.

Chapter 35
Desperation

Beware of desperate steps; the darkest day, lived till tomorrow, will have passed away.
~William Cowper

"Now then, pet, why don't you tell me all about Momo?"

The pliant body leaning against him went rigid, even the breath halting with a sharp gasp. Ichigo ground his teeth together harshly to halt both the furious words that were poised on the tip of his tongue and the grimace of pain. It was all true. His pet had lied, after such sincere and melodramatic avowals 'I have never lied to you.' And he had fallen for it, those pretty eyes shining with tears, the bold indignation and hurt.

The arm wrapped around the slender waist moved slowly, his hand pushing up between fanciful wings, through the green fabric scales and clever bits of silk, fingers pushing to find hints of Toshiro's warmth through thin cloth. It may be the last time, and he couldn't resist a few more touches, a few more minutes with that thundering heart against his ribs.

"How do you . . .," barely audible, none of that indignation now that the liar was caught. "Why do you know that name?"

His hand had reached the white hair, stiff with product to color blue and gold accents, all the fragrant softness destroyed, and he yanked the boy backward. Toshiro didn't fight it, wincing at the pain of his fingers pulling at the sensitive scalp. The small hands grabbed at the front of his jacket for balance.

The wide-eyed shock lasted only a second. Despite his own anger, he was fascinated to watch the pained and fearful expression slowly consumed by a cold fury that rivaled his own. Turquoise eyes lined in kohl under eyelashes painted emerald and silver . . . stunningly beautiful and narrowed to glare at him. Lips painted coral (and that was a mistake, hiding the delicate pink that was naturally perfect on his pet) parted in a snarl.

"Where is she?"

Gilded nails dug into his skin through the thin shirt, a useless threat that he found oddly thrilling. Even better was the controlled rage in the quiet, hissed words. He had caught glimpses of the man he called pet before - the clever confidence when dealing with his father's toxic mistresses, the shy dignity when his soon-to-be wife had kissed a bloodied cheek, the bravely concealed sorrow as the young captive remembered home while huddled in his arms. Those moments of raw emotion had not been faked, surely.

But this, outrage and anger and despair, the urge to fight and kill, this was a lord and warrior ready to tear out his throat. This was the mysterious piece of the puzzle that he had been missing. This . . . his arm tightened against the force pushing back to get away from him, like he would ever allow that to happen . . . this was magnificent.

"What have you . . . oh gods, you've made my sister a slave, too? She's barely 14!"

"Sister." He sneered at the snapping little dragon, wanting nothing more than to chain the liar down and remind them both who was master here. "You expect to get away with more lies, young Lord of the South?"

Of course, his pet was a fine actor, managing to flinch even while drawing breath to continue accusing Ichigo. A lord and future king, his pet must have all kinds of skills to deceive and win the faith of enemies. Skills like distracting him with such drama while reaching down, as if he would miss the action, miss the sudden absence of cutting nails as they reached for the jeweled hilt of a slender dagger concealed along the right thigh in the finery of the costume. Skills of one trained in combat, he had known it since the night the Kenpachi had nearly killed his pretty birthday gift.

Trained well enough that the dagger could have managed to slice his belly or even made a fatal cut to his thigh had the boy not foregone the easy, sensible targets, instead taking aim at Ichigo's neck. His hand wrapped tight, crushing the delicate fingers around the hilt, redirecting the sharp edge to the top of the pale neck, pressing up and back, giving Toshiro no choice but to lean far back over the support of his arm. The small body tried to shift, trapped against him and the pressure of the knife. His pet did not try to kick or slide down the side. Of course, his innocent young slave was no slave at all, familiar with warhorses, knowing perfectly well that the stallion beneath them had stopped and tensed, ready to obey.

"Back."

The one command was enough, the two assassins that had been nearly invisible until the short struggle stepping away, sheathing much more lethal daggers that were ready to kill the one they had been charged with defending. Toshiro's eyes followed the one on the right for a second, the boy growling and carefully dropping his other hand from Ichigo's chest to dangle loose with palm open. He eased the knife away from Toshiro's skin. The thing was barely sharp enough to leave a thin line of red, decorative and useless, though with enough force, a knife did not need to be honed.

Leaning forward, he pulled the taut body closer. The knife slid down between them, replace by his lips, metallic tang of blood cleaner than the dry, bitter taste of paint added to make already perfect skin too white. It wasn't gentle, his teeth grazing roughly across the delicate cut, smearing honest red against the false white with each word he spoke.

"I should kill you for that. Or perhaps let the soldiers have you before we leave, let them each take their turn teaching you your place. It would be a fine incentive for their loyalty."

