Chapter 7 #2
He sniffled and curled up on his side again, hugging the clothing to his chest and burying his face in them.
It wasn’t Falk’s scent, but it was familiar enough.
It didn’t settle the screaming in his brain, but it comforted him enough for the tears to stop streaming down his face and for his sobs to settle.
The pain was still present, but had dulled slightly.
Ren scowled to himself as he realized what would make it go away, remembered exactly what had calmed the fire in his veins the last time he’d gone into heat.
He didn’t have anything to truly satisfy him—didn’t know if he would even want it if Falk offered it to him.
He peeked out from where he had buried his face in the sweaters, glancing at Falk whose cat-like eyes were still on him.
Falk had seen him in all types of vulnerable states: relieving himself, changing his clothes, throwing up. Ren had to push past the realization that Falk would see him do…. that eventually too, especially if he was going to be down here for the rest of his life.
Ren looked away from Falk’s intense gaze and shifted himself into a more comfortable position on his side.
His fingers shook as he shoved his pants and undershorts off.
He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to look at anything—not Falk in front of him or the cell around him.
He wanted to imagine he was somewhere nicer—a soft bed with a comfortable mattress and a mate who loved him.
He wanted to imagine his hand as someone else’s as he wrapped his fingers around his shaft.
The first touch made his entire body jolt. The light graze of his fingers sent a mixture of pain and blinding pleasure down his spine enough to make his toes curl. He gasped as he finally stroked himself.
He tried to keep his noises in, desperate to not let them escape through his lips, but by the time his hand was moving in earnest, near-panicked little moans were spilling out of him.
His hips jerked at every drag of his hand, and a sob ripped through him as his climax built up in him too soon, too fast.
Ren screamed when he came, the sudden pleasure making him tremble. His vision was blurry when he finally tried to open his eyes, groaning at the sight of his orgasm having spilled over the sweaters he was clutching.
He tossed them away from him like the clothing had burned him. He turned over onto his back and threw his arm over his face to shield himself. His body still shook, his breaths still heavy even as he tried to simply breathe.
Ren’s heat lasted over a week. At one point he probably should have gone to the infirmary considering he couldn’t eat or keep water down. But just when he thought he might truly die if he shut his eyes for too long, his heat broke and he was able to start functioning close to normal again.
He couldn’t look Falk in the eye, but he figured the Alpha was avoiding his gaze as well.
He wanted to die a little when he had to whisper, voice small and breaking on the first word, “C-can… can I have water to… bathe with?” He was sticky, his thighs and stomach dried with the remnants of his heat.
Prisoners were permitted to bathe once every two weeks or so, with wet rags given to them to scrub themselves down as best they could.
Ren wasn’t sure how long had passed since the last time, but Falk didn’t argue at all as he got up and turned the faucet on.
Water streamed into a bucket inside of his cell, the gurgling loud in Ren’s ears.
They really had thought of everything for their prisoners—made sure they really never had to open the door for them, never had to give them a taste of freedom.
Ren grabbed the washcloth out of Falk’s hand, flinching when their fingers brushed. He tried to ignore Falk as he dunked the cloth into the bucket and rubbed his skin raw with it repeatedly. He felt so disgusting, he just wanted to be clean—needed to be clean again.
After he had scrubbed himself down from head to toe, Ren felt a little more human, and slept for an amount of time he couldn’t keep track of. Based on how many glasses of water Falk had lined up for him in his cell, it must have been a day or two.
Once they settled into their normal routine again, Falk’s shoulders were even tenser, his eyes narrowed and eyebrows heavy where they pulled together in permanent irritation.
Ren wanted to make a comment about how he shouldn’t make that face for too long or it would get stuck.
But he kept his lips shut tightly, scared to bring any extra attention to himself.
The first time Falk spoke to him directly again was several days later. He cleared his throat, his voice rusty with disuse, and told Ren, “Oren has decided to retry all of the prisoners.”
Ren’s head whipped up. “Wh… what?”
Falk averted his gaze away from Ren. “He said he doesn’t agree with many of his parent’s decisions, and wants to retry all of the prisoners currently being held.”
Ren’s hands trembled as he asked, “What… does that mean?” His voice was even quieter when he asked, “Am I… going to die, Falk?”
