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IN THE WITCHES’ TOWER

H enry was being kept high on the third level of the Witches’ Tower, desperately alone, isolated, feared by the people of the city.

It was around two o’clock in the morning when Léon unlocked the outer door and slipped inside unseen.

But when the cold air wrapped around him like skeletons’ fingers, regret and the black night cut him to the quick.

The building was terrifying.

The walls seemed to hold all the sadness and terror of its former captives, only with a century of moss and damp and birds nesting and rats infesting and all the loneliness of a forbidding fortress designed to house the darkest souls.

With a gut-churning creak, Léon set his foot on the first of many stairs to ascend the tower.

He’d had days to worry over what Henry thought of him—to dwell on that last look he’d given him when he said he should burn.

Could he really have believed Léon meant it?

Why on earth not? But for one sweet and soft moment, that one world-altering kiss, Léon had never given Henry a reason to think he adored him the way he did.

Henry must believe Léon hated him.

And how racked with fear and horror and hatred must he have been these many days and frigid nights…

Léon carried a sweater in his hand, the thickest he owned, horrified at the thought of how he might find Henry.

Frozen to death? Sick and trembling?

He needed to get him out, and fast. They would be coming early to burn Henry.

And when Mollard didn't arrive with the keys, they would search for him.

Yet despite the urgency, when Léon finally reached the third floor landing, he hovered on the threshold, unsure how to face Henry. How to explain it all… But the late hour pushed him on.

He slipped his key into the lock of Henry’s prison cell and turned it slowly, ever so slowly, trying to be as quiet as possible. His hand shook with the tension, gripping the key desperately tight, awaiting the slide of the lock.

Clank! It slipped with an unearthly bang that ricocheted about the tall and steep walls of the tower. Léon froze, expecting twenty guards to come running up the stairs, or at the very least, for Henry to call out. But not a sound came back other than the bats he’d unsettled with the noise.

Tentatively, he pushed the door open. It made a monstrous grunt as the ancient hinges creaked the door into place.

And there he was, huddled on a pile of straw, covered in a thin, dirty-looking blanket, his back to Léon.

“Henri?” Léon whispered, terrified of the state he must be in. “Henri, wake up.”

Léon picked his way across the floor, as though the straw strewn about the dirty stones might crackle and alert someone.

Henry lay still, like he didn’t hear him, but also like he wasn’t sleeping. As though… something was wrong. The thought hit Léon like a club—that something even worse than the cold had happened to Henry in here. That he’d taken a beating that left him barely breathing, or that he’d somehow managed to kill himself.

He was too still.

Léon held his place a step away, watching for a breath—praying for a breath. Because if he’d done this, put Henry here to be abused, hurt, worse… he would never forgive himself.

“Henri? Can you hear me?” Léon knelt by his side. He reached out a slow and tender hand for that strong arm.

A crack against his chin threw him back, and his head hit the floor, saved from being pulverised against the stone by a lucky clod of straw. But the next fist was in his stomach, slamming his shoulders forward with a gasp and a retch. A flat palm smacked into his arm, and he was on his side, gasping for air, pain coursing through his body, barely registering the rattle of keys as Henry picked the ring of them up off the floor.

Léon lay there, aware of Henry’s movements as he unlocked his shackles, as his chains clanked to the floor.

It was only fair. The things Léon had said—had done to him. Even as his cheek purpled and his lungs gasped for oxygen, his heart pulsed with the sum of pain he’d inflicted. He’d been so awful, but somehow, he’d thought Henry would understand. It horrified him to realise that every cold night Henry had spent alone in this cell, he’d spent the lot meditating on his hatred of Léon.

But Léon still had a job to do. He pushed himself up on one hand, ready to plead his case, and summarily found the other grasped. He was wrenched to his feet and thrown against the wall, his body like a rag doll. “Henri, I’m sorry. Please stop!”

All the violent and angry masculinity of Henry moved in one silent block, coming at Léon like a sledgehammer. Henry’s chest pressed against his, pinning him to the wall. His face, pure malevolence, such as Léon had never seen before. His lip, arched with a current of rage shaking it, was millilitres from his own. Léon forced himself to look up into those hate-filled eyes. He couldn’t fathom how to start. All he knew was the overwhelming desperation to make it better—to be liked, no, loved , by this man, whose hatred was so thick it suffocated him. He reached his hand out for Henry, and in the same instant felt the hot spit from Henry’s lips on his cut cheek. His face flinched away, eyes closed against the tears that burned in them, and his hand was caught.