The casual threat caused a sucked in breath, a clenched jaw, stopping the foolish taunt Ichigo knew was hovering on that sharp tongue to just do it, then. And he wondered, very briefly, what it would take for him to make good on the threat, what sin Toshiro would have to commit to make him able to stand back and watch his lovely diamond cracked, shattered, ruined. Oh, he wanted them all to want his lover, wanted them all panting, eager to crawl across the shards of their broken dignity for just one of Toshiro's smiles. But touch him? The very thought made him want to gut every man in Las Noches.

Toshiro would not have stabbed him, had known before grabbing the dagger that Ichigo would stop him. And he might not have been able to stop the attack had Toshiro simply stabbed his thigh. Surely, his warrior pet knew where to find the vital artery so close and exposed. Or the slightly less vital target of his belly, undefended by anything but cloth. The girl meant a great deal, then, to bring his pet to make so many mistakes, to provoke him with a false effort to cause harm.

"Now, slave," he lifted his head, away from the temptation of that willowy neck, "your last chance to tell me the truth."

"What truth?" Still an incensed tone, the fight had not gone out of the little dragon at all. "I've never lied. No, I didn't tell every detail of my life, and you did not ask. I didn't argue with what you'd been told by those you trust because what good would it do? You know who I am now, apparently. I'm surprised you believe it. Surely that wasn't on my bill of sale, along with the truth that I was never sold. There is the lie you are looking for, my pedigree as you called it."

A valid complaint, not that it mattered. It was between him and Ichimaru, the other liar. Why the whoremaster hadn't simply told him . . . thought Ichigo too soft, perhaps, as if the Prince of Hueco Mundo hadn't already enslaved his fair share of foreigners, noble blood or not. Or there was more motive. The Ichimaru family had business far and wide, and Toshiro could simply be a casualty of some power-play in Seireitei. No matter, he was too easily letting himself avoid getting to the truth, dragging his heels again, subconsciously trying to keep what he thought he had.

He stayed silent, easing his grip on the dull blade which he certainly did not need to control or even kill the boy, watching the pretty face lower with a sigh.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

It was sickening, the way he could hear the small bones in his hand groaning back into place as they were released, the way the pain of it barely made an impact when his entire body was focused only on continuing to breathe. He wondered why it bothered, and if this bottomless nausea was what drove him to do something so monumentally stupid. It didn't make any sense. He should be dead. And his killer should not be carefully guiding his hand to re-sheathe the delicate knife back at his thigh. Long fingers should not be massaging his aching palm as the nerves painfully reawakened.

Swallowing against the churning need to vomit or scream or cry, he fought to maintain eye contact, searching for some answer though the face of the prince could have been carved from stone for all he could read. His hand, caressed and released, fell onto his thigh, close to the hilt. Stupid thing to do, an impulse he should have been able to contain. Stupid to fail. Had he succeeded, Ichigo bleeding, dying, the assassins making sure he died first. Gods, he didn't want that. Despite everything, the thought of Ichigo hurt, by his hand or anyone's . . ..

"Who has my sister?" He was dead, anyway. Might as well torment himself, twist the knife that was tearing his mind apart with horrifying images of Momo collared, chained and branded and drugged as he had been. "The red-head so often with you? Or the big, silent guard? The king?" He shuddered. "Or you? Do you leave my bed only to go down the hall and visit Momo? What a twisted game, how amusing it all must be."

How could he not want this man gutted and suffering? He didn't. He hadn't really tried, some momentary insanity driving him to commit suicide by drawing a knife on the deadliest man he'd ever met . . . the man who still hadn't said a word through lips stained with his blood. Sagging against the arm that was the only thing holding him, he was not able to care anymore what became of him as long as Momo . . . good Gods . . . little Momo, running along the riverbank, pouting when he came home after leaving her behind, twirling about in new ribbons without a care in the world.

"What do you want?"

The words were resigned, defeated. He had no hope of this plea being answered. He had no leverage, nothing to offer that could not be taken without his consent. His owner had no reason to let her go, to show either of them any mercy.

"I'll tell you anything you want to hear, do whatever you want. Just . . . Momo isn't strong. She won't survive this. Please," useless, begging a man who would do this to him. "Please, master, what can I do? Just tell me. I'll do it. Anything at all."

The heartless chuckle reignited a spark of anger.

"Not strong. Another lie, trying to trick me into not valuing such a priceless captive, or do you know your own fiancée so poorly?"

"She is not my fiancée. I've told you I'm not engaged to anyone, let alone my own sister, and I did not lie."

The horse had started walking again. The arm around his waist had softened, and he had leaned forward, collapsed really, forehead pressed to the center of the muscular chest, surrounded by the scent which calmed the roiling pit of black despair in his stomach, desert heat and spices, clove and sweat. Why was he still alive? After what he'd done, what he'd said, the only reason he could think of was that the man he'd irrationally, mistakenly, stupidly started to care for wanted to keep the cruel game going.

