Ingenious #1

Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

F or two weeks Stefan instructed Quiggs on how to walk, act, and look like a concubine for the Claiming Ceremony. The First Family would watch Max and his concubine closely for a reason to challenge Max’s ownership, so they had to appear enthused at the ceremony. Cyrus was clever. He would argue for a new drawing at any hint the commander minimized the sex and maximized the financial profits of Quiggs’s service.

Walking in platforms challenged Quiggs’s flat feet. Stefan taught him the trick was to sway with each step as if his hips were gelatin and his ribcage were in a vise. He practiced until Stefan conceded the trick for Quiggs was flapping his arms for balance before he broke his ankles.

If he couldn’t walk the walk, Stefan insisted Quiggs would look like a proper concubine. Quiggs endured having his brows plucked, his skin creamed, his lips glossed, his toenails polished, his feet buffed. Then there were the endless exercises to shed weight. His belly flattened but remained soft. His arms and legs developed a hint of definition. His face remained boringly round .

“Cosmetics can’t fix my face,” Quiggs complained when Stefan planted him on the vanity stool and told him to face the mirror.

“It’s your analytical expression,” Stefan said. “You must look as if you want to have fun. Leave the heavy thinking outside your bedroom.”

Quiggs guffawed when Stefan instructed him on how to loosen his braid at night. “You want me to seduce Commander Bronn?”

Stefan met his eyes in the mirror while his nimble fingers unraveled the braid’s three sections. “You have lovely hair. Your braid is a novelty Max has never experienced. Loosen your braid at night. Shake your hair. Whet his appetite.”

“Why bother? I’m a bowl of greens and vinegar. He’s a man who has feasted on mouthwatering bodies for years.”

Stefan laughed his breathless laugh. “A starving man will eventually accept a bowl of greens. You certainly did.”

Quiggs had stubbornly fasted a half day before eating greens, then licking the bowl.

Today was Claiming Day.

Quiggs stood on the balcony cooling down after his early morning exercises. After all his hard work, his belly disappointed him. Flatter but still soft. And always hungry. The food cabinet held nothing for snacking except sprouts and veggie chips with slimy pastes. What he wouldn’t give to escape his prison for an hour. He leaned over the rail salivating at the wonderful aromas drifting in from bakeries and street vendors preparing for the Claiming Day festivities.

Once a year on Claiming Day, the rules relaxed. Women remained indoors behind shuttered windows and loosened the leashes to allow their men a day to stroll the city for sex, drink, and gluttony. Claiming Day was the most wonderful day of the year to explore the city—if you weren’t a concubine in seclusion .

This year, street vendors featured Quiggs’s grill and Rosamunde’s fuel paste to cook sausages on sticks with dipping sauces. Bakeries displayed trays of buns and desserts in windows for the flood of visitors. Pubs opened at noon and closed at dawn. Merchants advertised carved sex toys, feathers, leathers, and lubes on easels in front of their stores. Janitors swept and scrubbed the alleys for heavy trafficking.

Today, the police winked at solicitations except when an active cadet wandering a side street alone caught a man’s interest. Then the man received a warning thwack across the back to ogle elsewhere.

No one got thwacked from ogling Quiggs last year when he’d sat on public benches near alleys eating out of cartons and waiting for his ideal husband to pass by. Having Beau close beside him hissing when a soldier glanced his way didn’t help.

Quiggs squeezed his fists at his sides. Beau had wrecked his life. Because of Beau, he’d spent the last two weeks hiding from heralds in a penthouse and starving to death to fit into a concubine costume. Because of Beau, he faced the humiliation of the Claiming Ceremony tonight before thousands of men squeezed on the balconies and around the roped-off plaza. The reactions when mismatched couples met were hilarious.

Quiggs had watched the event the last two years from his apartment balcony with Witters and Meeks offering their bawdy commentary. Both men had enlisted rather than enter the lottery.

Concubines followed tradition by wearing a red corset peeping through an open-throated white shirt. The costume supposedly gave the owner the illusion of a feminized young man to enjoy in lieu of a wife. It was a ridiculous tradition born of manic fear after the Rebellion to protect women from the rapacious desires of the mostly male population. Later, when the fear eased as men acclimated to the laws, the Ruling Mothers called the costume a travesty of womanhood and periodically attempted to ban the corsets. Ironically, the ones who pleaded the importance of the tradition were the men who’d dropped their names inside the lottery box .

Men cherished the dream of winning a concubine. They fantasized untying the laces to reveal their helpless prize.

Quiggs had indulged in the fantasy of owning a concubine, despite his preference for soldiers.

Never had he fantasized his own soft underbelly straining against a red corset.

The Claiming Ceremony began at dusk. After a formal greeting and acceptance in front of the steps of the Legislative Building, the owner and his concubine presented themselves to the governor. Speeches followed after everyone was seated at their assigned tables. Then the women attending the ceremony left with their husbands. The balcony rails would collapse from the weight of gawkers when he and the commander met the governor. What an entertaining mismatch.

