Spellbound (23 page)

“Of course he did! Oh, my precious boy,” Verya wailed. Her hands cupped his cheeks and her honey eyes scanned every inch that they could see before a larger, rougher hand was gently pulling her away. Connall offered him a watery smile before stooping down to kiss his son’s forehead.

“Hi Mom, Dad,” Elion rasped while his mother sobbed into a palm, the other hand waved around wildly in an incoherent manner.

“Don’t ‘hi mom’ me!” she cried as she lunged back at her son, stroking his face and hair a little too roughly.

“Verya, it is important that he nourishes himself now that he’s awake. I’m sure you know what he likes best,” Mikhail said with a pained smile. Verya immediately began shaking her head and smoothing her blouse.

“Of course. Of course. Mama will be right back,” she sniffled before rushing out of the room. Elion exchanged a wide eyed look with the remaining people in the room before letting out a long puff of breath.

“Do you see?” he asked Mikhail, who gave him a bare nod that carried an air of amusement.

Elion’s brow furrowed tightly as he glanced around. It took him a moment to remember where he was and what exactly had happened. The second the memories hit him his body began to move on its own regard.

“Easy, Elion,” Mikhail said gently when Elion tried to lurch himself upright. “Bones are incredibly complicated to heal.”

“Where is he?” Elion rasped, his heart pounding wildly in his throat.

“Resting. The same as you are going to do.”

“I need to see him,” Elion said firmly. His father exchanged a knowing look with Mikhail, who sighed heavily.

“For a few moments, that’s it,” Mikhail finally agreed.

Elion bit back a groan when his stiff body boycotted moving from the bed. Three sets of hands guided him into a wheelchair, but it was Mikhail who escorted him down the long marble hallway of the castle turned hospital. The room that they stopped at was only a short walk, but it felt like ages had gone by before he was entering a doorway and laying his eyes on Stavros.

His eyes were closed and his swollen, bruised lips were slightly parted as he slept. Horrific bruising painted his skin and dried blood was visible through the bandages that covered sections of his body.

“Why isn’t he healed?”

“He hasn’t fed. His healing is slowed and he is refusing the healers,” Mikhail said quietly.

Elion wheeled himself to the side of the bed and yanked himself up onto unsteady feet. His palm stung as it made contact with Stavros’ cheek and his partner’s eyes shot open in fear and confusion.

“Elion!” Mikhail shouted in disbelief.

“Get out. Close the door,” Elion ordered, his eyes locked on the confused man in front of him. “Now!” The door clicked shut quietly and left them with the sounds of heavy breaths and palpable anger.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Elion shouted. “Why are you starving yourself?”

Stavros’ eyes rolled towards the ceiling, his clenched jaw ticked as he swallowed harshly, but he made no move to answer.

“You son of a bitch. Is this a pride thing? You want everyone to see how tough you are? I won’t let you do this,” Elion breathed as he crawled his way up the bed until they were eye level.

Stavros cowered back when Elion kissed him softly. Trembling, bruised lips moved against his, refusing to let up until Stavros gave in and kissed him back. Elion sighed into it, his fingers drifting to Stavros’ cheeks and his thumbs stroked lightly.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” Elion said softly, mind reeling when his lips were covered by Stavros’. Warm, nimble fingers traveled down his chest before Elion’s palm stroked over Stavros’s hip and settled in like that spot was made for him. The sounds that Elion pulled out of Stavros with each caress of his lowering hand, made his chest tighten and his breath hitch. They were muffled and strained, but they were so perfect, and when his fingers wrapped around Stavros’ erection the thick heat threatened to burn him. It was almost too much for Elion and Stavros wasn’t even touching him. He was helpless to pull his eyes away as he watched Stavros’ eyes flutter shut and his chest heave as the friction took him apart. The sounds of the hospital outside the room faded to nothing, drowned out by the shallow pants from Stavros.