"She is not your sister."

"Yes, fine," he wished there was some fire in his tone, but he just sounded weary, "if you must be specific, Momo is not my sister. My uncle became her guardian when she was a toddler, then took me in when my father died. We were raised together from the time I was eight. She's my sister in every way but blood."

Again, his hair was pulled, forcing him to look up. The cold blankness had eased only a little, brown eyes staring intently into his. He didn't bother trying to seem confident, didn't bother trying to seem anything at all other than docile, resigned to deal with whatever fate awaited.

"Why, then, does she call you her future husband? I have heard, little dragon, of your planned union with the princess of Seireitei. It may be noble of you to sacrifice yourself for her, thinking to keep her identity a secret, but this lie is too elaborate."

"What? That isn't . . .." His teeth snapped shut, mind racing. They couldn't have taken Karin . . . but, they could, couldn't they? He'd been snatched so easily. It didn't make sense, and where did Momo come into it? The narrowing of brown eyes and the punishing grip on his hair went unnoticed as conjecture and probabilities were weighed, words and implications replayed. A possibility rose to the surface, one that fit the circumstances, bubbling up through layers of misunderstandings and unspoken histories.

It surprised him to hear that his voice was only slightly shaky, his eyes seeking the distrust, trying to reach it and sway it with what he knew to be true. Almost, it felt as if he were two people, one huddled in shock and anger, too distressed to find any way out of an impossible situation, and one unnaturally calm, engaged by a mystery and a challenge, bravely reaching out to the predator looming over him to try to understand and be understood.

"If there is an arrangement for marriage between me and any woman, I have never been aware of it. But I can say for certain I am not engaged to Momo, and never would be. She is my sister. As for Princess Karin, I can see where such a match might have been discussed, though if a marriage alliance was made, it was done without my knowledge or consent.

"If you want proof that you do not have a royal captive, simply look into the desert. My uncle barely keeps a household guard, and he abhors war. He could raise my own forces, an army that has seen me once a year at best and is sworn to hold the southern border. Even if they left their duty to seek me out, my uncle likely would not risk war even to save me and Momo. But if you had the Princess Karin of Seireitei here, you would have Prince Shunsui and every man and woman in Seireitei tearing down your walls.

"I can't make you believe me, but I can't tell you anything else no matter what you want to hear. Those are the simple truths."

Seconds ticked by, the shifting to the sharp rhythm of hooves on cobblestone, the invisible world passing somewhere outside the sphere of the two of them, and the stern frown never fading, never softening, not one indication that his words made any impact. Unable to look at reality any longer, he let his eyes close. It didn't help, his mind wouldn't rest, dragging him through visions of escape, leaving Momo behind in slavery, staying and never knowing her fate as he paid for his rebellion, staying and buying her a less horrific life with his own, staying or running and knowing he'd never again lose himself in heat and clove.

He would have dropped his head again if he could, returned to the support of silk-covered muscle and breathed in. He couldn't, still held by a painful grip in his hair. A point of discomfort at the back of his scalp, reminding him how little control he had over his own body. A point of discomfort where the narrow pommel dug into his backside, the aching reminder of how little he had fought to keep any control, giving himself over to bliss mere hours ago with the same man who glared coldly at him now, who had glared coldly at him only minutes after moaning his name while pressed to his back.

"No, pet, you cannot make me believe it."

Crushing words, though they seemed to be spoken with a thoughtful rather than accusatory air. That was nearly enough to make him think . . . no, it's just his exhausted mind grasping at straws, trying to see some glimmer of light in the darkness.

"Look at me," the angry growl confirmed that any gentleness was his imagination, the tight lines of rage around lips that had taught him so many wonderful things . . ..

"The girl was found in the sands nearly dead of exposure. The remainder of her life is justly forfeit to those who bothered to keep her alive." The second of hope chased by terror for Momo forced a choked sob from him, though surely the pause and the easing of the fist twisted in his hair was not out of any sympathy. The hissed anger that followed confirmed it.

"Listen closely, slave. You will not seek this girl out. You will not speak her name or ask anyone about her. You will not speak to Hanataro or any healer. And if anyone tries to tell you anything about her, you will turn them away. Only the orders of the king can release you from my commands, and you will not make any attempt to secure such favor from the king. Disobey me in any way and I will know of it.

"When I return, I will know every detail of the truth. Then you and I will speak again. Consider carefully which lies you wish to rely on."

