**Interlude 21 - Those are the voices of my brothers, darling; I love the company of wolves

Without the vampire haunting its rustling walls the room seemed colder. The curtains sighed listlessly, drawing the night’s cool shadows into the bedroom.

Though the bed still smelled of his master’s skin and though he could still feel the press of his lips on his throat, the room had the air of a crypt, silent and devoid, and it was easy for the boy to slip out of bed and exit the room on bare feet. The heavy doors closed with a soft click behind him.

Fabien paused only briefly at the door to his own room. Faintly, he could hear the sound of movement within. His thief’s tread was silent and Émile did not hear the door open. Through the thin crack he could see their back as they rummaged through the drawers in his room like a dog left unattended. Their head was bent low and he could not see their face. Whatever other mischief they were engaged in, they had not disobeyed his instructions to stay.

He wordlessly closed the door and the sound of movement ceased. He continued down the hall without waiting to see if it resumed.

He found Colombe working diligently at curing sausages in the kitchen, up to her elbows in salt. She was tired, her eyes haggard, but as always she was glad to see him. She insisted on inspecting the wound at his hip before accepting his offer of assistance. Reflected in her dark eyes were questions that would never be voiced as she wordlessly inspected the great, jagged claw marks scoring his side.

It was several hours before the vampire returned, flushed hot with blood and in good spirits. He found Fabien rather less committed to stocking the kitchen pantry than entertaining Colombe as she did so, and swept him up in an embrace smelling of the night. His mouth tasted of iron.

Colombe stiffened as the master of the house closed the distance between them and gladly took the first opportunity to slip silently from the room.

Tariq was in too high of spirits to postpone the toothsome matter of the collar now that it had been proposed to him and he urged, with indulgent cunning, that they take advantage of the first tendrils of dawn breaking in the sky. After Fabien was coaxed into fresh clothes and Fakhir, regal in a silk tea-gown the colour of a fresh bruise, had shared a goodbye kiss, the pair set off into the street that was only just beginning to awaken.

The vampire had a destination in mind and it was not long before the baying of dogs at play confirmed they were not far from the kennel he sought.

He inquired at the gate and they were pointed to a simple building off the street. A great, brown mastiff in the corner lifted its boxy head and watched them keenly with amber eyes as they entered. All manner of clasps, buckles, spikes, studs, and name plates gleamed in the golden morning light. The air was heavy with the residue of pungent tanning chemicals that stained the hands of the man who stood to greet them a faun brown.

Tariq did the talking, cooly summarizing what they sought, and left Fabien to peruse and plan, interjecting only occasionally with smoky suggestions regarding practical applications. The vampire made sure Fabien was satisfied with his design before leaving strict instructions as to how to conduct the delivery. He left a sum for the transaction that made the leatherworker trip over his own feet with how deep his grateful bow dipped, and he was quick to promise he would have it finished before evening.

The vampire took the boy home and then to his bed, where he was praised by a wicked tongue for his diligent care of his pet. That tongue found its way to places that had Fabien whimpering into the palm of his hand. They fell asleep curled together in his bed, limbs heavy with delightful exhaustion.

It was Fabien who awoke to the velvet black night first, Fabien who slipped away without disturbing his companion. A parcel had been left just as his master had instructed and, inside, nestled in brown paper, was the collar he had carefully described. Every stitch was in place, the metal glinting when he tested its weight in his hand. It was exquisitely made, sturdy, and exactly as he had pictured it around Émile’s slender throat.

Fabien’s silhouette cut knife sharp through the dim light of darkened hall. He stood with the parcel gripped in his hand, while his lean fingertips caressed  the leather, pristine, new and beautifully fragrant. The boy’s lips parted, and for a moment he lost himself to the examination.

There was a newness to it, the feel of something made to his specifications. He had never owned an item not stolen, or charitably gifted him by a passing stranger with a tender heart. The thought of it warm and snug around his pet’s throat made the boy’s breath catch.

“Dieu pardonne.” He breathed, not with displeasure.

The urchin straightened and carefully folded the paper back to conceal his treasure. He turned sharply and made his way to his room, a location of privacy where he briefly might not be disturbed. There was movement outside the door, before it was carelessly flung open and closed behind a backwards kick.

