Love Lies Bleeding

Stregoni had always been an insomniac, a trait he had acquired from his mother. So many nights they had sat up together, grateful at least not to be alone in their sleeplessness, envying those who could sleep effortlessly through the night—including his father, who slept like the dead.

He hated it, not least of all because he always did incredibly stupid things when left alone in the dark of night.

Like wander the halls, hoping and dreading that certain people might be awake, though even after all this time, Stregoni was ashamed of himself for wanting that. For wanting either of them in the slightest.

Do you want me?

He balled his hands into fists and tried to convince himself he should go back to his room and resume work annotating his Pharmacopoeia. But brandy settled warm in his belly, buzzing in his head, and he could not stand still.

The halls were empty as he wandered them, his every step a thundering echo on marble tile, mercifully muffled whenever he trod over rug.

He should go back to bed. But he'd known what he was going to do from the moment he'd accepted Sangre's offer to stay the night.

As he reached the east wing, music filtered toward him. Piano, the music a slow, heartbreaking piece. A thousand times he'd wanted to ask why it was always sad music, why nothing happy ever came from that piano, but it was one in a thousand questions he never managed to voice.

Because like the ones he did dare voice, it would only be met with some cold, cruel reply.

He was always cruel, had been from the first, but Stregoni had never been able to walk away and stay away.

Why do you always act so cool, doctor? Do you think you're deceiving me? Your eyes are blue fire when you look at me. Do you want me?

Like the proverbial moth to the flame, Stregoni wandered down the hall to the music room. Their eyes had met for only a moment over dinner, but it had been enough to let him know they would all be drunk tonight.

He pushed the door open and tried one last time to remind himself of all the reasons this was a bad idea. It had never worked before, not since that first night, and it would not work this time.

All manner of potions and tonics and syrups cluttered the shelves of his apothecary in town. He knew the recipes for more medicines than he could count—and nearly all of them could also be considered deadly poisons.

None of them was as potent or addictive or potentially fatal as what drew him time and again to the cruel embrace of the beautiful man playing a mournful song on the piano. The equally beautiful man sprawled nearby, watching the pianist like there was nothing else he'd rather do.

Gilles was the very definition of breathtaking, especially now, when there was no one around to look down upon or impress, no social engagements pending, no visitors looming. Now, he was dressed only in black breeches and a white shirt he had not bothered to button, his long hair loose around his shoulders, hiding the elegant lines of his face and the bewitching, gold-flecked, pale green eyes.

Nearby, François lounged on a padded bench, wearing even less clothing than Gilles, a beautiful tattoo of tuberoses, dark geraniums, and yellow acacia spread across his chest. He was just as enthralling. Just as addictive. Just as devastating to Stregoni's mind and heart.

Stregoni hovered in the doorway, knowing he should flee but far too enthralled to act with sense.

The music room was a somber place, the floor all black marble tile, the paneling a deep, rich red. Silver candelabra were scattered about, though only the one nearest the piano was actually lit.

Just behind François was a massive portrait of two men. It looked as though someone had simply painted Aubrey twice, but it was in fact Jonathan and George Bathory, the respective fathers of Aubrey and Carmilla, and Gilles. Twins, and Stregoni recalled his father saying they had once been quite close. Though George Bathory lived only a few miles away, Stregoni had never met him. He had become a recluse since the death of his wife in childbirth.

So much of a recluse, in fact, that Gilles had come to live with his uncle. Beyond that, Stregoni knew nothing about the situation. No one knew anything, except Gilles and Lord Sangre.

All Stregoni knew was that Gilles could be, and often was, cold and cruel, and he never got kinder than merely condescending.

Except sometimes…

He shook his head and looked again at the portrait. Gilles had much in common with the twins, much in common with Aubrey, but there was a beauty to his features that they lacked, and that had likely come from his mother.

The two men had been in their mid-twenties at the time of the portrait. Handsome, severe, hinting at the over strict lord of the manor that Sangre would eventually become—though, at that, Stregoni could not tell who was who.

One was seated, hands clasped over one knee, as though he were listening attentively to an unseen speaker. The second twin stood over the seat, slightly bent, as if to whisper to his brother when the speaker turned away for a moment. The chair was purple velvet, lush against their dark clothes, cuffs and throats displaying lace that was almost garishly white by contrast. To the right of the chair was a marble planter from which tumbled the long, deep red blossoms of the flower called love-lies-bleeding.

Stregoni was stirred from his musings by the sudden absence of music, and dropped his gaze to see that Gilles and François were watching him.

The green eyes drew him like an opium addict to laudanum, the purple eyes a challenge he couldn't refuse.

"The midnight hour strikes, and the doctor appears. Some would say that makes you a witch, doctor," Gilles said, mouth curving in that too familiar smirk. Stregoni ached to wipe it from his face. Permanently. He wanted to see something tender, something…

Shoving the pointless, dangerous thoughts aside, he drew just close enough that he could reach out and touch if he wanted. Instead, he waited.

Gilles reached out to pick up the glass of wine perched on the edge of the piano. Deep, blood red, and probably dry—Gilles had always favored dry wines. His fingers were long, elegant, the nails meticulously manicured. He took a deep sip, eyes never leaving Stregoni's, the fine gold-flecked jade color only dulled a bit by the undoubtedly potent wine.