There was no time to react, not to the sinister threat nor the apparent reprieve, no time to swear to obey nor to protest innocence. He yelped, more in startlement at the sudden movement than the wrenching of his arm, lifted by one wrist and lowered, not gently, yet set on his feet rather than allowed to fall. The quick snap of teeth held in check by one tight rein distracted him for a second, made him stagger back as the horse wheeled. In the time it took Toshiro to steady his feet, horse and rider were cantering away without a backward glance.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

Past the wide patio framed in with gently running water was a screen of waxleaf hedges framed by carefully tended and guarded violet, burgundy, and black adenium that his late rival would have killed (had killed in attempts to steal, but never succeeded) to own. He admired the view, and then grinned at the man who had been a thorn, tiny and insignificant but annoying, in his side for a decade. To his complete lack of disappointment, he did not receive a grin in return.

"All you do is frown these days, my lord. And here, I went to the trouble of bringing you to see your favorite flowers. Where's that famous smile now?"

"That thing's creepy enough without you talkin' to it."

Not turning to look at the suddenly overly familiar guard, he stilled.

". . . sir."

Four seconds. That was two longer than it usually took to cow Shuhei's insubordinate ass. The man was becoming complacent. That or Gin was slipping, getting soft.

"Well, I wouldn't want to be thought of as creepy, would I? Iba, why don't you take my friend Nnoitra down to the party, let him greet the guests? Right in the center of the entryway, I think. And do hurry; now that the riffraff are here, the important guests should be coming. Ah, there's one, now. Hisagi, a drink, if you would be so kind."

Attention turning to the bright bay horse halting in front of the ornate gates of his kingdom, he focused on the future king just beyond his borders. Too far, but even at a distance Gin could see the tight lines of anger in the stiff posture, the way the prince leaned over the smaller figure with the menace of a lion over prey. He would give quite a lot to know what words were exchanged in the minutes before the foreigner was hoisted up and dropped down, an action seemingly contemptuous, yet he noticed how lightly the discarded slave landed, how the warhorse was backed and turned to keep from knocking down the slight figure.

So, his gift was still alive, and still in favor, at least enough to survive the prince's wrath. Favor enough to be allowed the life of a royal lover, free to come and go, dressed in silks and emeralds. Pretty thing. It was a shame he couldn't have brought the kid to Las Noches earlier, made an ally and a spy out of him. The prince was too clever; the unfortunate little lord would have been gutted by now, not so pretty entrails all strewn out on the prince's bed. More likely the pieces would have been delivered to him just like the ugly head now being lifted on its sandstone pedestal and carted away to delight the partygoers.

"Isn't that the slave you gave to the prince? What the hell is he doing here?"

"Indeed, it is," his fingers wrapped around the cold glass. Hisagi was useless as an observer or informant, blissfully unaware of the intrigues and dramas that spun like thick webs all around The Crowned Serpent. The man was lucky he could fight, and fight well, or Gin would have no use for him at all. Well, besides low entertainment from time to time. His grin widened as he spotted golden hair. The fool had the good taste to feel more than lust for his Ran, but not enough sense to hide it.

"And there is our guest of honor and our lovely Queen of Whores."

The slave was still standing outside the gates, staring in the direction of the vanished prince. Yes, he would have liked to have heard that conversation. The new arrivals broke the white-haired slave's trance as another figure on horseback wheeled and retreated. Ah, young Madarame. An even greater fool, that one, hiding his infatuation with Gin's top male so well that he'd convinced himself he was not in love even as he trailed the pretty peacock down the street like a drooling dog.

He watched as the single, small figure became part of a trio. Gin had chosen the perfect match, indeed. The foreigner had certainly done well for himself in a short time, as had his whores. Not many royal mistresses would keep such company outside of the occasional games played by the king, bringing his haughtier mistresses here for a humbling or his bolder ones to join in some fun. But then, who could resist his Ran?

And the beautiful Yumi was about to be a free man again. Gin would miss owning him. Yumichika had been cooperative, eager, just clever enough to keep his pride and feel independence for small victories without becoming a liability. The young man was in good shape, had a strong clientele. There were a good five years of top earnings still in that body. But Gin would not force the issue. The Serpent was the one whorehouse any slave would kill to serve and any citizen would chose should life force them into selling themselves. Here, the goods must cater to many desires. But they were cared for, taught, not overworked or harmed unless they asked to be, and they left with a fair portion of their earnings on top of the original agreed price. That was what tonight was all about, showing all Las Noches the power, splendor, and above all desirability of this establishment.

He turned away from the rather charming view of the three disparate beauties walking slowly between the heavy gates decorated with wrought iron serpents in golden crowns, the obvious phallic innuendo shutting down any accusation of offense to the royal family. The guard was still next to him, staring, naked longing in the smoky eyes following Rangiku. The guards were allowed to indulge at a discount, in moderation. The man had, of course, had the pleasure of her company more than once, years ago, before she had become too expensive and then completely unavailable. It was the continued attachment that was the problem, Hisagi apparently too stupid to realize exactly whose property Ran was.

