Bee Among the Clover (69 page)

A
RON awoke to a light shaking of his shoulder. His eyes flew open and, still in the fog of half-sleep, instinct took oversleep, instinct took over, and he reached back to
catch the offender, flipping a slim, lean body over him and rolling to pin
it, snarling.
His eyes cleared, and he stared down at Roman, who was staring
wide-eyed up at him, his mouth pursed in a smalleyed up at him, his mouth pursed in a small O of surprise. “I’m sorry, you startled me,” he said, rolling off of him.
As Aron’s consciousness came back full force, he darted widened eyes about the room, exhaling a relieved breath when he didn’t see Wulfgar. He shuddered and glanced back at Roman, who was sitting up,
still eyeing him with wariness.
“It’s all right, Aron. Wulfgar is gone already. He bid me to let you
sleep for a bit longer.” Roman hesitated, then reached out a hand to touch Aron’s shoulder, his look full of sympathy. “How are you?”
Aron snorted in derision, shrugging off his hand and rising to his
feet, flinching a bit at the lingering ache in his body that reminded him vividly, as if he needed it, what had gone on the night before. How was he? How was he supposed to be? He looked around the room for
something to clothe himself, though it was a futile search, he knew. The
collar around his throat chafed him, and the desire to rip it off and throw it
in the fire was overwhelming.
Roman watched him, rising to his own feet. He knew what Aron was
experiencing, both the physical aches and the emotional turmoil, and
wished he knew what to say or do to ease him. He chewed on his upper lip. “Would you like something to eat? Drink?” Perhaps Aron just wanted
Roman to go away, and if that were the case, he would, but if he could help at all, he wanted to.
Roman watched the conflict on Aron’s face; then the thrall nodded once. Roman stifled a sigh of relief. He’d been afraid Aron would be too ill to eat. He didn’t want Wulfgar to force something else on him.

He paused at the door. “If you want to cover yourself with one of the furs, you can. We should have plenty of warning before Wulfgar returns.”
“Where is he?” Aron asked, his voice guarded, eyes flicking around the room as if he expected Wulfgar to return any moment.
“Hunting, we should have most of the day to ourselves,” Roman replied before slipping through the door to face the curious eyes of those still lingering in the hall, eager for a glimpse of Aron.
“The lord’s new thrall enjoyed his evening, did he?” Ethelinda, a hearthwoman, asked, and bawdy laughter erupted from the other women and slaves nearby. Roman ignored them, long practice making his stomach churn less. He didn’t want Aron subjected to the whispers and crude jokes yet, though it would happen soon enough. He put some water over the fire to warm and went about collecting a few items he thought might tempt Aron to eat. The others gave up their questions and jibes, knowing that once Roman was bent on silence, prodding never worked unless he was given a direct order by Wulfgar. He assembled smoked ham, curds, and oatcakes, adding a small flagon of ale and a bowl of hot water to the tray before heading back to the room.
Aron sat on the edge of the bed, having decided to forgo covering himself. It seemed too desperate. It stung his pride, and he’d rather be naked than take any more blows. Then he lifted his head as the door opened, his heart in his throat, then relaxed when he saw it was just Roman returning. His eyes flicked over the tray of food and drink the slave carried, uncertain if he would be able to eat anything, but knowing that he was going to try. Wulfgar had told him he’d need his strength, and it burned to know the thane was right.
Roman crossed the room, and Aron admitted that the slave raised his curiosity on several levels. Mostly he couldn’t decide if Roman was friend or foe. He was Wulfgar’s slave, obviously had no aversion to Wulfgar’s attentions, and submitted to him with seeming pleasure. Aron thought Roman might even, in some way that made no sense, be jealous of him, which might make him a threat. For all that the young man seemed softspoken and meek, there was intelligence behind his dark eyes which told Aron to not be so foolish as to discount him.
Roman set the tray down on the small table. “I brought some water as well,” he said, taking the heated water and placing it near the fire with some cloths and soap. “I thought you might like to clean up before you eat.”
He kept his eyes averted, giving Aron some privacy as he rose and crossed over to the hearth. Aron was grateful for the small kindness, and his gratitude irritated him. He saw Roman cast one eye toward the stack of scrolls, an expression of longing on his face, before he composed himself and sat waiting for Aron.