What irked Quiggs was Rosamunde conniving an invitation to attend with her family this evening. Would she fall off her chair laughing at Quiggs’s costume, or would she flirt with the commander, letting him compare his inept concubine to what a beautiful woman offered a man?

Despite Stefan’s meticulous training, Quiggs was to the commander what Rosamunde had been to Quiggs when they married—a contractual duty.

Quiggs stood on the balcony, craving bread and jam to calm his nerves.

Stefan walked outside to check on him. Whenever Quiggs went quiet, Stefan always checked on him. He inspected Quiggs for sweat, then sniffed his neck. Quiggs couldn’t fake the exercises by spraying himself with water.

Satisfied his pupil had worked out, Stefan handed him a glass of milky liquid and a plug. One of the fat ones. “Drink up. Remember to use plenty of grease and three twists for the plug. Wear it two hours.”

“I hate those damn things. You said the commander would wait until—”

“Sorry, my dear. The governor announced an enforcement of the law requiring all concubines to undergo an exam for compliance after three days of service. So rude to dig up that old law, but the governor wants your combustion engine, and Max refuses a business partnership. The liquid is a calmative.”

Quiggs took the plug to the bedroom and slammed the door.

Minutes later, Stefan tapped on the door and checked on him. Quiggs had curled up on his side with a pillow pressed to his ass. Stefan gave a breathless laugh at the scowl given him, then inspected the empty glass on the nightstand. He sniffed Quiggs’s breath to check if he’d drunk the contents.

“Where you going?” Quiggs asked around a yawn.

Stefan had changed into a pink tunic and a pair of gray trousers with wide legs, giving the impression of a flowing skirt. “Cutty sent a message he and Max have arrived and are staying on the barge. Max has loaned his apartment to the Mayor of Port Paducah and her family. Oh, he’s added two kills to his count with Beau’s aid. He’s grateful you spared the breed’s life.”

Quiggs bit back, Grateful enough to leave me alone tonight?

“I’m meeting Cutty on the barge, where he will fill me full of gruesome details while he embroiders more skulls on the commander’s cuffs to show off tonight.”

Quiggs bet it wasn’t details Cutty would fill him with. The pair were in their forties and still cavorted like cadets when Cutty had shore leave.

Stefan had won Cutty in the lottery and had taught him elegance and a way with a needle and thread for three years. Celebrating his freedom after his service ended, Cutty woke up the next afternoon back in Stefan’s bed, legally wedded to a sober and triumphant Stefan, waiting with a pail to catch his husband’s reaction.

Stefan checked his flawless lip paint in the mirror. “Rest up. Take a nap and dream about the yummy food served at the banquet.”

Which he couldn’t enjoy because a fucking corset crammed his stomach up against his tonsils.

Quiggs bided his time after Stefan closed the door. When the door flung open ten minutes later, he hid a smile. Stefan poised triumphantly in the doorway, ready to catch him removing the plug. Quiggs lifted his head, blinking sleepily, then burrowed under the blanket.

Stefan left the apartment, convinced it was safe to leave if his charge was napping inside the locked penthouse with a guard in the hallway.

Quiggs flung off the blanket and tossed the plug aside. He hadn’t inserted it, and he hadn’t drunk the calmative either. He had gargled, then spit it back in the glass and poured the contents down the tub’s drain. Wearing the brown military tee and pants of a private, on loan until his concubine uniforms were delivered, he pinned up his braid. He put on the boots and green hat which accompanied the uniform. Until they saw duty in the outland, enlistees wore their caps reversed. He turned the cap around, tugging it low so the visor hid the heavy braid looped at his nape, and inspected himself in the vanity mirror. He had the height to pass as an enlistee but lacked the pectorals and biceps if anyone examined him closely. No self-respecting soldier tweezed his eyebrows into sleek arches either. His eyes, however, gleamed with a true soldier’s determination to complete his mission whatever the cost.

The commander had sent him a few credits for small items Quiggs might want Stefan to purchase. He stuffed them in his pocket. What he wanted was food.

Stefan believed Quiggs had never figured out a way to escape, or he’d have tried before now.

Heh. He’d figured a way out the first day. All penthouses had sunning benches on their balconies.

A quick look over the rail showed the heralds had abandoned watching for him. They’d be staking out views for the Claiming Ceremony. Quiggs stretched the heavy sunning bench across the gap between the railing on his balcony and the railing next door. Thanks, new miniscule muscles, the real reason for adhering to his pushups. As he crawled across, he scoffed at the drop. He stepped down onto the next balcony, retrieved the bench, and stretched it over the next gap, then the next. At the end apartment, an emergency ladder attached to the building led down into an alley. He hid the bench behind shrubbery on the last balcony. If the owners found it… they found it. Quiggs had a destination in mind. The Canal Street Bakery!