He placed his empty glass on the desk and slid open the drawer, hand wavering between the lacquered, black box and the simple, efficient dagger. It would be pleasant to feel the guard's blood pouring out over his hand, pleasant to end the life of anyone who had ever touched her, but there were not enough knives in Las Noches, thanks to him. On the other hand, Hisagi was not unattractive. Gin had his ways to persuade the unwilling into service, and it would be rather satisfying to see the young warrior reminded of his place. And, it so happened, there was a vacancy for a male whore.

"Hisagi," he saw the man startle and turn, and spared a moment to look over the muscular form and the suddenly wary eyes. No, perhaps not. This one would break too soon, either giving in completely or surprising him with the death of a client or three. Ones like Yumichika were hard to find, but worth the effort.

"You know our dear Rangiku well," he could practically hear the heart stutter. Good. He opened the box and let his fingertips slide over the cool metal. The designs on both pieces were similar, the ouroboros. The smaller one was of gold with ruby eyes in the viper's head, so finely detailed that the sharp fangs gleamed on either side where the snake swallowed its tail. It would look dazzling on her long finger, perfectly matching her favorite shade of nail polish. Though the collar would be quite stunning, as well, with two silver serpents entwined, flat heads and devoured tails framing one large marquise ruby that would flash the darker red of her lips when flushed and bitten. Decisions, decisions.

"Tell me, which do you think she'll prefer?"

Stepping sideways, he faced the man fully, smiling as he watched the expressive face display confusion, horror, grief before settling on looking somewhat ill. Only when the gray eyes dared to look at him did the fierce looking, tattooed, muscled warrior settle on fear.

That's better.

"No opinion? Ah well, guess I'll just have to pick my favorite."

The fear broke for a brief flash of anger, and he had a momentary hope that the young man would do something heroic and so very stupid. But no, resignation and then the slightly pissed-off countenance that Hisagi thought was intimidating . . . no more fun to be had at the moment. He'd look forward to seeing what the guard chose to do when Ran-chan appeared with either the collar of an Ichimaru mistress and slave, or the ring of an Ichimaru wife.

"Will there be anything else, my lord?"

Waving a hand in dismissal, he deliberately turned his back to the armed fighter, pretending interest in another small group arriving at the gates. He would stay here in the office most of the evening, leaving the spotlight to Yumichika until he ventured down to deliver gold and a farewell. Once he heard the door opening, he called out.

"Oh, and Hisagi," he looked over his shoulder with his widest smile, the one that made kings tremble, "don't you say a word now. I want it to be a surprise."

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

When he was first presented at court, Toshiro had been too young to see the difference between looks of admiration, hostility, speculation, friendliness. To a child, it was all just strangers, the pulling of his hand by his father to get him out from behind his mother's legs, the urge to hide fighting with what little training he'd had to walk proud between his parents. He'd gotten used to it quickly, his education in reading courtiers accelerated as he lost first those long legs in billowing skirts to shield him, then the strong hand reminding him of duty and expectation. The bold stares and the furtive glances were raw, easy to read, leaking pity that they did not bother to hide from a broken little boy. Over time, he was accepted, more or less. He was a lord, if a young one, if one of strange appearance. He was part of a family favored by the king, after all, and eventually he moved comfortably in the court even if he was never fond of it.

That was the court of Seireitei, where few rivalries extended beyond petty bickering and one-upmanship, where the crown had not just the respect of the court, but, for the most part, the love of the people. This was not Seireitei. His brief experiences with the court of Las Noches – the wedding, the horrid dinner with the royal family, the fateful encounter with a noble poisoner – prepared him to face battle with each new meeting. His brief stay in palatial whorehouse – brought in chained, degraded and cast out into the hall by his captor, drugged and carted off to be chained again – had prepared him to lose those battles with an eye on staying alive to win the war.

Thus, his stiff demeanor and cold mask as he entered the lair of his enemy. Thus, the growing sense of discord as he was surrounded by seemingly genuine smiles, laughter, dancing, drinking, music. Both Yumichika and Rangiku were in high demand, leaping away from him one minute, returning the next to introduce another high lord or low whore with equal fanfare. Everywhere, people were touching, hugs and kisses of greeting, easy affection, even bursts of passion without any apparent need for modesty.

A few had moved toward him with wide smiles on offered lips, though a quick glance at the emerald on his neck and their attentions were diverted to his hand, kissed and kissed again with varying degrees of confidence and apprehension that began to amuse him as the night wore on. None ventured beyond a few polite bits of small talk, complimenting his costume or commenting on current events that he rarely understood. None dared ask his hand for a dance or a stroll to one of the gardens or a trip to the screened-off couches where so many pairs and trios had come and gone.

