The Butcher and the Beast (8 page)

Stephen stepped away. He would not. He could not.

John growled, one hand going to his own cock, the other wrapping around Stephen’s arm and tugging him in for a bruising kiss. His hand joined John’s, his lips parting under John’s onslaught. This would be the final time. Only madness awaited him in this cabin. Only madness.

Seed poured out from John’s cock, hot on his hand, burning the proof of his sins into his skin. “You see, Butcher? You are mine.”

Only for a moment longer. Stephen would bear this no more, God save his soul.

Chapter Six

The doctor slept hard—John suspected the man had taken something from his bag of tricks to help with that. He himself felt completely healed and in good spirits. In great spirits in fact—Grey’s responses to his advances had made the last couple of days most enjoyable. The man’s body was like putty in his hands, pliant and needy, so responsive. It was perhaps time to convince Grey’s mind to follow.

He grinned. Oh, yes, a seduction rather than a taking—he could just imagine it, Grey making the first move, Grey kissing him. Grey offering himself. That way he would not break that lovely spirit that attracted him so, and yet he would still have the man. After all, he had already more than proved that the person Grey fought so hard was not John, but himself.

John laughed, climbing the stairs and turning his face to the sun. It felt good to be above deck, the spray of the seawater and fresh air made him feel whole and hale. Grey would come to enjoy this. Would become one of them, he was sure of it.

He checked in with everyone, making sure they all knew he was well, still in his prime. He even dealt out some blows with the cat ‘o nine tails, one of the men having disobeyed Matey’s orders. They all knew when he wasn’t around, Matey ran the ship, but sometimes the rabble needed reminding.

They were a good crew, though, on the whole.

He spent a few hours above before the lure of pale skin wearing his marks and sweet, angelic curls sent him below again. There was a battle of wills waiting for him. One he would win. He grew hard just thinking on it.

He opened the door, shocked to find the man gone, disappeared. He stepped out and closed the door again, asking Tom if the lad had been standing guard the whole time.

“Yes, Captain, sir.”

He went in again, looking around. The bed was made, the room straightened, the doctor’s bag still there, but only half full. So they were back to this. He steeled himself, ready to be attacked with any manner of strange tool Grey used in the course of treating his patients.

“Show yourself, Butcher.” John would
not
indulge in a game of search and seek. He was the captain. Silence answered him.

He sighed and went to the porthole, opening the glass and letting the breeze in. The bedclothes ruffled, the sound of the ocean soothing. “I do not understand how a man could lock himself to the land. There is nothing to compare to the freedom of the ocean.” He knew the good doctor listened, heard him, watched and waited.

“I am the master of my own destiny. The ruler of my own rolling country. There is none can tell me what to do, how to live my life.” He stood proudly, watching the ocean. One day she would take him deep into her arms and quell his breath, but for now she was his savior, keeping him safe and free.

Something behind him shifted, slid upon the floor. He was ready to pounce, but he gave no outward sign. Instead he continued to watch the water. “She is a most constant lover. Perverse, violent, treacherous, beautiful. But always here, always welcoming me into her arms.” The single constant in his life.

He felt the air shift, heard the glide of feet on the floor. He turned, quick as a sea snake, grabbing the doctor’s wrists and slamming Grey up against the hull. Those storm-filled eyes met his, the anger clear as morning. Absolutely beautiful.

John growled softly and leaned in to nip at Grey’s lower lip. The man made no sound, moved not at all, the unwilling responses of the last few days missing. His growl got louder and he bit this time, bringing blood up. Those eyes never flinched, held his, so strong. He licked the blood away, letting the taste fill him as he pushed their hips together. Grey refused to move, to look away, to do anything.

Damn the man! John pushed harder, erection rubbing along Grey’s, hands tightening on the trapped wrists. That stare didn’t falter, Grey’s fingers clenching into fists. He kicked Grey’s legs apart, hand reaching down into the man’s pants to squeeze Grey’s balls. He would get a reaction. Those eyes went dark, jaw clenching. There, he was close.

He pushed his hand beyond the sensitive balls, finger pushing along Grey’s entrance, relentless, insistent. Those eyes filled with tears, but still stared, Grey’s throat working, his body tight. John pushed his finger in, taking what was his to take, thoughts of seduction fading under Grey’s refusal to admit his attraction.