The boy entered happy and distracted, and offered no greeting nor word for his pet as he swept across the room. He sank onto the edge of bed, brushing warm limbs aside with a knock of the hand should they cross his path or not move swiftly enough. His grey eyes were luminous, his hair pleasingly tangled and knotted with sweat from nights spent in his master’s sheets. There was something new in the way he moved, some feline self-assurance, a boldness perhaps which had not been there before. On close observation, it was as if some invisible tether deep inside his spine had been severed. His joints moved, well oiled and easy, his chin seemed as though it were held a little higher in the air.

The urchin carefully slid the strap of leather from its protective packaging, and stretched it between his long palms. It was almost ebony black, and finer than anything he had held before. There was a softness to it, a suppleness in the way it moved and slid across the skin. The front, treated and gleaming, had been embossed with curling vinery that gave it an air of heraldic refinery. But the strap was broader in style than the collars worn by guard dogs in this city, more suited to a long necked sighthound.

The boy brushed his thumb across the stitching which ran along its length, dark and gleaming as blood. He lingered here for some time, feeling the notches of thick cord that secured leather to leather. He turned the collar over in his hands to inspect the buckle, crafted of unyielding steel that could be tightened and indeed locked should it need to be.

Not a word had left the youth’s lips since he arrived, he appeared far too engrossed in his inspection for his usual boisterous chatter. He lifted his prize to the light, and his fine sharped eyes devoured the ring of silver that glinted at the centre of the collar. It was elegantly attratched, and flanked impressively by two small red gems that shone like droplets of blood.

“Well now, not a single flaw. C'est un chef d'oeuvre.” He sighed contentedly.

The room that Fabien returned to had clearly been thoroughly picked through in his absence. The chest of drawers was pulled away from the wall, drawers sagging half-open and cupboard doors askew. Clothes had been shoved aside with a few nicer articles removed entirely as though for inspection before being discarded on the floor. What scant treasures had been unearthed had been piled in inscrutable order in a heap near the bed until they too lost their appeal and were abandoned.

However they had entertained themself after rummaging through his things, his charge was currently curled on top of his blankets, occupied in sleep. Their chest rose and fell with their even breaths and the familiar warm, animal weight of them in his bed mingled their moonlight scent with the smell of his skin in the sheets.

Émile stirred groggily as he pushed them aside. Their eyes were concealed beneath a tangle of black hair but he could see the dark stain at the corner of their mouth - the memory of his hand written on their skin.

“Je veux sortir,” they demanded, their vow of stony silence apparently broken. Their voice was raspy with sleep and when they stretched in a tight shiver of muscle, the sliver of pale skin exposed along their hip was dappled with the soft lilac of recent bruises.

They blinked blearily at him, the hint of a frown haunting their mouth upon realizing he was not speaking to them. Their green gaze followed his and they stretched their neck to see what he held so adoringly in his hands.

They examined the loop of leather and steel impassively. It wasn’t until the light caught the gems and they winked wine-red that the curl of their lip exposed their teeth in a silent sneer.

“I’m not interested in whatever jeux malades you and the old man are playing now,” they warned imperiously, turning their head aside. A stippling of bruised skin darkened their slender throat like the ghost of rapturous kisses.

“Just laisse-moi sortir de cette maudite pièce,” they murmured petulantly into the crook of their elbow as they laid their head back down on the bed.

Fabien had appeared to disregard the desperate savagery inflicted on his room. He had stepped light of foot over crumpled clothing, careful to avoid his beloved playing cards which littered the floor near his bed like pathetic confetti. If he cared that his pet had raided cupboards like a hungry gamin seeking scraps, he did not reveal it

The boy ignored first Émile's sleep heavy demand entirely. He continued to remain preoccupied in his examination of supple leather. With head bowed and sharp features obscured by his tangled hair, any flicker of guilt in the fox-cunning of his eyes remained concealed.

Their next words caused him to lift his chin, and turn his head towards them for the first time.

"Non?" The youth sought the arresting green of Émile's eyes. "Well, what a damn relief. Perhaps now I will finally have some peace." The urchin sighed heavily, his lips curled with amusement, though a genuine exhaustion haunted his voice. He did not elaborate on what this could possibly mean. Nor did he deny the master of the house's involvement in whatever this was.

