Page 22

Chapter twenty-two

I ’ve lost Llywelyn again. The way his sprawling rooms connect is disordered to my mind, and he can walk as quietly as a cat. This combination means he can wander off and I have no idea where he is. It is deeply unsettling.

Not the least because I’m not entirely sure if it is my mistrust of him that puts me on edge like this, or if my unease is fuelled by my concern for him. I have a horrible feeling that it is probably a discordant joining of the two.

And knowing Llywelyn, both considerations could simultaneously be in action. He could be invoking a plan of devilry that will backfire on him spectacularly. It is a habit of his.

Grinding my teeth, I abandon my growing murder board and set off to look for him. I’ll just check that he isn’t up to no good and then I will get back to work.

I find him in one of his dressing rooms, sitting at a mahogany dresser that is topped with a large oval mirror. Llywelyn’s elbows are on the surface of the dresser, his head is down and he is clutching his golden hair.

I spy a silver hairbrush and a bottle of sweet smelling oil. Despite being scrunched up in his hands, his hair is gleaming.

“What’s wrong?” I ask softly.

“It’s not growing,” he answers with so much despondency in his voice I swear I can see it darkening the air.

I step towards him. “I’m sure it is.”

A meaningless lie. I’ve not been here long enough to say. And I have no idea how much time fey hair usually takes to grow. But this strange need to comfort him is strong. Stronger than can be sated with a bland lie. I want to help, logically, practically. In any way that is meaningful.

My mind flicks through images of fey nobles. They all have fancy braids, but it also appears to be important to show how long your hair is. Tendrils are left to fall free and most people seem to have waist long hair. Dyfri certainly does and the length of his is not hidden by braids and updos.

My gaze runs over Llywelyn’s golden hair. It is uneven, with the longest bits falling to his sharp jawline. Waist length is going to take a while.

“How long does it need to be?” I ask.

Llywelyn sighs. “Long enough to braid, shoulder length at least.”

That’s not so bad. Certainly not as bad as needing to be waist length.

“How long should that take?”

He shrugs. “I’m the first resyn in forever.”

My heart thumps in rhythm with Llywelyn’s sadness. As realisation settles over me, I feel weighed down by my impotence. There is nothing I can do to help. This isn’t a problem that can be solved with cunning. It is just going to take time, and there is nothing I can do about that.

I walk over to him and pick up the discarded hair brush. Gently, I pull his hands out from his hair. Then I start to slowly and carefully brush his hair. Maybe the oil will help. It certainly won’t hurt to try.

He doesn’t relax under my touch. He tenses instead. A shivery tension that holds him alert and wary. Followed by trembling undercurrents of his body yearning to sink into my attentions.

His reaction is making me think of shelter dogs again. Unfamiliar with touch. Hungry for it. Fear of the unknown clashing with instincts .

Llywelyn is so touch-starved it is breaking my hardened, shrivelled heart. But I’m still an agent. And a bastard. So I’m going to seize this moment of vulnerability and use it.

“Who is Silas?” I ask in a casual tone. “Ollie mentioned at the garden party that you helped him with Silas?”

Llywelyn’s shoulders tighten a tiny amount. “Just some leach at court trying to sabotage things between Tristan and Ollie by spreading rumours. I encouraged him to go back to the fey lands. Ollie thinks it was for his sake. It was because I didn’t want Tristan’s feelings for Ollie to be soured to the point he wouldn’t fight a duel for him.”

Oh. That’s straightforward enough. I’m so glad it is nothing and I can forget it. I have more than enough things to look into.

The brush glides through Llywelyn’s soft hair. This is actually really soothing. I wonder if we could make a routine of it?

Llywelyn squirms in his seat in a very particular way, and a realisation hits me. He didn’t demand services from me this morning. Or the day before. How could I have not noticed? Just because I’m old and therefore still sated from our wild night of passion, doesn’t mean he is.

This could be the true cause of his unhappy mood. And something I can actually help with.