Grey’s eyes closed, the doctor shuttering himself away, drawing into a still silence.

With an angry half-roar, John yanked his fingers away, flipping Grey so he faced the wall and ripping the man’s breeches from his ass. Grey went limp, motionless, refusing to fight him. Angry, John tore the rest of the man’s clothes off, kicking Grey’s legs farther apart. Grey refused to stand, refused to move, stayed as limp as a rag.

John roared and flung the man from him, tossing Grey to the floor. “Where is your pride now, Butcher?”

Those eyes stared at him, angry, cold, strong.

“Would you prefer I toss you to the dogs in my crew? They’ll make easy pickings of a sweet thing like you.” If Grey stopped being entertaining…

One eyebrow arched, those eyes snapping.

“The devil you know or all his little minions, Grey—your choice.”

Moving faster than he’d give the man credit for, Grey moved across the floor, grabbing a heavy statue and hurling it at his head. He ducked out of the way, humming, his cock perking up. Yes. There was that fire, the response he craved.

Grey pulled a cutlass from beneath the bed, holding it with a surprisingly sure grip.

“Well, well, well. There’s your backbone. You almost look as if you know how to use that thing.”

A strong feint came, slicing the sleeve of his shirt, the threat clear.

John was impressed. “Not bad,” he murmured casually, moving to the right, giving himself more room to maneuver.

The sword flashed again, cutting the other sleeve, driving him toward the door. Make that very impressed.

“And what exactly do you plan to do once you’ve run me through? Throw yourself overboard?” By the black-hearted devil, John wanted the man. And more, he wanted Grey to be equally as moved. All that anger and passion turned on him. He nearly groaned from it.

“Open the door and lead me to a longboat, or I’ll slit you from jaw to hip.”

“Come now, Butcher, I thought you’d taken an oath to preserve life.” He didn’t know when he’d ever been so hard.

Another flash, another lunge, a line of blood appearing above his nipple. “The door.”

John swallowed his whimper, forced his hips to still. Oh, by the horned devil, he wanted. Grey
would
give himself or he wasn’t John the Beardless, pirate captain. “What about it?” he asked, playing dumb.

“Open it and tell your men to stand back. Then you will walk me to the rowboats and set me free.”

John laughed, genuinely amused. “Oh, Butcher, I can’t do that.”

“I will unman you, Pirate. Do not mistake me.”

A shiver of excitement went through him. Would Grey actually attempt to do it? Did the man truly have that kind of strength? The thought of it was indeed intoxicating. “I will not let you do that.”

Grey struck him with the blade again, nicking his hip. “You are not armed, demon.”

“But you cannot hurt me.” He watched the blood slowly stain his breeches. “I like your version of foreplay, Butcher.”

“You are mad.” The blade pointed at his throat, vibrating. “The door.”

He groaned, erection hard as stone. He could not lose this one. He had not seen such passion, such anger and vigor in an age. John could imagine what Grey would be like were the butcher to come willingly. Keeping his eyelids at half mast, he gave a lazy smile and, quick as a snake, he reached up and grabbed the blade. The pain was insistent, undeniable and sharp as anything as he twisted the sword from Grey’s hand. He pushed it away, ignored the screaming of his nerves.

He had a few heartbeats of pure shock on Grey’s part, the man gaping at him.

John collected the sword with his uninjured hand, holding his other hand in a tight fist. “Well, there you are, Butcher. I have need of your services again.”

Grey shook his head. “Completely mad, I vow. Why must you fight me so?”

“I am not fighting you. You are fighting me, remember?” He leaned back against the door, beginning to feel a bit weak. He needed to get rid of the sword. He needed to assure himself that Grey would dress his wound.

The doctor took over, Grey tearing a strip from the bottom of the man’s own blouse and binding his hand tight. “Fool.”

“You would have been killed,” John murmured. “My men would not have allowed you to continue to hold me as hostage.”

“Oh.” Grey’s storming eyes met his. “They would not have obeyed you?”

“Not with your blade at my throat, no. They would not have.”

“You should sit. If you fell, I could not catch your weight.”