The sound of the glass clinking as Gilles set it down again was shockingly loud in the ringing silence.

Brandy burned deep in his gut, but Gilles and François burned hotter still throughout his entire body.

A wicked addiction he would do best to rid himself of, but he was as hopeless as the addicts he tried to help every week.

Gilles touched him first, and Stregoni counted it a small, cheap victory. He was no better dressed than they, wearing only the bare minimum required to preserve modesty until he reached the music room.

He shivered faintly as his shirt was pushed off his shoulders, the laces teasing briefly across his nipples before Gilles's mouth trailed with agonizing slowness across his stomach. Reaching out, he shoved his hands beneath Gilles's shirt, digging his nails into the soft skin beneath, feeling hard muscle. A spoiled brat Gilles might be, but he was too vain and proud to allow his body to go to seed.

Lowering his head, he breathed in the scents that clung to Gilles, remnants of his soap—cypress and marigold—and a hint of cologne which remained elusive. He moaned softly as Gilles's mouth moved higher, leaving a trail of tingling heat, making him gasp sharply and tighten his hold until he earned a noise in return.

Gilles abruptly stood up, arms bands around Stregoni's waist. Standing at his full height, he was at least a head taller than Stregoni. He nipped at Gilles's collar bone, but before he could get a better taste of the fine skin, his head was tilted up and his mouth plundered.

He tasted like his dark, dry wine, a hint of clove. Something darker still and so rich, something that was all Gilles. If Stregoni could distill it, whatever it was about Gilles that drugged him so, he could addict the world to it.

His mouth was explored, devoured, taken until not a breath remained in his body, and he was left dizzy and gasping. Only then did he realize they had moved across the room to the black velvet chaise lounge.

Gilles grabbed his shirt and removed it entirely, then pulled off his own. Stregoni gasped as fingers came from behind him, a warm body banishing the cool air making him shiver. Too-sharp teeth teased along his throat as François's fingers unfastened his breeches and pushed them down enough to get fingers around his cock.

An addict Stregoni might be, but he was not so consumed by this wicked drug he would stand stupefied. Recovering himself some small measure, he turned and shoved hard, toppling François to the chaise. Straddling him, Stregoni attacked François's pants, getting them open despite the delicious distraction of being pulled into François's sharp, hungry kisses.

Gilles got the last of their clothes out of the way and then pressed up behind Stregoni, his cock rubbing along the cleft of Stregoni's ass, hands hot and heavy as they stroked and teased along his body.

Grabbing a fistful of Stregoni's hair, Gilles pulled him up and turned his head so that he could kiss Stregoni hard and filthy.

Their kisses hurt because at times they seemed to convey things Gilles and François would never say. These nights were dirty secrets, and Stregoni still did not know why they had succumbed to that first, long ago urge one blizzard-shrouded night.

Touch after agonizing touch, gasps and moans and muffled cries, hot, sweat-slick skin, all melted into a haze of lust and need, until the fingers buried deep inside him finally slid away and Gilles's cock replaced them, François's cock sliding deep into his mouth, fingers tangled tightly in his hair, just the right amount of painful.

They used him hard but with reverence, made Stregoni feel for that too-brief span of time that he was the one using them. Maybe he was. Nobody else could satisfy him the way these two could, with every burning touch and biting kiss, the pain and pleasure twisted together in a way headier than the finest laudanum.

Gilles groaned as he came, sinking deep into Stregoni one last time, fingers so tight on his hips they'd probably leave pale bruises.

A few moments later, François spilled down his throat, then pulled roughly out and kissed him deeply. Stregoni moaned into it, clinging as he was shuffled about, and two rough hands quickly brought him off.

Their panting filled the music room as the fever slowly cooled, and Stregoni dreaded the return of his senses.

It came all too soon, as Gilles slid from his body and he and François stood and started to dress.

He did not wait for the snide comments, the cruel remarks, but slid away and retrieved his discarded clothes, cheeks burning with shame as he dressed.

Gilles said nothing, but he could feel the cold eyes upon him, knew the cutting words hovered on the precipice, that they would tip from the sharp tongue with the next breath. The dry laughter from François that would follow, taunting words to hurry along or strip again if he needed more.

Though Stregoni no whore, at the end of these damned interludes, he felt like one.

Still, they said nothing. That was strange enough that the pace of Stregoni's heart began to increase, a flush of hope causing his steps to slow as he reached the door, and he braced a hand on the frame to turn around and see if just maybe…

"Good night, Carrot."

Cold. Dismissive. As though Gilles were bored again, now that the amusement had come and gone. And that damned name. Carrot. Stregoni knew his hair was ugly, ridiculous, not the more vibrant red-gold that his mother possessed. Gilles always knew where and how to hit for maximum pain with minimal effort.

Back on the bench, François seemed already to be half asleep, but he regarded Stregoni pensively, and with a sadness that he was probably imagining. Why would François ever be sad where Stregoni was concerned? He was so quiet and reserved, Stregoni had rarely heard more than ten words from him in any given week. François was Gilles's beautiful, mercurial shadow.

Stregoni finally left, though his steps remained heavy and slow. As he reached the end of the hallway, the sounds of slow, sad music reached his ears again.

Stregoni pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and told himself it was the late hour and the candlelight which made them sting and water.