There was a marked difference, though, between the distances kept here and the distances kept back home. In Seireitei, some had eyed him with a hint of greed or of more honest appraisal, young lord, vast lands, eligible. None had ever looked at him like the lords and ladies and whores and slaves and servants that crowded this fairy-tale world with the garish colors of fanciful costumes. Suspicion that it was simply cruelty and avarice gave way to confusion and then to embarrassment as he caught heated invitations in roaming eyes, licked lips, lingering fingertips on his wrist and palm. The words he did not give nearly as much credence, flattery being the court's currency, but the adoration and lust was obvious, delivered in varying degrees again and again.

Here, somehow, in this decadent, barbarous, intriguing land he was considered desirable. Just a slave. Not a lord, no title or land to be won as husband or ally, just a slave. It may be only lust, but it existed because they all saw something they wanted, and that was not a phenomenon Toshiro was at all prepared for, despite the praise of the man who enslaved him or the man whose collar he wore.

"There you are!" Surely clad in a fortune of silk and jewels, glitter and paint, he wasn't hard to find. Or maybe he was, amid all the pageantry, small and backed to the heavy wine-colored curtains.

"Come on. You haven't been to the gallery yet."

Yumichika was flushed with drink and the heat of multiple dances, the man of the hour, smiling wide as he took Toshiro's arm and firmly tugged him along. Until recently, Toshiro had never thought much of sexual attraction, his own or that of others. Well, not more than nature insisted upon. Here, surrounded by the most beautiful whores in a city that celebrated sex in a way he had never imagined, he was finding it difficult to think about anything else.

And really, that was unsettling him more than anything, that he could be trapped here days away from harsh punishment, his sister somewhere suffering nearby and completely beyond his reach . . . that he could be distracted by beauty and flirtation made him angry and ashamed, and that still did not stop him noticing the man swaying gently behind the tall brunette, his hand working between her legs as she leaned back, hair spilling over his shoulder. Or the man his own age, a woman old enough to be his grandmother straddling his lap as he leaned back on a pile of pillows, supported by another young man with large hands reaching around to caress sagging breasts. Impossible to tell who was client, who was whore, who was a married couple, who was noble. A few scattered around wore collars, but even that was hardly a firm indication of status, not here where slaves could be wealthy and powerful or could be worked to death in the dirt.

"Quite something to get used to, isn't it? And the party's just starting. Oh, quick!" He was yanked through a curtain, just like all the others that lined the walls. Only this one hid a staircase climbing above the tall first floor. Beyond was a large, wide hall with far fewer guests in pairs or small groups scattered and slowly moving about to observe various paintings or sculptures, the noise of music and laughter muted.

"Whew! I really didn't want to see Lord Barragan tonight. At least not until he's ready to pass out. Not gracious, I know, after the gifts. I've earned them, though, a hundred times over."

He watched the man shudder, watched the bright smile return, and admitted that he was grateful for the rescue, the respite. Truly, he wanted nothing more than to run, back to the palace that was his prison, lock himself in and try to forget that escape was ever a possibility. For Momo. He had no choice. Standing there on the edge of enjoying himself, being amused and aroused by the shameless displays of pleasure . . . he had no right to be here, he should not be here.

"Did you ever come here?" Called back from his self-chastisement, he shook his head. "It's not normally like this, I should tell you. Oh, there's always one or two of me here, of course, and there always will be at least one, I'm sure. They dragged them all out for tonight."

The painting they stopped in front of was life-size, a nude portrait of the man beside him as seen from behind. The figure in front of the painted Yumichika was unidentifiable, down on their knees, leaving no question about what was happening. Possibly a woman by the riot of curls and the painted nails digging into the tops of pale thighs, though the forearms were muscular and dark with hair, shoulders broad enough to be seen on either side of Yumichika's hips.

Yumi's head was up, turned enough over the sharp shoulder to see parted lips and glazed eye. One foot with purple-painted nails was lifted onto a short table, knee cocked out to spread legs. The artist had given lifelike detail to the spine curved in obvious bliss, dimples above the peach cheeks, and the pink lines left by those long nails cutting diagonally along the lines of ribs.

"Good gods," he flushed deeper at his whisper, hoping his reaction wouldn't be taken the wrong way. Any of the many wrong ways it could be taken. Yumichika was gorgeous, and he knew it, and he knew that Toshiro acknowledged it, surely.

"Hmmm, not my best look. I remember her, quite enthusiastic. Lady Charlotte. Well, I say lady . . .. Here, this one is my favorite. Ohhh, for so many reasons."

The dark purr of Yumichika's voice nearly made him flinch, even as he couldn't resist taking in the new painting. Stretched on his back amid violently red sheets was a muscular body, tanned, and a sheen of sweat he could nearly smell it was so realistic, only a torso and long legs visible, decorated with various scars. A warrior's body. Not his prince's, he was relieved to see, though he knew from Yumichika's early advice to him that the proud whore had been with the prince more than once.