Canal Street saw as much sex vended in its alleys between storefronts as goods sold in its shops. Its row of two-story shops with striped awnings and multi-plated windows fronted the melted remains of what was believed to be the canal’s engineering room attached to the south rampart near the turnaround. The engineering room had regulated the canal’s current and its purification system but vanished after the Rebellion.

Canal Street was a popular destination for soldiers on shore leave. They jammed their fists in their deep pockets and strolled the walkway for a civilian to entertain them. If a civilian passing by interested him, a soldier lowered his waistband shy of his pubes. If the civilian whistled interest, the soldier hiked a thumb toward the nearest alley.

The youngest, handsomest soldiers leaned against the storefronts and bent back one foot to the wall. They waited for older civilians with credits to invite them to a screened cot in a bathhouse with scented oils and warm towels.

It was mid-morning, yet the line in front of the bakery wound out the door and S-curved down the walkway. Quiggs watched the interactions between civilians and soldiers as he shuffled with the line. Did he have the bait to attract a civilian? He slid his hands inside his pockets, gathered his courage, and lowered his waistband exposing a pale inch below his bellybutton. He waited, then added a bit of pelvic twitch to get the message across. Not a single whistle. The civilians behind him muttered at him to move it forward or leave.

Fuck all those nasty greens he’d eaten. He intended to gorge himself on sweets. Head down, he shuffled forward, hoping the honey custards hadn’t sold out.

As he inched near the doorway, Quiggs noticed a soldier stretching a pair of tanned muscled legs on the stairs to the top of the crenellated rampart, preparing for a run. The fluid lines of his long legs spanned several steps, and the shorts hugged an ass as mouth-watering as anything he’d find in the bakery. As men turned and watched, the line stopped shuffling. Talking ceased. He heard indrawn breaths and the nervous jingle of credits.

Printed in bold yellow letters across the back of the soldier’s brown tee was Border Patrol. They were the badass soldiers. This patrolman wore a sergeant’s stripes on his shoulders His short sleeves boasted six skulls. Six skulls without losing a limb! He stretched as if unconcerned with the attention he’d drawn.

Quiggs would love to lose his braid by pounding some badass like the sergeant. Oh, holy hell, yes! He’d found the right body for the job. The soldier sprinted up the winding stairs without giving a glimpse of his face. Quiggs didn’t have to know the face or name. If the commander lined up his border patrol for inspection, Quiggs would look for thighs that could crack a sputternut.

A policeman rapped a baton across the tip-top of Quiggs’s butt cheek. “Pull ‘em up or take it to the alley, Private.”

Quiggs hadn’t realized he’d jammed his fists in his pockets until the waistband rode his crack. He hiked his pants, blushing. Had he attracted attention? A rude shove urged him forward as the line moved inside the door. In the naughtiest section of the city, on the most liberated day of the year, his bait was rejected. He stood sighing, wondering if a personal favor for the commander would win the sergeant’s consent. He hoped the sergeant was ambitious.

The long wait rewarded Quiggs when he reached the counter. Trays of bread puddings studded with currants. Sponge cakes soaked in brandy and topped with berries and whipped cream. Crisp triangular cookies piped with red, yellow, and green. Sticky buns swimming in syrup. Honey custards!

A third-year concubine worked the counter. He appeared well-fed, contented. The owner walked by and squeezed his ass, earning a smirk. The perfect owner: a fat congenial baker who fed you custard you didn’t milk from his cock. The baker would have to lift his belly to find his concubine’s hole, but the service was worth it.

Quiggs slapped down his credits and ordered quickly. He bought three items and left with a sense of triumph over defying Stefan.

He selected a bench tucked in a curve of the stone stairs to the rampart, away from the main traffic, and unwrapped the sticky bun first. He ate slowly, savoring each bite. Stefan said going sugar-free for two weeks would extract Quiggs’s sweet tooth. Instead, he’d grown sugar fangs. He licked the wrapper clean.

Nibbling a triangular cookie, he lifted his head to a hazy gray sky. Was there blue sky left anywhere? Was pure golden sunshine a myth? He’d read about a silvery moon. The moon he knew glowed dirty orange when it peeped through the shifting green fog in the late evenings.

In three days, Quiggs would leave Port Memphis and travel twenty miles up the northeast leg of the canal to the military base in Port Paducah. From there, the canal veered west to Port Lourdes, where daughters were educated. Port Lourdes Academy offered arts, higher academic studies, an aquarium, and a domed conservatory. The number of debs graduating this year was discouraging. Sixteen.

Quiggs saved the cup of honey custard for last. Reverently, he cracked the brown glaze with a thin disposable spoon of pressed vine pulp and dipped it into the smooth custard, lifting a bit of glaze with it. When he lapped it off, he moaned from a pure zing of happiness at the bliss melting on his tongue.

A shadow fell over him from the winding stairs—the sergeant stretching off the burn after his run. Almighty heavens, his body really was magnificent.

Quiggs licked another spoonful as his gaze drifted up the runner’s big feet to his wide shoulders. Those arms wrestled three-hundred pound bucks. They hacked through foot-thick roots. They speared through the protective scales of fins circling near the banks in hopes of snatching a human or goat. Surely the sergeant could handle a minute on all fours with Quiggs fucking him.