He nodded and slid down the door, beginning to see spots behind his eyes. The pain was everything for a moment or two, pushing all thoughts of seduction and taking, of having Grey in his bed, away. He felt the doctor ease him to the floor, a soft pillow under his head. It was a strange dichotomy, to receive comfort and care from this man he’d violated, this man who had threatened to run him through.

“’Tis a shame I value my life, or I would kill you now and pay the consequence.”

“I do not believe you would, Butcher.”

“Hush. You are in no position to mince words.”

John managed a chuckle, the sparring allowing him to push through the pain. “If it weren’t true, you would deny it.”

He heard the man snort, but Grey didn’t argue.

He felt as if he was falling, knew he’d lost a lot of blood. “Help me onto the bed.” It was undignified to lie on the floor if it was not due to drunkenness.

“Stay where you are, man. Let your hand knit some.”

He tried to sit up without the help, grunting with the effort.

“Stubborn fool.” Grey helped him stand, staggered under his weight as they made toward the bed.

He collapsed down onto it, head going between his legs as the world grayed out.

The doctor eased him back, covering him. “Well, you obviously don’t suffer from an excess of bodily humors.”

“What?” Was the man saying he wasn’t impressive? He was.

“Humors? Blood, seed—you seem to lose them at a rate that would impress a leech.”

“It is the butcher I wish to impress, not the leech.” He frowned. Had he spoken aloud to the doctor? He would not have Grey know such things.

“Sleep, Pirate. We will war again on the morrow.”

He growled softly, unhappy to be letting down his guard so completely in front of his prisoner. But the pull of unconsciousness was too much to resist and he found himself sliding down into dreams of stormy eyes and blond curls mingled with blood.

* * * *

Maddening. The man was maddening.

Food kept coming at regular intervals, along with ale, which Stephen kept feeding the captain. In truth, he was now less scared of the huge man than the rough, frightening men above. He’d heard several of them arguing with Tom at the door, some wanting to see the captain, others wanting to know when the man would be done with Stephen so they might have their turn. John slept and rested for three days, hand red and seeping for the first day.

Tom slid into the room with the tray of food on the fourth day as Stephen was again mending his clothes. “Is the cap’n gonna wake?”

“Eventually, I am sure.”

Tom looked about nervously. “I’m afeared there’s mutiny afoot.”

“Mutiny. I’ll skin any man who even thinks of it,” growled John from the bed.

Stephen arched an eyebrow. “Mutiny? Why?”

“Cap’n’s been below. There’s…there’s somes that’s talkin’, there is. Somes that are saying we oughta slit the doctor’s gullet and leave you on an island.” The lad looked nervous. “I’m not wanting you marooned, Cap’n.”

The low growl got louder and John sat up, hardly swaying at all. “No one’s marooning me, Tom Simpson.” John came to the door, stroking the lad’s cheek almost tenderly.

The lad nuzzled into the touch, nodding. “Yes, Captain. Thank you.” Those eyes looked up at the man, worshiping. “It’s Blackie and the Turk, sir, doing the talking.”

“Now why am I not surprised? Get me my uniform, Tom. It’s high time they remembered who captains this ship.”

“Aye, sir.” The boy hurried about and Stephen found a perch against the wall, staying quiet, still.

John pulled his clothes off and sat heavily, letting Tom dress him, fingers reaching out now and then to caress the boy. The amount of…contact upon this vessel was unreal.

It wasn’t long at all before John was dressed in what had to be a stripped uniform of Her Majesty’s Royal British Navy. Tom was on his knees, helping John get on his boots. Now and then the boy would lean his cheek against John’s crotch and rub.

John hummed, hand stroking Tom’s hair. “Another time, Tom. Once the matters at hand are taken care of.” John looked right at Stephen.

Filthy beast! Madman!
He looked away, refusing to be drawn into the lure.

“Doctor? If you value your life, you’d best come with me and agree that you are a part of the crew now. They’ll be happy to have a butcher aboard. We suffer from plenty of injuries in the course of our…duties. If you don’t stand with me, I cannot guarantee your safety.” John was standing now, hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Oh. Oh, dear. It was the devil’s own choice. Stephen could not stay and yet if he did not agree to… “Might I have a jacket? My shirt is…rent.”