"I don't know, mon cher. Returning to all… this -" He gestured to the ransacked cupboards, and then the miserable pile of his items. "Does not really inspire me, you know? Does not really help your plea. Plutôt l'inverse. You can see where I am coming from, I'm sure."

Fabien stretched out his lean legs. He curled the strap of leather around his long fingers, and caressed the raised patterns with his agile thumb. His eyes trailed over Émile's shoulders as he spoke.

"I could of course be persuaded. Maybe I'll let you out, for a short time at least." He waited to see if Émile's attention was his before he continued.

"If first you do something for me, of course." He said with nauseatingly disingenuous softness.

The smooth slope of Émile’s hunched shoulders remained impassive as Fabien spoke, coolly indifferent to his criticisms. However, as he gestured around the disordered room, a single green eye followed the motion of his hands. A faint wisp of self-satisfaction curled through their gaze.

“Je m'ennuyais," they murmured accusingly into the crook of their elbow. They fidgeted with their sleeve before archly adding under their breath, “And the servant will enjoy the excuse to tend to your room I’m sure.”

The boy’s following comment found its target and they lifted the cool green of their eyes to his gaze. There was a restless hunger in their eyes that their feigned detachment could not quite conceal as they looked levelly up at him, the smooth skin of their pale throat speckled with dark fingerprints.

They regarded him from behind a sweep of inky hair before rolling their eyes with practiced disdain.

“Oh, oui,” they said sardonically. “I know about your irritating deals and bad bargains.”

They stirred, rolling long-sufferingly on their side and rising only enough to slide forward along the bed until they could rest their cheek on his leg above his knee. Their chest was unexpectedly warm as it pressed into his hip, half-curled around him as they were, and the press of their head was an intimate weight like a cat on his lap. He could smell their sleep-warm skin and feel their bones, surprisingly delicate like those of a bird, as they moved. Their breath was hot on the top of his thigh. They pointedly ignored the collar he fingered.

“Fine,” they said without much emotion. Their eyes were green as bottled glass, their well-formed mouth all the more comely for the bruise darkening it like a splash of blood. They did not meet his gaze. “Get it over with so I can find somewhere else to be.”

"Of course," he acknowledged with a nod of the head.

"The perfect excuse to behave like une bête sauvage, non? I expected nothing less."

Fabien continued to turn the collar over in his hands as he spoke. The glow of light in the room gathered around the red stones in such a way they glinted like blood between his palms. Émile’s next words caused the urchin’s fingers to pause, and when he met their gaze, irritation had turned the calm grey of his expression to storm dark.

"Non.” He snapped. “Instead, it falls on me to clean up after your mess. Not that I-..." He trailed off.

The sudden closeness between them disarmed the boy. His lips parted as he drew in a sharp intake of breath, and his hand stirred. His wrist lifted, poised as though he meant to reach out and smooth his palm affectionately across their hair.

The pale haired urchin relinquished his grip on the collar. It was left abandoned as his side, the interest in it replaced entirely with Émile’s bruised mouth.

His rough fingertips sought their throat, and he stroked there, fingering over his own handiwork like a potter examining work fresh from the kiln. He continued this way for a time, moving to stroke the soft ball of their shoulder with relish. He moistened his lips before he continued to speak.

“Always in such a rush.” He murmured thickly, as he brushed his thumb across their lower lip. “Like you have somewhere to be.”

With one hand he loosened the fabric at his waist, plucking fabric free. His other hand remained near the mouth, preoccupied with stroking the heat of their soft skin. Mostly he was wearily gentle, but sometimes he pressed in such a way that tested to see if their flesh held the memory of the pain he'd inflicted.

His weight shifted, and the muscles of his thighs loosened and parted. The fabric there was stretched tight, his growing hardness apparent, though he made no moves to free himself. That he left to his pet, and if they met his eyes once more, they'd find him quietly expectant.

A thin edge of brittle pleasure haunted their haughty lips and slanted their brow with self-satisfaction as their sudden nearness distracted the boy from his scolding. However, they did not have long to bask in it before he reached for their bruised neck and their breath fell still in their chest.

He would feel the faint shiver that moved through them at the press of his hand on their throat. They were motionless, taken by an animal stillness that trembled deliciously under his fingers as he stroked skin and inspected wine-dark flesh. Their eyes were dark with poorly-concealed distaste at this examination, though they remained silent under his touch.