He took time to note those details, delaying the inevitable draw of the eye to the pale, long form astride the recumbent warrior, head again thrown back, body upright, hands pressing hard to larger hands raised to meet them, fingers entwined. Yumichika's smile, clenched eyes, swollen erection, clutching fingers, all spoke of passion and rapture. There was no forced intimacy, no act put on my a barely willing whore.

Unbidden, the picture changed. His own neck stretched as he leaned back, eyes catching the mirror above, one hand stroking himself while the other hand pressed the length of his owner's cock into the crease of his buttocks as he gave in to the growing desire to be taken. He remembered that night, his successful seduction of his master despite being bruised and battered by a drunken monster of a man. He thought of it often, his first active pursuit of lust and the joy that came with it.

"Yes, I know. You aren't the first to have that reaction." Gods, he was practically panting, and very thankful for the loose strips of silk decorating the sleekness of his costume, giving him at least a little privacy. The teasing voice turned wistful while he struggled for control. "I wish you could see Ikkaku's face; the man looks absolutely divine during orgasm. But, client confidentiality and all. We had to pose for this a dozen times. Best week of my life."

"Ikkaku," he latched onto the change in topic, recalling the name from when Ran and Yumi had caught up with him at the gates. "That's the soldier, the one from the square today?"

"Soldier, yes," they wandered on, to a painting of Yumichika sprawled across a set of thick thighs, legs wide and arms draped over his head which hung down, shining hair and fingertips brushing the floor. "Captain. An utter moron. Did you know he could have been Lord Madarame? Told his family to pick someone else, he didn't want to give up the army. Born to fight, that one, no room in his life for anything else."

"Well. Room to pose for a portrait. A dozen times, you said?"

A light chuckle, and he was glad to see a little bit of the pain ease away. There was no one, no one at all that did not suffer for love. His father, mourning alone behind a mask of strength. His uncle, playing the part of friend with his heart bleeding on his sleeve. Rangiku, fleeing from something she refused to call love at all. And him, not in love, no, certainly not in love with the man who would surely kill him in one way or another, either by destroying his identity, taking his life, or discarding him.

"Yuuuu-miiii! What are you doing in here? Come on, it's almost time for the master's speech!"

The two girls who had helped Yumichika dress him up like a dragon, of all things, then trailed along after him like giggling children grabbed a hand each and pulled. One amethyst eye winked at him between long, bright feathers.

"My adoring public needs me, my lord. You should stay and see the rest of the gallery. I guarantee it's worth the time!"

He watched the man laughing and skipping away, wondering if he hid his own pain half as well. The others in the gallery trailed along, a few tilting their heads down in his direction, and he decided to take the offered sanctuary of the empty gallery, wondering between the statues of couples in creative and rather unlikely positions, toward the wide balcony and the promise of solitude to sort out his thoughts.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

She paused, taking a few deep breaths to calm her temper. Somewhere behind her there was a deep groan, a rustling in the bushes, and she braced to go silence the pervert who had dragged her outside with every intent of enjoying one of the off-limits and quite underage angels serving drinks, food, and apparently themselves. All was quiet; the man must have passed out. Better yet, choked on his own blood. Hiyori wasn't usually sloppy, but she had been in a hurry to follow her target.

Snatching a tray of crystal goblets filled with golden liquor from another angel, the boy merely shrugging and wondering off with an air of resignation, she darted behind the heavy drapes just in time to nearly be knocked over by the pretty boy dressed in bright feathers, rushing along and laughing with an adoring audience.

That one she'd already taken note of, watching the particularly glittering group of four on foot, loosely surrounding one warrior on horseback. One prematurely bald warrior. She had sneered, watching the baldy get his hand playfully smacked away by the peacock – gaudy, but somehow the willowy man managed to look as if he deserved to be clad in gems and feathers, flirting smile and sensuous bend to evade capture like some kind of mating display right there in the street. And she couldn't help but notice the fact that even the pretty peacock was armed, moving with a confidence in his body that would make her at least a little wary of his skill with the ostentatious gold-hilted dagger at his hip and the two more utilitarian throwing knives hidden between trailing feathers along his thighs.

Can't even turn your back on the whores. This city was everything Shinji had warned her about. She could see why he liked it here.

Hiyori bounced on her feet, impatient, flashing her teeth in something that might pass as a smile as one of the trailing guests took a glass from her tray and leered at her. The target wasn't coming down the stairs, so she went up. She only needed a couple of minutes alone with him, long enough to let the young lord know where to be when the diversions began, once the prince and company were gone from the city, once the two assassins haunting the high wall of the manor and the less worrisome guards had a chance to become complacent.