Aron cleaned himself with quick motions, trying not to think about what happened the night before or what was going to continue to happen, and Roman’s silence ate away at his patience. “Why do you let him do this to you?” Aron said with angry bitterness. Roman glanced over, watching as Aron threw the wet cloth back into the bowl, and moved to join him at the small table.
“Why do you?” Roman countered, gesturing for Aron to take some food.
Aron’s eyes narrowed. He picked up an oatcake and poured himself some of the ale Roman had brought, telling himself he needed it when his stomach protested. He wasn’t going to stay like this for a full year. There had to be a way around it. “I have no choice, do I?” he said savagely, tearing off a bite.
Roman shrugged and took some smoked ham, sitting back in his chair and studying Aron’s angry face. “What makes you think it’s any different for me?”
Aron glared at him. “It’s not the same. You’re a slave. I’m not.” Though how exactly it was different, Aron wasn’t sure. “And you seem to have no qualms about letting him do whatever he wants, just meekly letting him have his way.” A fierce light came into his eyes. He would
never
submit that way. Roman’s dark eyes were unreadable, and there was no real way for Aron to comprehend what the slave was thinking. He had the uneasy sensation he had offended Roman.
“You’ve only been here one full day and it’s been a very trying one, so I’m not going to take that personally.” Roman’s eyes hardened, and he leaned forward. “But do not mistake my capitulation with willingness, Aron.”
Aron blinked at the vehemence in Roman’s tone, and his eyes narrowed. There was more to this man than met the eye. He set aside the food and picked up the cup of ale, taking a long swallow. He couldn’t seem to reconcile their methods of coping—Roman’s submission and his own resistance. It seemed neither of them wanted what was done, and yet they handled it differently.
Aron looked at Roman with less hostility. He was helpless, and it grated on him. “I cannot submit as you do.” It wasn’t a matter of wouldn’t: he couldn’t. It wasn’t in him. It went against every fiber of his being.
Roman shrugged again, resisting the urge to touch Aron’s hand at his grudging admission. “You don’t have to submit, Aron, you just have to obey. You have a choice to make. You’re going to be entertaining Wulfgar in his bed for the next year whether you like it or not. If you were going to choose to go back to your family, then you would have done so already.” He understood Aron’s struggle, and he ached for him, though he tried to deny it.
“That is a choice?” Aron asked, sarcasm dripping in his voice.
“Your choice is in how you handle it. You can fight him the entire way, but anger is hard to hold onto, especially when the days turn into months. You don’t have to be as submissive as I am. As I said last night, it is my nature to do so, but it is not yours.” There were things Roman kept entirely to himself, and he found pleasure in that. “Last night was nothing.” Roman saw pain and anger flash across Aron’s face at his callous words and was ashamed for saying them, but in the end, it was true.
“How would you know?” Aron leapt to his feet, knocking over the small plate of food. “I believe you enjoy his dominance of you.”
Roman rose as well, his eyes hard and intent, looking across the table at the younger man. “I know last night wasn’t as bad as it could have been. I know of the little ways Wulfgar can use to battle that pride of yours, because I know how he thinks. How would you like to be taken in front of the entire mead hall?” Aron’s eyes widened in response to that threat. “How would you like to be shared with the king’s men when they visit? He can do all of that and more,” Roman continued, his voice brittle with memory. “You’re a thrall, Aron. He owns you for a year. He can and will do anything he wishes.”
Roman turned his back on Aron, not hungry anymore. The other man at least had an end in sight, and relatively speaking, it wasn’t that far off. He took one of the scrolls off the shelf and went to another corner of the room. His entire body was tense as he tried to tune out Aron and soothe himself in his studies.
Aron glowered, staring at Roman’s back as he proceeded to ignore Aron altogether. Spinning on his heel, he paced, angry thoughts bombarding him. What did Roman know, anyway? A slave who enjoyed every bit of his master’s attentions, of course he would think Aron should just merrily lay down for Wulfgar. He might have to obey, but the thane would never have more than that.
He glanced over to where Roman sat perusing the scroll, then continued to pace. What did he care what a slave thought? He didn’t. He cared only for the fact that Wulfgar was going to return to this room and he had to try to find a way to avoid a repeat of the night before. His body twinged in discomfort at the memory.