They lifted their gaze when his fingers brushed their lips. There was a judder as he spoke, a wolfish flash in their eyes that warned of their white teeth coming together in a snap, his blood spurting hot on their tongue - but instead their lips parted and his finger when he drew it back glistened wetly from their mouth.

They winced involuntarily at the prodding to sore skin and dropped their gaze. Their dark hair was tousled rakishly with sleep.

When his thighs parted expectantly they didn’t look up at him - they didn’t need to. The muscle of their stomach tightened as they inched forward. Their breath was hot as they dragged their lips across him through his clothing.

It was indulgent, bordering on lazy how they sucked him to firmness with their head in his lap. The sound their mouth made as they lapped at eager skin with tongue and lips was shocking, shamelessly obscene in the quiet of that big, dark house.

When the strain was almost painful they paused, breath hot on his groin, and shifted to free their hand. Carefully, skillfully, they pulled his increasingly tight clothing, now dark with a damp spot from their mouth, down to free his impatient cock.

They did not hesitate, but lifted their head and took him into the wet heat of their exquisite mouth. They would have had to turn their head to look at him and this made it easy not to as they sucked him on their silken tongue.

Fabien's breath grew quick at the wet heat of Émile's mouth against his fingertips. His easy composure faltered as their head lowered to him, and his heart began to quicken its pace.

He followed their descent with quiet pleasure. His muscles had softened, his spine slack and head tilted as he regarded them with an expectancy that was almost princely.

At the press of their lips, his cock twitched eagerly beneath his clothes. The urchin urged them on with softly murmured approval which turned into writhing impatience. Soon he could not control the soft upward thrust of his hips against their mouth.

The boy was panting when they freed him. He moved to eagerly press the slick tip of his cock against their lips, impatience shivering through his lean limbs. When they took him into their mouth, his trembling hand found the back of their skull.

The urchin fingertips raked through Émile's dark hair. His thumb affectionately caressed the scar sliced across their scalp, and his breath groaned at the back of his throat.

"You really are …ha," His voice trailed off into a low moan, before he continued breathlessly. "Very good."

"The things they teach at école privée, mm?"

The urchin cradled the back of their head as he spoke. He appeared content at first to let them work him without interference. The hand not resting upon their skull rediscovered their throat. He stroked across soft skin.

"Deeper." He rasped. "Choke on me."

This was not an instruction. He pushed his cock into their throat, forced his way across Émile' tongue with the press of his hand. His body moved against them, his hips curled in slow, indulgent thrusts as he fucked their mouth.

"il y a une bonne pute."

The pale haired youth's hand slid down across their collar bone, and snaked beneath their shirt and down their chest. He pinched sensitive nubs of flesh there, his breath groaning at the warmth of their skin.

Émile’s eyes were lidded. Their dark lashes decadently fringed the sumptuous green of their eyes as they sucked him. The flick of their tongue was playful, skillful as they teased the slick tip of his cock with their lips.

They were not shirking - the wet heat of their mouth perfectly tempting as they slid him across their wicked tongue - but nor were they playacting for him, and there was a trace of idle boredom in their laconic movements.

Fabien’s excitement could not be refused for long, and they shifted their shoulders to take him deeper, dragging him over their tongue with, at least, a precise imitation of relish. They trembled like a hare at the touch of his fingers to the scar glinting across their scalp but nudged sweetly into his hand as their head bobbed in his lap with their movement.

A spreading heat coloured the back of their neck at his praise. His succeeding words quickly scorched their chagrined satisfaction to a wisp of smoke. Their mouth stiffened and they pulled back as though to speak but found resistance in the guiding hand on the back of their head, a dog pulled up short on a leash. They did not protest but eased back to their task with courtly disdain, their eyes closed in haughty dismissal of his mockery.

Their scorn did little to dilute the pleasure of their beautiful mouth around his cock as they worked him.

They weren’t anticipating the sudden thrust into their throat and they choked, gasp stifled as neatly as though muzzled. They sputtered and reflexively lifted their head but found the firm resistance of his palm unyielding. Their nails dug into his thigh as they struggled to accommodate him.