One measly minute was about all Quiggs would last. He licked another spoonful, thinking of that minute. The sergeant straightened and shoved his fists in his pockets, lowering the waistband to reveal a tantalizing strip of golden skin. Someone had whetted his appetite. Quiggs looked around for the lucky man.

A herder with a stocky frame sauntered by the base of the steps, jiggling credits in his hands. Really? A stocky middle-aged herder? Quiggs’s chances improved if the sergeant enjoyed comforts over looks when he hooked up. The sergeant rocked his hips. He gyrated. Hammered. Stilled. What the fuck was the herder waiting for? Whistle back!

The sergeant tapped his boot impatiently, then bunched up a leg of his running shorts showing off a fat cockhead.

Quiggs closed his lips around the spoon, fixated by the size. He doubted that cockhead would squeeze inside his custard cup.

The sergeant pulled his hands from his pockets and planted them on his hips when the herder continued toward the end of the bakery’s line without a whistle. Was the herder a bottom in search of less girth, or was he repulsed by the sergeant’s scarred face? To have earned the skulls on his sleeves, the sergeant must have suffered some hideous wounds.

Scars improved Quiggs’s chances of a grateful fuck. Braced for the worst, he looked up and found tousled dark hair framing a strong jaw, a wide thin-lipped smile, a high-bridged nose… and deep-set, hungry eyes locked on his face.

Quiggs’s jaw dropped. Speechless, he pointed the spoon at himself to be sure. Me? A drop of custard hit a nipple poking through his tee. He absently dabbed it off and licked his finger.

The sergeant nodded and jerked a thumb at the closest alleyway, as if Quiggs had agreed to give him a blow job. The way Quiggs sucked his fingertip, what else would the sergeant think?

Quiggs pulled out his finger with a pop. He should run away this instant. Except no one had ever flirted with him. He was off-limits for years. As a concubine, he was still off-limits. But he couldn’t make himself move. He couldn’t believe the man of his fantasies had voluntarily solicited him for sex. He felt like an active cadet in the sex clinic for the first time with the Athletic Champion picking his slate, but this was no Cadet Miller. This man packed power and experience.

The sergeant jumped down off the side of the stairs and landed lightly in front of Quiggs. Up close, he smelled like spicy soap and fresh male sweat. He brushed the back of his knuckles over Quiggs’s slack mouth as if he was measuring the fit for his fat cockhead.

In a low voice smoother than custard, he said, “You’re one of the new enlistees.” He tapped the reversed visor tugged low on Quiggs’s nape. “A desk job?”

Quiggs nodded, too spellbound to speak. He set aside his empty cup and placed his hands over his swelling dick, which didn’t give a damn about limits.

The sergeant’s amused gaze lingered on Quiggs’s shy hands. He leaned down nose to nose with Quiggs, moist breath fanning Quiggs’s red cheeks. “Find us an empty space in the alley. I’ll bring a custard.”

Quiggs thought of those powerful hands on his head, guiding him. This was his chance to sneak into an alley and jerk himself off while he attempted his first blow job. Only he owed the commander discretion. And he didn’t want to ruin a chance at losing his braid with the sergeant. It was time to clear the misunderstanding before the situation turned ugly. The Border Patrol had nasty tempers, and he shouldn’t lead him on.

Quiggs wrinkled his nose like a spoiled cadet. “I never kneel in an alley. It’s dirty and people will watch us.”

The deep rolling laugh sent shivers through Quiggs. “Get used to the dirty alleys and the cramped tents. It’s how soldiers bond with each other. You’ll want someone watching your back if you’re transferred from a safe desk to the outland.”

Before Quiggs could choke out another excuse, the sergeant strode toward the bakery. A soldier at the head of the line hailed him, calling him Miles. They clasped forearms like old friends. People in line made room for him without a protest.

Miles. His name was Miles. He wasn’t handsome at first glance, his features lacking classic chiseled planes. But then, like a clever puzzle, they fitted together and exuded the potent virility of a confident male. The sergeant’s superb body aroused Quiggs’s lust, but the confidence intrigued him. Quiggs would do whatever his owner wanted if it earned him permission to lose his braid with Miles. Quiggs stared at him, awestruck by his luck.

Miles shot Quiggs a wicked smile before moving inside with his friend.

Later, Miles. On a clean bed. After I’ve practiced. I will so make this up to you!

Quiggs sprinted up the stairs two at a time, wondering how to explain to the commander his keen interest in Miles without revealing he’d met him after sneaking into the city. He hit the walkway and ran along the crenellated wall until he was out of breath. Resting his arms in a smooth gap overlooking the busy eastside dock, he sucked in a thick cloud of rotting eel. Phew! He picked the wrong place to catch his breath. Fishermen had spread nets over the toothed wall for cleaning before they mended it. Gulls dived at the net, tearing at the slimy pieces left on the hooks after the eels were harvested for food patties.