Falk shook his head, “Oren is… a bit different from his parents. His values are quite different—I don’t think he would sentence you to death. He hasn’t said anything like that to me since bringing up the retrials.”
“When will they be?” Ren asked slowly.
“After the next Blood Moon.”
Ren took a step back, eyes widening, “Blood Moon? Is there one soon?” He had been down there for so long, he was surprised one hadn’t happened yet. But he supposed the gods were the ones who determined when they happened.
“Yes, in a few weeks,” Falk said.
Ren relaxed back against the wall where he was leaning.
He took a long, deep breath, accepting his fate was up in the air again.
He didn’t want to get his hopes up—Oren could keep him locked away for the rest of his life, he could sentence him to death, or he could take pity on him and lower his sentence.
Ren had no doubt he would still be down here for the better part of his life, but maybe he would get to see the sun and sky every day again when he was an old man.
His hands flexed on his thighs, suddenly antsy now that he had something to look forward to, something that could change everything, he couldn’t sit still.
He got to his feet and raised his thumb to his teeth, gnawing on his nail as he walked back and forth. Falk hated when he paced. It looked like he really was going crazy when he did it.
And, like always, it didn’t take long for Falk to snap, “Stop with the walking in circles.”
Ren’s feet didn’t stop, but he did look up to glare at Falk. “No.”
Falk scowled right back at him.
He must have taken a hundred laps of his cell before Falk spoke again.
“When is your real birthday?”
Ren’s steps faltered. “What day is it today?”
“The eightieth day of Summer,” Falk said. “Autumn begins in under a fortnight.”
Ren smiled tightly and nodded, “then my birthday is in about thirty days.”
Falk waved a hand and the smallest smile appeared on his lips, “I knew you were an Autumn pup.”
Ren snorted, “are you happy you were right?”
“I am happy you are actually telling me the truth.”
“I could still be lying,” Ren pointed out.
Falk hesitated, gaze scanning over him for a minute, “Yes but… I don’t think you are.”
The next time they spoke, Ren thought maybe they were finally going back to normal. It was a day later when Falk came back down after his nightly rest.
“Your sweater has a hole in it,” Ren pointed out.
Falk jumped, not expecting Ren to be so close to the bars. He held a plate of food in his hands, and raised a single eyebrow as he opened the slit to hand Ren his meal. “Does it?”
Ren shoved a spoonful of rice into his cheeks. “On the back, yeah.”
Falk craned his neck back, trying to see what Ren was talking about. He sighed heavily when he finally found the hole, three fingers thick, on the seam over his shoulder. Falk carefully pulled the knitted material over his head and folded it gently.
“Is it not your sweater?” Ren asked.
“One of my grandfathers knitted it for me,” Falk hummed.
“Awe, that’s sweet,” Ren cooed. “You should ask him to knit me one.”
“He died a few years ago,” Falk said.
Ren frowned. “Well, you could have said that sooner.”
Falk shrugged, “It’s okay. I’ve grieved plenty. But this is the only sweater he ever made me. I’ll have to find someone to fix it.”
Ren put his plate on his mattress before bouncing back to the bars. He wrapped his hands around the poles as he grinned, “I can fix it!”
Falk eyed him, “You?”
“I was training to be a tailor, don’t you remember?”
“And I thought you were only seventeen when you came here and apprenticeships start at eighteen.”
Ren pursed his lips and said, “And you found out that wasn’t true.”
“How old are you then?”
“I’ll be twenty on my next birthday,” Ren said slowly.
“So, you’ll be able to take a mate in a few weeks.”
“I don’t think I’d be allowed a mate down here.” Ren laughed.
Falk frowned and huffed out a noise of annoyance at how ridiculous what he said had been.
“So, are you going to let me fix your sweater?”
Falk ran his fingertips over the soft knit. “Do you really think you can?”
“If you bring me some needles and yarn, sure.”
Ren was happy to have something to do with his hands.
It had been so long since he had a purpose.
He was surprised his hands even remembered what to do.
They were a bit clumsy at first, but fell into a normal rhythm he learned so long ago.
He had never been good at his job, or even really liked it.
He got scolded often for his botched jobs repairing sweaters or hemming pants.
Usually, he didn’t have the patience to make sure something was done right or the eye to match yarns or threads or pick the correct color.