The rough fingers grazing their nipples sent a jolt down their belly and they squirmed. The skin beneath their shirt was tantalizingly warm. When he pinched they whimpered around his cock, their breath gushing fast and hot through their nose.

The tangible pain at the indignity of this whining pulled from their own throat forced them to recover. It was stubborn, willful loathing that shone wet in their eyes as they took him deep in their throat until he bottomed out.

His skin glistened wet as he fucked their mouth. They tried desperately not to lean into his hand beneath their shirt.

Fabien had the decency not to laugh or smirk at his beautiful pet as they struggled around him. Perhaps because their whining breath, smothered by his aroused flesh, was almost enough to finish him.
The urchin moaned appreciatively at Émile's ability to take him to the hilt. The boy's neck arched back, and both his direction and attentiveness faltered.

His cock twitched against their tongue, and his breath shivered and stopped for a beat or two, before it returned softly gasping. His hand on their head relaxed, a small reprieve from the insistent pressure that had kept them where he wanted. His palm cupped the back of their skull, and he felt the movement of their body as he slid into the heat of their mouth.

With the thumb of his other hand, he continued to stroke and circle their nipples with a growing intensity. It was only when this threatened to distract too much from their task that his touch slid up to their throat instead.

The boy's focus remained fragmentary. With eyes closed and breath heavy, he succumbed to the steady rhythm of his hips as he thrust into the slick heat of their mouth. His fingertips raked fondly through Émile's inky hair before his hand slid away.

"Good, oui. Just-" He rasped. "Ahh… just like that."

His hand moved, fingers trembling and awkward, to unfasten buttons and expose his taut chest. When his grasp returned, this time he seized a handful of Émile's dark hair. He held them this way, slackening his grip only enough to let them work him over.

The hand that had not abandoned their soft skin was devoted to feeling their throat. Or rather, feeling himself within it, the flex of their muscles as they sucked around him.

Fabien's body grew taut and trembling. There was a tension in him, building from his core and in the lengthening and deepening of his breath.

"Arrêt." He gasped. "Arrêt, Émile. Wait."

The command was followed by the boy's hand as he hoisted them by the hair carefully up and away from his agonisingly hard cock. He forced their eyes to meet, his breath panting as he examined their exquisite features, their wet mouth. He stroked their bruised throat as though they were a marble sculpture he had breathed life into.

The youth leaned in close. His lips brushed the soft skin of their jaw as he paused, and savoured.

"D'accord. I am close." He murmured into their skin. "When I come, avale moi."

With this made clear, he pushed their head back down towards his slick skin. They would not have to work hard to bring him over the brink.

Émile was, in credit to their good breeding, swift to recover their poise. Though the corner of their eyes were wet with unbidden tears at their struggle to accommodate him, they held him with perfect graciousness at the back of their quivering throat.

When the pressure of his hand at the back of their head loosened, they took the opportunity to carefully raise their chin, the soft flat of their tongue diligently sliding along his skin. They sucked softly at the swollen head of his cock, their breath hot. The tip of their tongue teasingly flicked his slit before enveloping the tip in the agonizing, delicious warmth of their mouth.

Their nipples were firm where he grazed them. Whenever he rolled them between deft fingers they shuddered, their shivery breath veering perilously near a moan. His hand moving to their throat was blessed reprieve from the potent distraction and they leaned into it like a dog reassured by the weight of a leash.

They eased him deeper into their mouth, letting him thrust between the roof of their mouth and their hungry tongue. Their exhaled breath was a high, needy whine despite themselves. He could feel their muscles flex along his side as they ground their hips against the bed, deprived and frustrated at the lack of friction.

Émile did not stop when instructed. It wasn’t until he bodily lifted them that they raised their gaze.

The gentle green of their eyes was hazy, ponds choked with exuberant duckweed that concealed their dark depths, and did not quite meet his. Their tempting lips parted as they panted for air. Their chin was slick, their spit mingling with the salt of his arousal. They were perfectly exquisite, the stippling of bruises darkening their mouth and throat casting them as an elegant, weathered thing, like a fine, aged antique glowing beneath a patina of grime.

They flinched at his warm breath along their jaw. Their skin smelled like a forest floor after rain and was hot to the touch.

They did not make any sign that they had understood his instruction. However, they did not need any coaxing to return their mouth to his slick skin.

