Sohm’lan and him together. That first vision had been so strong he had been brought to his knees. If he had been in battle, he would have been completely vulnerable and would have surely died. Held immobile, he heard and saw nothing but the many variations of the possible future. Mestor felt as if he lived each and every reality s
hown to him on fast-forward. When the visions left him, he had been sprawled on the floor of a rarely used corridor, his body spasming with waves of muscle pain, while his head felt as if it had been split open. He lost consciousness after that.

  Azaes, alerted through their twin bond that something was wrong, had found him. He woke in Azaes’ room with his twin curled around him. There they stayed for almost a week as he recovered.

  His illness after farseeing was one of the lessons he and his brother had learned early on. It was a downside to their gift. The harder he searched for something specific, attempting to see through the fog, the more ill he would become, followed by debilitating headaches. Using the ability exhausted them so he and Azaes accessed their gift sparingly. They could not afford the incapacitating effects. Well… until five summers ago when Zeus disappeared. Mestor had been devastated that he had not foreseen the danger that lurked around his brother. It was then that he started secretly taking weekly looks into his family’s future. Not too far, otherwise they would know what he was up to when he could not rise from his sleeping platform.

  When it came to Sohm’lan, his visions were different. Those ambushed him, coming out of the blue, much like some of Azaes’ farsight. Since they first started, Mestor examined and memorized each piece his hyper-intuition had given to him.

  Despite the agony after that first unexpected farseeing, Mestor recalled each precious, vivid detail. He confided in his brother and together they devised a plan. But he had to move with caution. The visions held many revelations, one of them being that if he was rash and did not allow Sohm’lan to come to him, then he would lose his beloved for all time.

  Meme quickly noticed his redirected focus. He should have expected she would be the one person who would note the change in his habits and friends. In the last five summers, nothing went on at court that she did not know about. Azaes knew, of course his twin knew everything when it came to him, but Mestor had not expected anyone else to catch on. Meme had hunted him down and patiently wrung all his carefully crafted plans from him. That she was aware and by extension so was his father, gave him a certain relief he had not known he needed. He did not anticipate how crucial his family’s support would become with every single brush off Sohm’lan gave him. Meme had warned him the road he had chosen would be rough. Carrying the knowledge gained through farsight, he had thought he understood what she meant. In the beginning, he believed he could use his gift to help him ease his way into Sohm’lan’s heart. But the first time he attempted to use farseeing to his benefit, he discovered just how wrong he had been.

  Mestor winced as he stood, the stitches in his abdomen pulling sharply as he attempted to shrug off the remains of his shirt.

  “Remain still,” Sohm’lan demanded, but he knew Sohm’lan was not angry, not really. Just bossy. Did Sohm’lan use that tone in bed play?

  With a gentleness that belied his snarling countenance, Sohm’lan pulled the shirt down Mestor’s arms. When he stopped and stared at the bandages on Mestor’s lower torso, a faint red was blooming against the stark white of the cloth. Sohm’lan’s nostrils flared as he inhaled, true anger flashing across his countenance.

  “You stubborn, reckless fool. You should have told me you pulled a stitch and accepted help to your cabin,” he snarled.

  Mestor frowned. He had been injured before and Sohm’lan had not acted like this. Hope rose, and warmth flooded him at what the behavior possibly meant. He hid his grin and plastered on a grimace, which was not hard since he really was in agony.

  “I am fine,” he replied, carefully watching every nuance, every emotion that flickered across Sohm’lan’s expression.

  Last night he had wondered if his pursuit of the warlord was a fruitless endeavor. He doubted the multitude of visions he had experienced, wondering if he had been misreading their meaning. Sohm’lan’s actions and concern proved he was not as unaffected as he acted. Knowing that, Mestor needed to exercise caution or one wrong move could push Sohm’lan away forever.

  “Stop saying such, especially when I know it is not true. You do not have to put on a front for me. I know your battle honor and would never question…” Sohm’lan’s gaze moved up Mestor’s chest, seemingly mesmerized. Many lovers had complimented him on his strong physique. His body had been honed over the summers by swordplay and combat practice. He held his breath as Sohm’lan looked him over. When the tension became unbearable, he moved to unclasp his pants, resisting the urge to reach for Sohm’lan instead.

  The movement snapped Sohm’lan out of his thoughts. He hissed and knocked Mestor’s hands aside, removing the belt himself. At any other time, how much he wanted Sohm’lan would have been clearly evident. Sohm’lan running his hands over his scales had only happened in his fleeting visions. But the pain overruled his body’s natural response to Sohm’lan’s nearness, for which Mestor was deeply thankful, otherwise he would not have been able to keep his erection hidden. If his penis had protruded from its sheath, he had no doubt Sohm’lan would have left him where he stood. As it was, Sohm’lan carefully removed Mestor’s pants, unaware of how much Mestor desired him.