When an unsteady hand slid up his thigh, Elion’s head fell back with a harsh moan. It wasn’t the intimacy of the touch; it was the heat and unspoken words behind it. Stavros’ grip was tight, but not painful. It was demanding, but begging. Rough fingers grazed Elion’s skin and he was gritting his teeth and quickening his strokes, daring the ache in his arm to flare when Stavros’ back arched off the bed and a strangled cry burst from his throat. And that’s how Elion came; with the whisper of a touch and his lips arresting bruised flesh under Stavros’ jaw.

Neither of them spoke as their breaths returned to a safe pace. Elion’s trembling hands swiftly cleaned the both of them with the sheet at the foot of the bed before launching it into the corner of the pristine room. He wet his lips repeatedly as he searched for a fresh blanket in the cabinets, grabbing two when he found them. Stavros remained silent as Elion covered him before leaning back into the bed and searching out the tips of his fingers.

“I’m so sorry,” Elion whispered. He desperately wanted to tell Stavros how he never meant to fail him, how he had tried his hardest to keep him unharmed, just like he had said he would, but it hurt to speak, hurt to admit how hard he had failed. Stavros remained tensed and his gaze avoided coming to close to Elion’s. “Stavros, I-”

“Go,” Stavros said quietly.

“What?”

“Get out!” Stavros bellowed. Elion stumbled backwards off the bed with fat, wet drops weighing down his eyelashes. His lips parted, but his tongue was too knotted to form a single word. Stavros’ fingers sank into the blankets, his eyes filled with disgust and anger as his injuries began to fade before Elion’s eyes.

Elion was choking on a sob when he pulled open the door and grabbed the hallway wall for support. Mikhail was at his side in an instant with robed arms slipping around his waist to hold him up. Elion fought the hold, his weak hands shoving uselessly. Mikhail only tightened his grip and began hushing him as they moved down the hallway.

“If you wish to keep your eyes, I suggest you look away!” Mikhail barked at passing staff. Mikhail closed Elion’s room door behind them and eased Elion onto the bed.

The chilled air hit his exposed back as he dropped his elbows onto his knees and buried his face in his palms. Mikhail’s arms rested lightly on Elion’s shoulders with just enough pull that Elion’s forehead ended up pressed against the older man’s stomach as sobs racked through him.

When the door opened a short time later and new weight made the bed dip, Elion knew that his parents were back. He couldn’t find it in him to be ashamed or even try and stop the misery tearing him asunder as he sank into his mother’s arms.

~~

Verya sat beside her son’s bed singing softly as she traced shapes into the palm of his hand with her fingertips. Elion’s eyes had settled on something outside the large windows hours prior and had yet to move away. His expression was blank, even when an ugly, lingering sniffle made his body shake. Food sat untouched beside him along with tea that had gone cold. He flinched with every gentle touch from healers and nurses, and refused to let the Council even enter the room. The trauma he had experienced made itself clear in the way his eyes went dull and his body tightened with every unexpected move around him.

The sun was rising when Elion finally spoke, “I’m going home today.”

“The healer said-”

“I don’t give a fuck what anyone says! I’m not a child,” Elion shouted at his mother.

Verya nodded, pursing her lips before standing up and walking out of the room. Connall gave his son a sad, knowing look before joining her.

No one was going to stop Elion from going home. He had agreed to give the healers time to work on the most severe of his injuries, but he was under no false illusion. He knew that there were wounds that would never be able to be healed. Magic was not a cure all and it always came with a price. The healers that were coming in constantly were only grasping at straws for the sake of Mikhail and his demands that they try harder and work longer, as if that would rebuild every speck of shattered bone and remove the scars forming in his mind. He had no want to stay in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar place, and maybe most of his pain wasn’t from that, but from the man lying in his own room just down the hallway.

A short time later Elion paused outside the door he knew would reveal Stavros if opened. The blinds were partially cracked, just enough for him to make out the hands resting on top of a bare stomach free of any bandages or wounds. Elion closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath when his lungs began to burn. His eyes stung, but no tears fell and for that he was grateful.