He looked across in shock. “What are you doing?” Clack! The shackle closed on Léon’s wrist. Shink! The chain being wrenched through the loop, and Henry’s imposing body reaching to secure a link over a hook high in the wall, that Léon could no longer reach with his arm pulled taut by the chain. “Henri, stop it!” Clank! The other wrist was secured in the same fashion as though Léon hadn’t made a word of protest. “Henri!”

Henry leaned in close, the heat of his skin burning Léon’s cheeks. “Fuck you, Ange.”

His bare feet made a silent path to the door, where he began sorting his way through the keys, trying one after another. Léon would have told him if he’d asked. In a heartbeat. But Henry was too stubborn, too furious, to ask him for a thing. And Léon understood, so he told him the one thing he needed to know. “She’s in Amiens.”

Henry’s broad back stopped in the dim light, his hand stilling on the key in the lock.

“Or she should be. By now. They’re to wait for you there, at an inn on the far side of town. I told her you were coming.”

Henry turned dark eyes over his shoulder. “What?”

“With Souveraine. She’s safe. And they’re with émile. And Henri, I can’t blame you for this, but, please… I’ll try to think of something—some excuse to explain to them why I’m here, when they come for you…” He glanced anxiously up at his binds. “Tell émile I’m coming. And… If not… Please tell Souveraine I’m sorry.”

“Amiens?” Henry whispered.

“Then you can set sail if you want. Just get out of France. Because you’re, um… You’re quite famous. And you need to move faster than the news spreads. And once they know you’re on the run, it will spread faster still.”

Henry’s lips parted, deep breaths raising his shoulders. His eyes darted about the cell, over Léon, over his chains. His brow drew tight as he put the pieces together.

“Henri, wake up!” Léon snapped. “You have to go now. You have to run. Destroyer, he’s waiting, three streets from here. Go right, until Rue Saint Denis, a few doors down. Take him and run.”

“You brought Destroyer? For us?”

“Just how did you think we were to escape?”

“Escape?”

“Stop repeating everything I say! You’re due to burn three hours hence. The pyre, it’s enormous. They’ve been building it for days. I’ve been building it! The crowds that are coming to watch you— You need to go. There’s a hood in the saddlebag?—”

“Oh, Ange.” Henry’s voice carried such a sharp shard of tender horror that it just about split Léon’s heart in two.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. I tried…” His words were constricted, his throat tight with another wave of tears. He leaned his head back against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut against the first drops that coursed down his cheek regardless, some unbearable mix of sorrow, and relief, and grief for all of it. For the trial and the last few awful days, and now he was here, with Henry, and he couldn't take any more of it.

His lungs screamed for air, but he kept very still, willing the emotions to go—to leave him in some peace.

Willing Henry to leave and let him cry and have done with the lot of it.

“Ange?”

Henry’s hand on his cheek, his palm by his very lips, and Léon wanted to kiss it.

He turned his head, eyes still closed, lips brushing that dear skin, but he dare not kiss him.

“For me?” How could Henry’s voice sound so calm?

So calm in the storm inside Léon, in the tower, all about the city and the whole ridiculous country, the lot of them screaming for blood.

Henry’s voice in the middle of it all, like an anchor, when he was so close to being dashed to pieces.

Henry’s thumb ran across Léon’s cheekbone, firming his grip, the tips of his long fingers sinking into the hair at the back of his neck.

That voice, so soft and calm.

“I need to know.”

Léon shook his head, barely perceptible in the meagre light, and a small whimper was the only sound he could form.

A tear stole hot and stinging from beneath his long eyelashes.

Down his cheek. Down and down, slowly, until it was caught by soft lips and kissed away.

He leaned into those warm lips.

A shiver trailed down his neck, and his body turned limp.

He felt Henry’s other hand press to his cheek.

Felt another kiss, a little closer to his lips.

Then Henry kissed him full on the mouth.

His lips came gentle, like a dream, and Léon’s met them with equal grace, soft, begging, please, for this to be true.

For there to be no mistake, no misunderstanding between them, for the first time since the day they’d met.

“Ange,” Henry whispered, redoubling his grip, kissing him harder, stepping forward, his precious body flush with Léon’s there in that dark, fetid cell.

“All this time?”

Léon’s head tilted back with the tingle of the kiss that moved to his neck.

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Henri…” His name broke out of Léon like a prayer.

A plea to pause the moment, because Léon was sure, if he opened his eyes, even for one second, the lot would shimmer and dissipate, like a mirage on a hot day, no substance, no solidity, barely even a memory of the apparition he held so dear.

Kisses on his lips, and the words laughed out on a beautiful breath, “I never thought I had a chance with you.”

Léon’s eyes fluttered open and met Henry’s, smiling, sparkling.