Aron cast a look in Roman’s direction, curious, but reluctant to ask him anything. When he spoke, he attempted to keep his tone civil, but he couldn’t help the bite in it.
“Do you enjoy pain, then, Roman?”
Roman’s head jerked up, and he gave Aron a wary glance. Aron waited while he mulled over the question, then saw understanding in his dark eyes. “Not particularly, no, though there are those that like inflicting it and others who enjoy receiving it.” He set down the scroll in his lap and looked back up at Aron. “It hurt because it was your first time and Wulfgar was too excited to pay attention to your needs.”
Aron wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not. It wasn’t always going to hurt that bad. Followed on the heels of that thought was another one that made him even more nervous: both Wulfgar and Roman’s promise that he’d find pleasure in it. He glanced over to the altar of Freo. He didn’t ever want to find pleasure in it, but he didn’t want a year of pain either.
“Wulfgar will probably be more inclined to take his time tonight,” Roman said, and Aron flinched, looking away. He didn’t want Wulfgar to take his time; he didn’t want him anywhere near him. There had to be a way out of this; he was just missing it, that was all. If he sat down and thought, surely he could come up with a way.
Aron cast a quick look to Roman. “There must be a way out of this.”
Roman sighed, some of his resentment fading. He knew Wulfgar, and now that the initial fucking was over with, he would want to take his time to play with Aron’s body, teach him pleasure whether he willed it or not. The longer Aron continued to fight, the harder it was going to be for him.
“Not with your life and your family’s lives intact, Aron. Wulfgar won’t free you. Not until you’ve served him as you agreed to.” He gnawed on his upper lip in worry. It would be so much easier, for Aron and Wulfgar both, not to mention his own peace of mind, if Aron would cease his rebelling against the situation.
“Can’t you look at it as a… a rite of passage of sorts? You stood for your family and took the punishment meant for your father. There’s no shame in that, quite the opposite, in fact. There is honor in it. Can’t you accept the punishment you chose to take?” He hoped to appeal to Aron’s pride, his obvious sense of integrity. The young man had agreed to this, and to continue to fight against it demeaned the sacrifice he was making for his family.
Roman watched the internal struggle on Aron’s face, and whereas he did feel a certain amount of sympathy for him, in the long run Aron did have a choice, even if it seemed to be an impossible one. He thought he knew what Aron would decide. He must take family responsibility seriously or he never would have agreed to be a thrall, no matter what the duties were.
“A year is not such a long time. Most thralls have a longer indenture. And looking at it quite honestly, it would have taken your family much longer to recover from being burned out, if they ever recovered at all.” Roman tugged on a lock of long, dark hair, his eyes intent on Aron’s face. “Wulfgar and Osric were quite set on leaving you with nothing.” He wasn’t sure why he cared if Aron came to grips with his situation and told himself it was because he would have to live with the strife as well, though that didn’t ring quite true to him.
Aron winced. Winter was coming quickly. They wouldn’t have been prepared for it, and Wulfgar was not the only person that his father had angered with his stinginess. They would have been hard-pressed to find shelter from the snows and enough food to last through the winter. Pride warred with pride in his mind: one pride that of a man who
would
sacrifice for his family; the other, that of a man who did not know how to lay down for another and be what he was not. He knew that he had to keep his word. That was the one thing that he had left of his honor, but to just blindly accept it like this… it burned.
Roman rose and approached Aron. “You don’t strike me as a petulant boy, Aron. Had Wulfgar put you to hard labor for a year, you wouldn’t be fighting it like this. The difference is small; it’s still losing your freedom, and it’s still your body used for someone else’s gain. At least this won’t run you to an early grave.”
Aron frowned, angry and confused. He didn’t want Roman to make sense. He didn’t want to look at being turned into the thane’s whore as the same as any other duty. And yet he couldn’t deny that Roman had a point. It was his pride that rebelled so strongly against this; he was a man, and being a bed slave stripped him of his manhood in a fundamental way.
Aron shook his head, crossing to the pallet and sinking down, legs tucked up against his chest, mind spinning. He had no choice. He had to accept it, even though it grated him in every way imaginable.