Chapter 18

The first time Elion left his apartment after his release, he nodded politely to officers who greeted him enthusiastically. It took him biting a hole in his cheek to keep from swinging his fists or screaming at them to back off. He knew he wasn’t the same man he had been the last time he had walked into work, but they didn’t seem to see it. He wasn’t sure how since he didn’t even recognize himself in the mirror. Well, he hadn’t before he smashed it only hours after returning home.

He spent weeks laying on his couch staring at the ceiling, listening to his mother putter around until he demanded that she go home; shouting that he didn’t need anyone and he didn’t want anyone. Her heartbreak was written clearly across her delicate features, but Elion couldn’t bring himself to take his words back. He couldn’t bring himself to cater to the comfort of someone else.

Mikhail’s door was open and the older man did a double take when Elion walked in. The pen in his hand fell and with a flick of his wrist, the door closed and the room silenced.

“No need,” Elion said tiredly, because he
was
tired. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d fallen sleep without hybrid liquors to shut down his mind. He had lost track of the hours in the day after the first week of being locked inside his apartment with the curtains drawn. Now he knew what he had to do, and it was probably what he should have done much sooner.

He dropped a thin booklet of signed papers in front of Mikhail and waited for the sorcerer to look them over. Mikhail frowned at the signature on the last page, the pen in his hand hovering over the clear line under it and his aged eyes looked up intently.

“You’re sure?” Mikhail asked cautiously. Elion nodded immediately, stiffening his upper lip when the papers were slid back to him. “You will still have to be released by psych and pass a physical before you can return to duty.”

“Fine.” Elion shrugged. Mikhail stood up then, his elegant robes swishing as he came around the large desk. Elion found himself in a tight embrace and inhaling the scent of smoky herbs and sweet magic, and when he finally pulled back, his eyes stayed focused on the ornate rug under their feet. He couldn’t look up and risk Mikhail seeing what would be so clearly read on Elion’s face.

“I’ll go clean out my desk,” Elion muttered. “It was an honor, sir.” He could feel Mikhail’s sad frown, but he couldn’t bring himself to spare a final glance before he walked out.

Elion paused in front of the closed office door, his fingers rested on the knob until almost ten minutes had ticked by. The emptiness he found inside was resounding. He swallowed hard and crossed the room with a worn box in hand. Stavros’ desk was a mess; his computer was on and a chewed pen rested on the keyboard. That was all it took for Elion to find himself trying to force down the lump in his throat.

He made short work of the items he needed to clear out. Case files were stacked in a neat pile to be filed away after he was gone and small knickknacks were tossed in the beaten up box. Despite only having a few things accumulated over the months, it felt like he was packing up his home, and not even actually doing that had been so hard. It had been exciting to leave the nest, to spread his wings and prove to his parents that he would survive the big, scary world, and he had. He had managed to do it for years. He had managed it until everything was ripped out from underneath him by a beautiful, scowling man.

When he was done, the bottom of the box was scattered with a few family photos he had tucked away in his desk drawers, several chewed pens, and the small trinkets he had found in the market; the ones he had thought would make their dreary office a little homier. That was it. Nothing grand or special enough to make him want to curl up and cry at the sense of loss that had magnified since he had walked in. He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face, his fingers brushing over the puckered scar that hooked along his jaw.

He hugged the box to his chest tightly as he slowly made his way down the hallway. His eyes stayed downcast in protest to the greetings and shoulder slaps that made him cringe. When he slammed into another person, it didn’t surprise him, but when he began to part his lips with forced apologies it was only his breath that escaped.

Stavros immediately retracted the hand that had shot out to keep Elion from falling on his face. Elion tore his eyes away slowly, letting them punish him with the sight of haunting eyes and velvet lips. He knelt down and quickly gathered the items that had spilled, his joints protesting the demanding stance and making him wince as he stood. The healers assured him that, with time and therapy, he would be almost as good as new. Almost. Never again would his body forget the beatings it had taken. But it was for the man standing in front of him, healthy once more, and that was enough to make it okay.