Heavy barrels on the walkway anchored the vast yards of net flung over the side. When he moved away, his right boot caught on a fold of the net. He kicked it away and succeeded in entangling both boots in the net. Looking down, he saw hooks caught in the leather sides. Quiggs heard steps running toward him and turned, half-hoping, half-fearing it was Miles. Instead, a herald bore down on him.

“Quiggs Fallon?”

He froze. Damn. No way to escape an interview.

“I know it’s you, you little shit.”

Quiggs huffed up. “How dare— ”

The herald cut him off by ramming a shoulder into his chest and flipping him backward over the wall.

Quiggs fell headfirst, a primal scream ripping through his throat. His back bounced hard off the wall, knocking the breath out of him. When the bouncing stopped, he found himself dangling upside down with his back flattened against the wall and his heartbeat tripping in his ears. Looking straight up his body, he saw he’d only fallen a few feet, though it felt like miles. His hooked boots had broken his fall.

The net jerked, dropping him another foot. The bastard was freeing the net from under the barrels. Quiggs sucked a breath and yelled for help. Which was unlikely to arrive before he dashed out his brains on the dock below.

Focus. Don’t panic. Focus. Don’t panic .

Quiggs reached for a handhold of net to right himself and work his way back up. When he lifted, his shoulder blazed. Oh, fuck, he’d caught a deep hook from the bouncing. He felt smaller blazes where the barbs pierced his ankles.

He braced himself to tear his shoulder free.

From below he heard shouting. From above two short whistles sounded from the walkway, signaling for police.

Someone called down to him to hang on to the net and keep still.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to keep still as strong hands pulled up the net until they grasped his legs and hauled him over the wall onto the walkway. He cracked open his lids to see Miles’s grim face. He placed Quiggs on his stomach and knelt beside him, pulling at the net.

“Stop! You’re peeling my skin off!”

“Quit squirming. Your waistband caught some hooks. I’m using a knife to slice around the barbs.”

Quiggs whimpered at the thought of explaining the injuries to Stefan.

“Blubbering like a baby cadet over a few scratches,” Miles mocked him. The teasing stopped as he cut the net from Quiggs’s left shoulder .

“H-How bad? Am I… am I bleeding out? Do you see bone?”

“I need pliers to clip the barb and remove the hook.” Miles poked and pulled at his boots before deciding to cut them off. “Who was the herald you pissed off?”

“Don’t know. Ow! He knew me though. Ow-ow-ow! Said my name—leave me some fucking skin on my feet!”

A pause. “Your name is leave me some fucking skin on my feet ?”

“You’re the baby cadet, cracking dumb jokes while—ow-ow-ow!” Quiggs slapped his hand on the walkway as hooks scraped his left ankle when the boot came off.

“All done on that foot.” Miles sliced off the other. “The herald ran when I whistled. Didn’t get a look at his face. The police chased after him once I had you safely over the wall, but he’ll lose himself among the heralds flocking to the city today.”

Quiggs Fallon? I know it’s you, you little shit.

Something nagged him. “He had the wrong voice for a herald. Tinny, not resonant.”

“You’re certain?”

“Positive. Been around them for years.”

“A disguise means he’s watched for a chance to kill you. You’re lucky the hooks held your boots. Saved your life.” Miles cleared away the net and helped him stand. “Some punctures and scratches on your ankles and lower legs. They need cleaning.”

Quiggs wiggled his toes. His feet were bloodied.

“Wait a moment, your cap’s hanging off your neck. There might be a hook caught in… your…” His voice trailed as he freed the cap. He touched the pinned braid, then snatched his hand back as if burned.

Quiggs knew he was recognized.

Miles’s voice chilled. “You are not an enlistee.”

He met Miles’s angry eyes with as much dignity as he could muster. “I’m… uh… I’m Quiggs Fallon.”

A curt nod. “My commander’s concubine. He warned his soldiers to keep their hands and eyes off you. Glad you didn’t meet me in the alley, or I’d have been the one flung over the wall instead of you. ”

“I’m sorry I didn’t. I’d like to enjoy sex once before I’m dead.”

Miles grinned, showing off even white teeth. “While I’d like to live to enjoy more sex. Can you walk? I’ll buy you a drink in a quiet place where we can remove the hook in your shoulder, then discuss motives.”

Quiggs stood slowly clutching his torn waistband before his pants fell off his hips. He had a nasty hook in his shoulder, he was barefoot, and his pants were hanging off his hips. And someone had just tried to kill him. “I have perfect recall for the events in my life. There’s no reason anyone should want me dead.”

“For an Academic Champion, you are slower than a dry turd. If someone tried to kill you, there’s a damn good reason behind it. The commander will demand a full report. I’m a lifer with a transfer request on his desk to move up to archer in a watchtower. I’m leaving out the part where we met at the stairs. Okay?”