  The bandage around his thigh had a larger, darker bloom of red. He did not miss how Sohm’lan’s hand trembled when he stroked the white cloth. He was more astonished to see Sohm’lan’s murderous expression before he spun to activate the shower. Steam immediately clouded the air. When he returned, Sohm’lan had drawn his belt knife, but Mestor was not afraid.

  Without a word of warning, Sohm’lan cut away the bandages and gently probed the edges of the stitched wounds. Mestor’s scales tightened a little more with each brief caress. He wished vehemently that Sohm’lan would scrape his claws over his scales in a similar way. Well, if he got lucky, he would feel Sohm’lan’s mouth on him, even if only in a clinical manner. Later, he would have to thank Azaes for the suggestion. Mestor had been searching for a way to propose the same without raising Sohm’lan’s suspicions. He was sure if the suggestion had come from him, Sohm’lan would have stormed off, especially after last night and his ill-timed push for more.

  Now that he thought about it, he suspected Azaes had been attempting to do him a favor. His twin had warned him, more than once, to make sure Sohm’lan was who he wanted before becoming overt with his intentions. He understood why; Azaes was very fond and protective of Sohm’lan. Between the age of sixteen and his thirty-second birthday, Mestor did not have a good track record for being a serious lover. He had entertained many people on his sleeping platform. He’d had his reasons, but he refused to hash them out with his brother. He had been angry and rebellious, believing that his affection for Sohm’lan would eventually disappear if he waited long enough or fucked his way through enough people that he would forget… but he had been terribly wrong. Now that this door had opened for him, Mestor would use the situation to his advantage.

  Instead of placing his hand over Sohm’lan’s where it rested against his thigh, Mestor pushed off the prep counter to limp toward the shower. That his injured leg had turned stiff as he undressed had not been apparent until he stepped in the shower and his foot caught on the lip. His stumble was not orchestrated like the one in the greeting room had been. He flailed, sure he would go down hard. He gritted his teeth, keeping from crying out as his leg twisted and new pain tore through him.

  Suddenly, Sohm’lan was there, an arm wrapped around his chest and a steadying hand on his hip. Sohm’lan snarled curse words Mestor had never heard him utter before. He would have taken the time to admire the inventiveness but the agony in his abdomen and leg stole his breath.

  Mestor braced his hands on the shower walls, his claws scraping against the natural stone. Sohm’lan did not release him. Instead, Mestor was surrounded by his warlord and he understood for the first time how much larger Sohm’lan was than him. His body was completely enveloped. What really pissed him off was that he was too injured to properly enjoy the situation. He thumped his tail on the tiles in aggravation but that only caused his wounds to t
hrob more intensely.

  “Mestor, I need you to answer me.” Sohm’lan’s voice was rough, close to his earhole. He realized Sohm’lan had been speaking to him for several minutes, but he had been too caught up in the agony to hear.

  He wanted to rejoice. Sohm’lan had used his name and only his name. No honorific. No title. He savored the words, setting the moment firmly into his memory so he could pull it out later, when he needed encouragement.

  He had to see Sohm’lan’s face. Carefully, he turned, using his tail to hold himself up. The warm water ran over his scales, washing away the sour scent he had carried back from the Dream. Brilliant blue eyes bore into him, concern stamped across familiar features. He wondered if Sohm’lan realized what he had said, then decided he did not care.

  Sohm’lan had entered the stall without removing the rest of his clothing, which was Mestor’s fault. But he never thought the sight of the material sticking to Sohm’lan like a second skin would be so… so… arousing. Under the water, Sohm’lan’s dark brown scales glistened and Mestor yearned to taste, promising himself that soon, if he did not move too fast, Sohm’lan would be his and he would spend days running his tongue over every inch of that superb body. He wanted to soothe away the frown lines around Sohm’lan’s mouth, but again he refrained. Glancing down Sohm’lan’s wet frame to his soggy boots, Mestor had the mischievous thought that his instinct to have a uniform delivered for Sohm’lan had been fortuitous.

  “We need to get you off your feet.” Sohm’lan stepped away, leaving Mestor feeling momentarily bereft. “The sooner we test Prince Azaes’ idea, the sooner we can put this nonsense to rest and get you the proper pain medication.” Was there regret in Sohm’lan’s voice? Or was he enjoying being this close? Poseidon help him, Mestor hoped so.