And when he thrust and thrust again, stilling with a groan deep in the back of their throat with his dick hot and full along the length of their tongue, they obediently swallowed the gush of heat that filled their mouth with sudden warmth. It left briny salt on their tongue and on the inside of their teeth. Their throat flexed as they swallowed, their mouth quivering around him as they obediently held him deep in their petulant mouth.

Fabien's spine was unstrung. He melted from his core, muscles slack and lips parted as Émile took him back against their tongue. The boy's eyes closed, and his limbs shivered feverishly against them as he murmured soft, desperate encouragement.

He came moaning, thrust deep across their tongue as his hand grasped their dark hair to the point of pain. He was left shivering, his skin flushed and grey eyes made soft with pleasure. He could not prevent his hand from stroking dotingly across their scalp.

"T-trés bien. Now show me." He instructed softly, as he eased himself from their mouth.

"That's it, open your mouth. Show me how good you've been."

The urchin patiently waited, his hands still gentle on the back of Émile's skull. Whether they had the patience or not, the youth hoisted them back up to his eye level. His lips met theirs, hard and hungry to taste himself on their tongue.

"There's mon bon loup." He half groaned against their lips.

Still Fabien did not release them. His grip on their hair was unyielding, there was no promise of separation, no swift dismissal for a job well done.

"Don't think that I am neglectful of this." The golden haired boy continued, as his hand sought and claimed their wrist. He tugged on the red thread, still valiantly firm in its position despite the worrying emergence of frayed threads. His movements were sluggish, awkward, like one drunk. His voice was still breathless.

"But the situation has changed." He watched his pets expression as he spoke.

"So we must discuss the conditions of your release from this room.. after that very nice distraction."

The youth's grip tightened in anticipation.

"Ah, non, we are not finished here yet, Émile. But we can be, quite quickly."

The boy reached behind him, his long fingers flexing as they strained to reach the collar that had been nudged aside. He hooked the silver loop with his finger and brought it to their eye level.

"That I leave with you, chéri."

"You will wear this, you will let me put it on you. I will open that door, and the house is yours to roam as you like." The red gems, so much like freshly spilt blood, glinted in his hand.

"You come here again only when I call you, when I want you. It is simple, non?"

"And all the better for you if it is not a struggle."

The boy did not present them with an alternative. There was only this. His hand firm in its grasp, his voice clear, calm and unflinching. No pity encircled his pupil in a gleam of copper brilliance, no doubt twitched at his youthful mouth. Whatever was coming seemed inevitable.

Émile had disappeared to whatever dark grotto they slipped away to when all that was needed of them was their hands, their mouth, and the pleasing, animal heat of their body. They shivered where he stroked them, reflexively whining around him as he tugged their hair. The thin sliver that could be seen of their eyes beneath dark lashes was blissfully distant.

They were loath to separate. Sticky spit smeared their lips as he eased himself from between them.

They did not hesitate to open their mouth when so coarsely bid, whorishly exposing the pearly slick of their wet tongue for his approval. Their mouth tasted of seawater, and he could feel the hot pulse of arousal compelling the point of their tongue to run needily over the edge of his teeth before he pulled away.

His beautiful pet, their skin soft and balmy as though with exquisite fever, moved to pull away from him. Confusion gathered soft as dust when they were not released.

Their gaze dragged slowly to the thread around their wrist when he tugged it. Their expression was blank, uncomprehending, their eyes glazed with dumb, animal want that had not yet been extinguished. Pink roses had bloomed becomingly in their cheeks.

Understanding dawned slowly. At mention of their pleasing distraction they moved to forcefully jerk their wrist away from his grip, firm enough they would have slipped from him like the flick of a fox’s tail had he not tightened in anticipation of their refusal.

“Non,” they said distantly. The hazy fog in their expression was burning away, steadily replaced by the flickers of a familiar anger that simmered hotly as they listened in wretched disbelief as he continued speaking.

They fixed on the collar in his hands with such hateful scorn it was a wonder it didn’t crumble to blackened ash in his hands - though it was spared, perhaps, by the damp misery that collected in their expression as they studied it. They flinched as he drew it near, tugging against his grip like a miserable dog on an equally miserable leash.