By the time they reached a pub two doors from The Canal Street Bakery, soldiers on shore leave surrounded them to keep the curious citizens at bay. The respect the soldiers showed Quiggs shocked him. He’d anticipated thinly disguised leers for wandering out alone.

Miles ignored the closed sign on the pub’s door. His hard fist pounding the door angered the owner into pounding back, swearing to bash a keg over the asshole disturbing his lunch.

“Open up, Silas. It’s Miles.”

Silas, in a long white apron as brown-spotted as his aging face, opened the door wide. A grin spread over his broad face. “Miles, you piece of shit! Come in and tell me how many you’ve killed since…” His grin faded as Quiggs hurried in behind Miles. He recognized Quiggs at once and gasped at the torn waistband. He slammed the door behind them and locked it before wheeling on Miles. “Are you crazy? Do you know what’ll happen if word gets out you brutalized him in an alley? The penalty for—”

Miles cut him off. “Someone disguised as a herald tossed him over the wall. He hooked himself in a net long enough for me to pull him up. Before I report to the commander, I need a quiet place where I can interrogate this baby cadet and clean his wounds.”

Silas scratched the back of his neck. “Now there’s a story worth a free drink. Lay him on the bar and I’ll fetch a kit.”

“A towel and a mug of eel skinner too.”

“I should see a surgeon in the hospital,” Quiggs insisted. “I need painkillers and a proper surgical tray.”

“Silas was a medic in the military for years. Stitched me a few times.” Miles lifted Quiggs upon a long stone countertop supported by heavy blocks with the standard two kegs at the far end to draw ale or cider for patrons. Backing the bar was a cabinet with dusty jugs of fancier drinks, but no self-respecting soldier ordered fancy drinks. The only adornment on the walls was the tricolored flag at the back. Feral skulls containing salty nuts to boost business were on the six tables. Here, soldiers knocked down drinks as they played cards, swapped stories, hooked up, found an alley, and returned for another hookup. Soldiers who drank themselves into a stupor were stacked on the front walk for the military patrol to collect.

Quiggs lay on his stomach with his hands clenched by his sides. The cold countertop smelled like vinegar. He turned his face toward the cabinet. “I really should visit the hospital where they have painkillers and a surgical tray.”

Silas dropped a mug and towel by Quiggs’s face. “For a hook? Nah.”

Quiggs pulse quickened. “Is that something strong to get me drunk first? Do I need to bite down on the towel? You know, I really, really think I need a surgeon to numb me up first.”

“The towel is to rest your face on.” Silas folded it and slid it under his cheek.

“The eel skinner is to pour around the hook in your shoulder,” Miles said.

Silas doused the wound with the eel skinner. Quiggs lifted with a breathless scream, only to have Miles’s heavy hand hold him down.

Miles chuckled. “Now you understand the name. The stuff’s aged properly when you dip an eel in it and the skin melts off.” He poured the rest on a towel and wiped down Quiggs’s ankles.

When Quiggs’s back dried, Silas clipped the barb, slipped a wire through the eye of the hook, looped it, centered the line at the entry point, and pulled it out with a hard jerk. He mopped the blood and applied suturing glue to close the punctures.

None of which Quiggs felt. Miles’s hand had strayed from the small of his back to beneath his torn waistband. The squeezes on the curve of his buttocks burnt hotter than the eel skinner.

“Keep your paws above the boy’s waist,” Silas barked when he noticed.

Miles pinched before sliding his hand above Quiggs’s waist.

When it was over, Silas helped Quiggs slide off the counter and showed him to a round table at the back. Miles straddled a sturdy chair across from Quiggs, keeping a decent space and the high back of the chair between them.

“What can I serve you while you talk?” Silas asked.

“Tall ale for me with some crackers and soft cheese,” Miles said. “For the baby cadet, a small mug of cider and—”

“Do you have some green shrum?” Quiggs cut in.

Silas looked at Miles.

“Small cider,” Miles repeated.

“Tall,” Quiggs corrected.

“Want me to fry up a platter of battered billy balls with red sauce? It’s the season.”

“No, thanks. Quiggs has suffered a—”

“Yes, thank you. With extra spicy red sauce.” Quiggs loved the greasy balls. They were the testicles of castrated young kids, and he and Beau devoured them by the dozens during the kidding season.

Miles nodded at Silas, who left to fill the orders.

“You puke,” Miles warned, “you clean yourself up.”

“If swinging upside down seven stories above the dock didn’t make me hurl my custard, a dozen billy balls won’t faze me.” Quiggs patted his stomach. “Pudgy outside. Like iron inside. ”

“You’re an odd one, Quiggs.”

“So I’ve been told all my life.” He reached up and unpinned his braid, remembering the law required a braid to be visible in public.

Miles folded his arms atop the back of the chair and watched him through heavy-lidded eyes. “The custard saved your life as much as the hooks,” he said softly.

“Oh?”

“Seeing the joy on your face when you licked the spoon—I wanted to slather my cock in the stuff and watch you lap it up.” His voice lowered. “I couldn’t wait to have you in the alley. On your knees swallowing every last drop.”