Only now did Léon feel the shake of Henry’s hand, the tremble in his chest. He was as nervous as Léon was.

“Do you mean it?”

“Yes. God, yes. Why do you think I came to you, of all people?” Another kiss, shutting off any response he might have made, then, “Ange, I’m obsessed with you. I’ve been obsessed with you since the night we met.”

Henry’s thigh slid between Léon’s, his other thigh enclosing one leg, his hips grinding into Léon.

His tongue lashed out, and Léon opened his mouth to meet it.

He wanted to devour him.

To eat him whole. And so he would.

Just as soon as they escaped.

He pulled back, as much as he could with his back pressed into the hard stone of the prison wall.

“You should probably unchain me.”

A flash of Henry’s sharp eyes ran to the hooks on the wall that held Léon’s arms out long, tightly suspended.

“Three hours till they come?”

On an urgent nod, “Even less now.”

“Huh.” Something wicked came over Henry’s face then.

A glint of moonlight hit his smile with a flash of bright white, and a pulse of excitement sparked in Léon’s brain and body.

Henry didn’t unchain him.

Henry pressed both hands to Léon’s chest, ran them up and over his shoulders, and out along his muscular arms, setting every nerve in Léon’s skin to taut attention, until his hands found Léon’s, and he curled his fingers over them, helpless in their binds.

“You’re beautiful.” Henry tilted his head and sank his teeth into Léon’s neck.

“Oh, God,” Léon gasped out before he caught himself—caught the sound of his own desperate cry ricocheting off the dank walls.

“Come on,” he pleaded, barely audible now, well aware of the press of Henry’s hip against his hardening dick.

“We need to go.”

But Henry’s hands had drifted down to his waist. “Do you know how much I’ve wanted your body, Léon?” He slipped a hand beneath Léon’s shirt, running it over his stomach, his chest, right up to his shoulder, taking the fabric with him, fingers curling into Léon’s flesh, his other hand squeezing his waist. Head tilting, he took the other side of Léon’s neck, sucking at the skin as though Léon’s flesh was meat on the bone and he was starving.

Léon’s dick was full and firm now, straining against his breeches, pushed hard into Henry as his pelvis rolled forward, grinding into him.

Fingers slid beneath Léon’s chin, lifting it, and Henry’s lips kissed a trail down his neck, down, down, to his Adam’s apple, and that same firm suction caressed him, made his hips jump forward, until Henry let out a rakish laugh, then licked, all the way up the soft flesh of his throat, over his chin, and slipped his tongue back into his mouth.

Léon met it with equal fervour.

Henry grinned against his lips, and Léon took his lower lip between his teeth and pulled.

The fingers that wrapped firm around Léon’s cock forced him to let Henry’s lip escape with the gasp that ripped out of him.

“Fuck me,” Henry breathed, the heat of lust ghosting across Léon’s cheek.

“You are one pretty boy.”

Why did those words just about turn Léon’s legs to pulp?

He shuddered out something approaching a whine, closing his eyes and sinking into the sensation of Henry’s firm stroke.

“You wanted me?” Léon begged.

“That whole time?”

“Since I saw you, Ange. Since I first laid eyes on you.” Sharp teeth against his neck, the words like fire on the shell of his ear.

“I took one look at you, and I thought to myself, I’m not going to be satisfied until I fuck that pretty boy raw.”

Léon’s mouth dropped open.

What the fuck was happening?

Léon was an executioner.

He was a killer. He was all the things strong and brave that he’d always needed to be to survive, but in Henry’s hands, everything, everything , drifted away.

He was beautiful and desired, like he never thought he could let himself be.

Every word that drifted from Henry’s gorgeous mouth, on his chest now, on his nipple, and he bit it, and oh fuck!

“I don’t know how I knew, but I knew…” Henry dropped to his knees, his hands working the fastening of Léon’s breeches.

“You have the most beautiful soul, Ange. You have the most gorgeous body.” Tongue tracing up his belly so his back arched against the rough stone.

“You have the most beautiful…” He felt Henry’s breath, cool on the trail his tongue had left, tense with anticipation.

Two strong hands ripped his pants open, Léon’s cock sprang free, and Henry let out a ravenous groan that strangled the words from him.

He kissed the crown of Léon’s dick right on the edge of the ridge, his warm lips encompassing almost half his cock, a flicker of his tongue making Léon desperate for more.

Léon’s hands curled around his chains with a jangle, and Henry’s eyes followed the sound, even as his lips remained.

He let out a soft chuckle, heated, in the back of his throat.

“Look at you,” he whispered.

He kissed the centre of his dick, and it thrust forward desperately.

“All done up for me. Such a pretty, pretty boy.”