“Non,” they repeated imperiously. “Non, non, I did… you said-” They bit off these words with a frustrated gnashing of teeth. Their chest heaved, the bubbling tarpool of the black anger that seethed in their chest warring with the deep pool of their abject misery and leaving them suspended precariously between.

Their eyes, when they lifted to meet his, were the perfect crystalline green of emeralds as though in rivalry with the bloody gems that glistened in the boy’s hand.

“Why.” It could hardly be considered a question, spat as it was with such poorly-restrained resentment licking its edges. But the restraint, threadbare though it was, was there, and it demanded an answer nonetheless, those eyes hard and painfully lovely in their bruised face.

Fabien weathered the early sparks of Émile's anger in silence. His sharp features remained calm, impassive as he waited for their understanding to solidify. Their angry refusal did not move him, but their questioning, their confusion did. A sharp pang of guilt seared the boy's chest, and his head was flooded with the recollection of what they had told him of their past. It was fortunate for them both, that he did not allow his pity for them to soften his eyes. It did not swim to the surface, colouring the mask of perfect indifference that he currently wore.

Instead, he turned to memories of the wolf. He thought about his dear friend's terrified eyes, he focused on the ache of torn flesh at his side. It was this that sharpened his resolve.

"Non. Not what I asked, Émile." The boy replied, as he lowered the collar to his thigh and reached for their chin.

"This was all you."He murmured, as he stroked the corner of their mouth with infuriating gentleness.

The urchin met the fire of his pet's gaze unflinchingly.

"You really want to torment yourself with such questions?" The boy replied wearily.

"The same reason you are here in my bed, chéri. The same reason Monsieur gave you to me. What more to say?" He answered with a roll of the shoulders.

"Because you belong to me, Émile. Because I want you to. Because it will make me happy. Such is your purpose here, non?"

He lowered his rough hand to the soft skin of their throat. His grip on their hair had not loosened, but the youth was no longer able to proceed without releasing them.

"Now let's see how fine it looks. Sit up for me, and stay. We are nearly done here, and then this door opens for you."

The boy's hand loosened, and he released the handful of inky strands held possessively in his grasp. His hand returned to the collar, the muscles in his arms tense as he waited to see how they would respond.

Fabien could feel the tense set of Émile’s jaw when he took their chin in his hand. His words were met with the baring of their white teeth like a dog backed into a corner. They were trembling softly in his lap, body hot and quivering as though against the urge to bite bloody the finger that so presumptuously stroked their ever-lovely, still-wet mouth.

Resentment simmered in their expression as they blackly met his gaze.

"Non," they said decisively, as though this would settle the matter. Their steely calm was laced with cracks in their composure that showed the unhappy hostility bubbling beneath.

"You'll do it anyway, I know you will." Their attempt to twist away, to hide their eyes from his scrutiny was thwarted by the grasp that held them fast by the hair and their breath was a low gasp of pain. "But I won't give you my blessing. Je ne vais pas le faire sentir bien.”

They were vibrating with the force of their helpless rage and their eyes, framed in dark lashes, were venomous.

"You're just another servant to him." It was matter-of-fact, their voice low and even. "He had no problem fucking me in his bed, and never once spoke your name. Servants and whores get paid. But you wet his dick for free. No wonder he keeps you happy for less than he’d have to pay a cheap whore." The vulgar words brimmed with contemptuous disgust in their elegant mouth.

They sat up in one motion, pulling away as though thankful for the distance between them, and turned their head dismissively away from him. The line of their jaw traced a graceful line along the slender curve of their bared neck.

They did not balk, nor try to pull away, but only spoke one last time with a chilled dignity that belied their exposed throat before lapsing into a frosty silence. “I’m not your dog. Va te faire foutre.”

Fabien did not pause to consider Émile's anger burning molten beneath their beautiful skin. Their early protests were met with disinterest, brushed from his clothes like embers sparking to ash on the night air.

Weeks, months no less spent in confinement had bleached his skin to whiteness. The scars of his rope burned wrists were now visible only with a catch of the light.

The urchin flinched at Émile's words as though struck with a blow. His breath caught in his throat, though he did not interrupt. There was only a soft creak of leather as his grasp tightened on the collar in his hands. His scars glinted.

The boy's finely shaped eyes were fixed on Émile, even as they turned from him. They were as dark as shards of volcanic glass.