“Conceited bastard. You assumed a recruit with puppy fat clinging to his plain face would be grateful to worship at your fountain of joy.”

“Be glad I saw you running away and chased after you. Hope my friends paid for the custards I dropped on the floor.”

Quiggs propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin on both fists. He told himself he was conversing but knew he was flirting back. “I bet you were a popular cadet at the sex clinic. You never read a slate for restrictions. You pointed at a cadet and jerked your thumb toward a room. He followed you with his tongue hanging out.”

Miles laughed. “Would you have followed me?”

“Never got a chance to sit on a bench in the clinic. I was married.”

“If you had sat on a bench gripping a slate, I would have picked you right away. I’d have spread your ass cheeks wide open and feasted on your pink hole until you begged to be fucked.”

The frank words brought a blush to Quiggs’s cheeks.

Silas brought their drinks plus a plate of crackers and soft cheese on a round tray. “Give the billy balls a few minutes.” He punched Mile’s shoulder. “The boy’s blushing. Mind your manners.” He hurried back through the swinging doors of the small kitchen behind the bar, and the smell of frying grease wafted out the doors. He had invested in one of Quiggs’s grills .

Quiggs sat inside a disreputable pub, drinking, flirting. Today marked a number of surprising firsts. He stared at the face across from him. Those expressive eyebrows with quirky off-center arches were as memorable as his sexy ass and thighs. The strong jaw and square chin supported a powerful nose and high sharp cheekbones. Stefan was right. Slight imperfections could transform features from borderline ugly into breath-taking beauty. Quiggs’s imperfections transformed him from plain to plainly boring. He’d spent his life around bald academics, baby cadets, and gangly Beau. His marital status distanced him from actives and citizens. What he missed was having a little fun with a beautiful badass like Miles.

Quiggs sighed. “I hate the law.” He drained his cider.

“I’ll drink to that.” Miles drained his ale. His stunning face turned serious. “Let’s talk about motives. Why would someone try to kill you?”

“I’ve no idea why.”

“This was obviously planned. You’ve been watched. Is the First Family involved?”

“Believe me. They want to keep me alive and inventing.”

Quiggs would have rather flirted, but he answered a stream of questions beginning with his marriage and ending with the lottery.

Miles agreed they couldn’t pin the attack on the First Family because they needed Quiggs alive for his combustion engine. Vengeance against Commander Bronn was a motive. Possibly for an order resulting in a loved one’s death or maiming.

Miles stroked his jaw, his inner focus reminding Quiggs what his own face must look like in a fog. Except Miles pulled off the look as seriously mysterious. Quiggs was told he looked struck dumb by a burr shoved up his butt.

Miles finally said, “It’s possible we’re dealing with a group of fanatics who believe your progressive inventions will bring about a second rebellion.”

“You’ve narrowed the list of suspects to half the Ruling Mothers.”

Miles laughed out loud .

Silas arrived with a steaming platter of battered billy balls and a big bowl of red sauce. Quiggs dug in.

His gusto awed Miles. “How can you eat after all the excitement?”

“I’ve the digestive system of a goat.” He wiped a spurt of grease off his chin. When he licked it off his hand, he caught Miles’s hungry look.

“Excuse me.” Miles pushed away abruptly. “I need to set up security.”

It was past noon. Quiggs was supposed to be sleeping with a plug up his ass. Stefan would drain his silver flask and wail how his career was blackened forever. In revenge he’d paint Quiggs up like an aging fem in a pleasure house and dye his nipples red for the ceremony.

Stefan on a rampage was more inventive than Quiggs.

Miles returned with an oversized military tee and pants and a pair of bathhouse sandals. Some unsuspecting soldier in the pool would wear a towel back to his quarters.

Quiggs padded behind the bar to change pants.

When Miles teased him for being ashamed of exposing his tiny “billy balls,” Silas slapped the back of his head with a towel. “Behave!”

Miles rubbed his head. “I know. I know. Off limits.” He looked at Quiggs, serious again. “I spoke to the commander. My orders are to place you under a military guard. Under no circumstances is anyone allowed to approach you, and the guards are authorized to use excessive force. He’s furious at the attack. He’s posted a large reward for any information.” Miles paused. “Anything you’d like me to tell him after I escort you to your quarters? Like an apology for sneaking out?”

Quiggs stepped around the bar. The tee swallowed him, and his pants fell short of his ankles. He had three years to make amends to his owner, but his time was running out with Miles. “I have a question for you. It’s personal.”

Miles motioned for Silas to leave them alone. “Ask.”

“Have you… had sex with the commander? ”

Miles glanced down, then regarded Quiggs sheepishly. “Yeah. I’ve spent some time in his cabin. Many soldiers have. Sex is to the Commander what food is to you. He hates going hungry. Makes him irritable. You’ll make the lives of his soldiers much easier if you keep him sated.”

“How was it with him?”