“Henri, please.” Some drowning spark of intelligence screamed at Léon that they needed to go—that people would soon wake, intent on burning the flesh of this beautiful man to a crisp.

But Henry’s tongue licked its way, from the base of his shaft to the slit, his head rolling back, tongue out to enjoy the taste of him.

He stared up, fire in his eyes.

“Did I hear you beg?”

Holy fuck .

For the second time that week, Léon was about to get Henry killed.

But this time, it was his own damn fault.

“Please, Henri. Please.”

“Tell me what you need, Ange.”

Some vague echo of reality, obscured by layers of pleasure, pushed its way in, and Léon forced himself to whisper frantically, “Unchain me. Quickly. We have to go.”

Henry’s eyes kindled, and something akin to an animal snarl forced its way out of him.

“Wrong answer.”

That hot mouth took Léon’s dick deep, and he sucked hard and unrelenting, and that cold stone wall flush against his back was such bold and delicious contrast to the shock of pleasure shooting through his body.

He was gone, and there was no pyre or burning flame or rabid crowd of pursuers that could have made him stop Henry then.

Years, so many years of thwarted and denied desire, all taking blinding coalescence in the heat and the flesh of Henry.

He had become Léon’s sole desire.

He was all the freedom and the hope.

And just as Henry’s fingers clenched into Léon’s thighs, as he sank him deep into his beautiful mouth, it seemed Léon had made all the right choices.

All the terrible and bloody choices, but the right ones, because this, when he closed his eyes and saw nothing of the prison and the grime and the horror, this was where he was supposed to be.

With Henry.

Léon let out a groan that shot into Henry’s heart.

Henry had wanted to sleep with Léon the second he’d laid eyes on him.

Henry and all of Reims wanted to sleep with Léon, but Henry really wanted to sleep with Léon.

He was beautiful, but he was so much more than that.

And since that first arrow he’d shot across the square, since that first day he’d ripped Léon’s heart out of his chest, all he’d wanted to do was ease the pain he’d caused.

Stitch him up and make him better.

Wrap his heart and his body, safe and warm, and be every comfort to him.

This was just the start.

This moment was the beginning of all the ways Henry was going to take and save Léon.

He was going to make him lose control until he crumpled into Henry’s arms, his, to be rebuilt from scratch.

Henry moved a warm hand to Léon’s balls, cupped them gently with his palm, his long fingers caressing his ass, sliding in between his cheeks.

“You have to stop,” Léon heard himself say, but his body thrust forward, begging for more of Henry.

He didn’t want him to stop.

He wanted him to turn him around and completely obliterate him.

It was a madness of ecstasy, and how good it felt, finally, to slip into insanity.

Henry’s fingers found his tight hole, pushing a circle around, and, “Henri, no, I’m going to come. Stop or I’ll…”

Henry wrenched him forward with a hungry grunt.

“Henri, please…” Léon’s hands ripped at the chains, the only thing holding him up now, and Henry’s movements intensified, desperate to taste Léon, desperate to be his palace of pleasure.

And those fingers massaging his rim, and the heat, and the dark, and the lust, and Henry, oh Henry, so passionate, so sexual, so real and animal, and Léon’s head flung back, and he let go.

A cry broke from him, echoing through the Witches’ Tower, and a low and ravenous hum came from Henry as he drank him down, loving Léon, loving the taste of him, the proof that he was Henry’s now, for just as long as Henry could keep him.

Henry sprung to his feet, Léon’s wet dick sliding against his clothes as he pushed himself against him, kissed him and kissed him, strung out and hung out wide, and Léon was a mess.

He was reeling from the orgasm, from the surprise of it all, from the fact that Henry just did…

that .

Click and click again and off came the shackles, and Léon remained where he was, confusedly pulling his breeches closed over his still-hard cock, lacing himself up tight as Henry kissed him again.

Then, cupping his face with two hands, Henry whispered, “I adore you, Ange. Thank you for coming.”

Was that a joke?

Either way, he looked perfectly pleased with himself as he tilted his handsome face to drop one last tingling kiss right in front of Léon’s left ear.

Léon’s whole body lurched forward as if bereft when Henry ran for the door.

He watched him click the lock open, then turn and look back at Léon.

How changed he was. Beautiful, dashing, full of energy.

The sweetness Léon had seen beneath the stormy exterior, that he had fallen for, was on full display.

His true self, Léon hoped…

Henry held out his hand, and the moonlight caught in his beautiful eyes.

“Will you come with me?”

Léon’s smile was the most genuine he’d smiled in years.

“I would love to.”

Henry beamed back at him, their two hands clasped tight, and together they escaped from the Witches’ Tower and into the frigid night.