"Eh bien, c'est très drôle, parce que," he replied softly.

"From where I am sitting, tu ressembles exactement à mon chien."

If he had planned to be gentle with them, their words had gained the opposite result. The collar came about their beautiful throat like a snare, and with it Émile was pulled back against Fabien's chest.

"The dog of a lowly…, "He snarled their ear, half choking them as he jostled the collar into place.. "...ill-bred, uneducated, uncultured, penniless servant."

With each word, his hands moved to secure, then buckle and tighten. Fabien's fingers were artful, supremely gifted with work such as this. The latching of the collar, complex in its design and craft, and could not be removed by any but his hands.

The silver hoop that dangled beneath their chin jingled happily, as though pleased to finally greet their skin. And sandwiched between thick leather, small discs of silver ran in a line along the collar's length.

"Think yourself lucky I do not chain you outside in the mud. Count your stars that I am not feeding you scraps on the floor."

The pale haired youth grouped Émile's upper arm, and hauled them from their privileged position to the floor by his feet. They were given no opportunity to rise or scrabble away. He kicked them in the ribs, once, twice, third time. Then his bare foot came to rest, pressing into their back or chest - whichever way they had fallen beneath him.

"Speak to me like that again, and I will."

Fabien paused, trembling faintly, before with a sigh he crouched beside his beautiful pet. His eyes were still hard as he hooked two fingers beneath the collar, and hoisted Émile up towards him. But when his mouth found theirs, he kissed them with deep, satisfied relish.

"It suits you, mon cœur." He breathed hotly against their lips.

"Now go occupy yourself like a good dog."

Fabien stood, and in doing so pulled Émile up with him. They were dragged across the room at his side, then thrown through his bedroom door into the corridor beyond. Dismissed from his presence in whatever manner of undress he left them in.

The door slammed behind them.

From within the room came the sound of furniture aggressively forced back into place with a screech of wood.

Émile's eyes, like the bright eyes of a magpie jealously seeking glinting baubles, eagerly picked out every glimmer of hurt their words had dredged to the surface of Fabien’s wounded expression. They greedily drank in every flinch, their revelry naked and sneering even as they turned their back to him.

His soft words were not enough to extinguish the smirk from their scornful mouth. However, the warm spark of mean pleasure held covetously to their chest was neatly snuffed out when the leather pulled tight around their throat jerked them against him.

They choked, skin bulging on either side of the band, and scratched futilely at his hands with ashamedly dirty nails that could not find purchase. Their legs kicked against nothing but tousled bedsheets as they writhed like an angry cat against his chest.

Their fingers pried uselessly beneath the leather. The foreboding clicking of latches and jingle of metal did not cease.

They did not have long to adjust to their new finery before being unceremoniously hauled from the bed. His pet fell hard to the floor and twisted with quick feline instinct to scrabble away from him, their new accessory clattering merrily around their throat, but were not quick enough to avoid the first kick. The meaty thud of his foot striking their ribs was accompanied by a low hiss of pain. They curled reflexively inward to protect their face. He took the air from their lungs with the second kick, and the third struck some soft bit that elicited a moan through teeth locked together in a snarl.

His foot on their back effectively trapped them beneath him. He could feel the struggle to catch their breath, the judder of their lungs and shivering breath.

They did not meet his gaze when he crouched beside them. Their eyes were wet and their gaze was distant. They struggled and choked against the collar as he lifted them. Their lips were slack and their mouth tasted faintly of copper and salt.

His observation held the ring of truth - he had chosen well. The black of the sturdy leather was stark against their pale skin, a fine complement to their dark hair. It elegantly cradled their long neck and was broad enough to gently encourage them to lift their chin as though on display. The gems glistened like pinpricks of wet blood on their throat. The effect was striking, and certainly an improvement.

They were clumsy on their feet as he dragged them across the room. They hit the corridor wall harder than they ought, exposing how they still struggled to catch their breath as they sagged against the wall for support.

It was only after a moment that they straightened, primly adjusting their rumpled clothing, and spat thickly on the floor. It was webbed with wet, black blood.

They spared the impassive door one last black glance and wiped their mouth with the back of their hand before turning and skulking off into the house, one hand delicately on the collar around their neck as though it hurt to touch it.