“That’s all I have to say. The rest you’ll learn tonight.”

Despite Silas waving aside the bill, Miles placed credits on the table.

“No charge for you and the commander’s concubine,” Silas argued.

“I insist. Times are tight.”

Quiggs kept his chin up as Miles and six soldiers escorted him back to his penthouse. The guards carried batons and wore heavy weaponry belts, and he recognized one as Mile’s friend from the bakery. He had dreaded questions hurled at him, but with the heralds rounded up for questioning, a deafening silence followed him. Port Memphis hadn’t dealt with an attempted murder in a decade. That the victim was the commander’s unclaimed, unchaperoned virginal concubine promised the best Claiming Ceremony ever witnessed.

Quiggs waited in the hall while Miles and his friend searched the apartment and balcony before allowing him inside. Thankfully, Stefan hadn’t returned.

When Miles lingered inside the penthouse, his friend spoke up at the door, his tone stern. “Being alone with him breaks the rules.”

“You reporting me to the commander?” Miles asked.

His friend stared hard at Miles. “Ten minutes.”

Miles closed the door without locking it, then snooped around the apartment again, intrigued with the luxuries he saw. “Quite a leap in standards from my hammock. Even a kitchen.” He checked the food cabinets. His brows lifted in mock horror .

“My diet for two weeks. Stefan starved me so I wouldn’t shame the commander at the ceremony.”

“Stefan is scarier than any feral.”

Miles revisited the bedroom. Tested the mattress. Folded the screen away from the tub. “Nice. Soldiers soak in public pools in bath houses when on leave.” He sniffed a vial of scented oil, then gave a low whistle of appreciation. “Wouldn’t mind swapping places with you. I’m accustomed to some cheap grease and a rough towel. Sometimes, it’s spit and vine leaves during a break on patrol.” He lifted a fluffy white towel folded over the tub, and a phallic plug fell to the floor and rolled over to Quiggs, standing in the middle of the room.

Miles doubled over laughing.

Quiggs reddened and kicked the plug out of sight under the bed.

Miles wiped his streaming eyes. “Ah, my baby cadet, who knows if I’ll see you again. The borders are dangerous. A soldier like me seizes pleasures when he can. Let me hold you once before the commander claims all your firsts, and the baby cadet I saved stops looking at me like I’m a sinful custard to lap.” He gathered Quiggs into his arms for a hug, careful of his shoulder.

Quiggs held himself stiffly a moment, then melted against Miles. He rested his cheek against the warm hollow of Miles’s throat and splayed his hands across the hard chest. His fingers ached to explore. To touch… to be touched. Sex with Miles promised fun.

Sex with the commander promised as much fun as untying knotted boot laces.

Quiggs reached a decision and tested the waters. “The commander promised to let me lose my braid when I found a suitable partner.” At Miles’s incredulous stare, he added, “On my honor, I have it in writing!”

Miles dropped his arms and eased back. “I’m sure he’s thinking of a visit to a pleasure house. Losing your braid with a fem would be an understandable transaction. Me… he would kill. Slowly.”

“He promised, and I’ve always always wanted a badass. It’s my favorite fantasy.” He fluttered his lashes at Miles the way Stefan taught him.

Miles’s brows pulled in. “Whatever you’re thinking about us doing together… don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because despite himself, the commander will carry a grudge against the soldier you fuck. No one will volunteer. There’s a pleasure house where the owner is ex-military. His ass is hairy and muscled, and he loves young soldiers. The commander won’t bear him a grudge.”

Quiggs abandoned the fluttering which only made him dizzy and stared up with open longing. “Please, Miles. I like you. Be my first.”

“You’d be my last.”

“But—”

“There is another first I can offer you. A sweet wicked memory the commander will never know was stolen.” Miles’s gaze fixed on Quiggs’s pouting mouth. “I could give you your first taste.”

A blow job? Was there time?

Saliva pooled. Quiggs, perfectly willing, started to kneel when Miles gripped his chin and pulled him back up. “Uh-uh. I mean a filthy, wicked… spit swapping… kiss.”

He choked on his pool of saliva. Kiss like a man and a woman? The offer shocked him to his core

Miles didn’t wait for an answer. His eyes drifted closed, his lips parted. Warm moist breath whispered over Quiggs’s convulsing face as he leaned in for a kiss.

Quiggs blocked the kiss with his palm. “That’s disgusting—we’re men!”

Miles pulled back with a shrug. “Worth a try. I’ve always wondered.”

They jumped apart as the door opened.

“Time’s up, Miles.” A thwack of a baton over a tough palm emphasized the words .

“Goodbye, my sweet baby cadet.” Miles clasped Quiggs’s forearm.

Quiggs squeezed back, unable to stop a wistful note from entering his voice. “Be careful out there.”

“Always am.” Miles memorized his face as if knowing Quiggs would lose his innocent infatuation when they met again. “A word of advice. Use the plug. The commander is furious you left your apartment and were attacked. He’ll come at you hard and fast tonight.”