“Need something?” I rumble.

He staggers to his feet, and I step back. Our eyes meet briefly in the mirror before he looks away.

“No,” he mumbles.

I make a show of putting the hairbrush on the dresser, but then I move my hand lightning fast and cup his cock through his layers of silk. His very hard cock.

He flinches slightly but doesn’t push me away or try to move.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.

Llywelyn remains stubbornly silent.

As the silence stretches a panic begins to build in my chest. The night he was all hot and eager was the best of my life. But he was out of it, for reasons yet to be unearthed. He is also a grooming victim.

The experience could have been very different for him.

Oh god. Was it too much? Was I too much? Did I push too hard?

“You…you did enjoy yourself that night?” I blurt suddenly.

I watch in the mirror as Llywelyn’s pale cheeks turn a beautiful shade of fuschia. He nods microscopically, and a blanket of relief settles over me.

Thank fuck for that. Shyness and embarrassment are fine. We can deal with those. It is actually incredibly cute.

“Good,” I say. “Because that was the best night of my life.”

Golden eyes snap up and collide with my gaze in the mirror. His face is a picture of utter shock and surprise and it melts my heart even more.

I kick away the stool that is between us. Then I press myself to his back. I hold his gaze as my hand burrows through layers and layers of white and gold silk and eventually reaches his cock.

I give him a long gentle stroke and watch in the mirror as his pupils blow. The sight ignites a wildfire of arousal within me. I am the keeper of his pleasure and I like it far too much. It is intensely more satisfying than keeping a boy in a cock cage, and I haven’t even had the opportunity to do that in a very long time.

I am starving for this, I suddenly realise. Cooper and the persona before him didn’t play like this. And this is more than a preference, it is an intrinsic part of my nature. It is a need. I should never have buried and neglected it for so long.

My hand moves steadily. Confident, unrelenting strokes. Llywelyn shudders and his eyes roll back. His nature responding to mine. The best fucking feeling in the world.

His cock is silken in my hand. His submission is a caress against my soul.

His head falls back and rests on my shoulder. He becomes a soft, quietly whimpering, needy mess in my arms. Leaning his entire body against me. Pressing in close. I love the warm weight of him. It feels like my arms have been empty my entire life and now they finally have what they have always been missing.

My plan had been to edge him, to make him beg. Force him to watch himself in the mirror. But this doesn’t feel like that. This feels tender. Kind. Nurturing and caring.

He shudders as he draws close to his orgasm. I snatch up a handkerchief from the dresser and hold it over his tip. No point in ruining all his silks.

He cums in my arms as I watch greedily in the mirror. It is a beautiful sight. He is a stunning man at all times, but while glowing with bliss and ecstasy, he is truly divine. Pleasure softens him. Smooths out his brittle edges. Euphoria suits him. He should wear it often.

He draws in a big shuddering gasp as his peak finally recedes, then suddenly he is moving, spinning around in my arms to face me and wrap his arms around my back.

He clings to me as if his life depends on it. Instinctively, my arms envelop him and hold him close. He is solid and real, and it feels like he is mine.

“Am I doing it right?” he whispers.

My throat tightens. The fey don’t hug. I gave him his first one the other day.

“Yeah,” I croak hoarsely.

He sniffs, and a moment later I feel a hot wetness on my shoulder. Before I can react, he lets out a sob and starts crying in earnest.

I hold him while my heart aches, and my chest constricts. I don’t know what else to do. I have no idea if there is anything else I can do.

“I’m sorry,” he all but hiccups. “I don’t know why I am crying.”

I do. I think I know. Or I at least have a vague inkling. He has been all alone his whole life. A stranger to kindness, to touch and affection. He doesn’t understand the feeling, and it is overwhelming.

“It’s okay,” I soothe.

The lie burns my lips as it passes. Nothing in Llywelyn’s life is okay. I wish it were. I wish I had the power to make it so.