Finally, a break, a turn of fortune. The room was empty, and she caught a glimpse of blue, green, and gold. Following, she crept silently along the wall, and peered around the corner to find her target quite alone on a wide balcony, gazing up at the crescent moon. One last check around the gallery, still empty, the sound of a crowd cheering in unison promised a little time, and she walked forward to get rid of the stupid tray, letting it clatter onto the table between two wide couches tucked against the wall.

"My lord," she met his gaze when he slowly turned, the startling eyes carefully blank as they swept over her and then glanced at the two remaining glasses.

"Thank you, I do not need anything."

"We both know that's not true, Lord Hitsugaya."

Not quite as calm as he'd like to seem, not quite as good at hiding shock, and she couldn't help a small smirk at the full body flinch, the twitch of a hand that wisely did not finish reaching for the knife at his side. Then he got the reaction under control, moving slightly way from the edge of the balcony, feet apart and body loose. Not a fool, then, that was good.

"If I was here to kill you, believe me, you'd never even know it."

None of the tension left the man, though he regained control, the noble air of undeserved authority that had always made her want to punch the smugness right off their entitled faces. She stepped back, further into the shadows by the wall, giving him the option of an undignified squint or moving further into the shadows, away from the prying eyes of any guard or guest who may look up from the gardens below.

"Who are you, then?"

"Wrong question. It doesn't matter who we are, only that your return to Seireitei is urgently requested by your prince."

"We?"

"There's a company of the king's Visored ready to get you out of here and back where you belong. Now, listen closely, we may not have much time . . ."

He'd moved closer, gaze sweeping over her critically, lips parting. Oh, if he said one damn word about her being too young or too small, she'd clobber him and haul him off over her young, small shoulder.

"I've never heard of Visored."

Well, that was better than the typical insults she expected. Still, he wasn't listening, didn't look the least inclined to listen, either.

"Course you haven't. Wouldn't be much of a secret elite force if every brat lordling knew about us. Now shut it, shorty, so I can tell you what you need to do."

That was better, his teeth snapping shut and his face going still again. He listened, for a miracle not interrupting as she told him to stay at this awful orgy they called a party until two hours past midnight, then return to the palace by any means. They were prepared, reasoning that the resident lord wouldn't allow the prince's mistress to walk home in the dark. They would intercept on the way, the brat didn't need to do anything except not give the game away and try to find something to hide behind if it took more than a few seconds, which she highly doubted no matter how many guards and assassins were sent with him.

The lordling was quiet, nodding sharply a few times as she went through the bare minimum of the plan. He had a noble's face, she'd give him that, almost impossible to read. Hiyori would have suspected he didn't believe her had it not been for the failure to conceal quickened breaths, elevated pulse, hard tells to hide when one is excited by hope of rescue.

"There are two guards following me, you realize. I assume you know how to get through the desert without running into a tribe or patrol, since you got here from Seireitei. How many fighters do you have?"

Brat would probably freak out if she told him it was four, not knowing four Visored was a substantial army that wouldn't hesitate to wipe out an entire tribe if they had to. He wouldn't believe it, and then he'd panic. She just grinned, looking forward to proving his ignorance.

"Don't you worry about that, little lord," he bristled again. She didn't care, they didn't answer to anyone but the king. Well, and Prince Shunsui; he'd been running the kingdom for months now with his grandfather so ill. My well be King Shunsui by the time they made it home. "We brought enough to face anything the desert can throw at us. You just get out of here as close to the time as you can without looking suspicious. The Visored will take care of the rest."

The strange eyes narrowed at that, but he jerked his chin down in acceptance. Maybe this one wasn't as stupid as the average entitled brat; maybe he'd cooperate and make this entire thing easy. That would be nice for a change.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

Deep breaths. He counted slowly to 30 before trusting that the oddly antagonistic rescuer had truly gone. It was tempting, so very tempting. He'd had to bite his own tongue multiple times to keep from begging for Momo's rescue, perhaps demanding it or he wouldn't go with them. His plans of escape had been ruined, leaving Momo behind was impossible. Having a team of warriors from Seireitei didn't change that simple fact.

Besides, there was no way this was real. Visored? A secret elite group that included a girl smaller and younger than him? A group his uncle hadn't told him about? And the timing, the lure thrown in front of him just as his captor had what little freedom that remained. He was watched carefully, ordered not to speak of his sister, the prince's blade hanging over his head waiting for one mistake.

Ichigo, surely, was too smart and too devious to rely on such an unbelievable trick. Or that was part of it, a double bluff to make him think it was real precisely because it was too ridiculous. The second he agreed and sat compliant for the 'rescue,' his master would have all the justification needed to do what he wished, return Toshiro to chains, break him, or throw him away to struggle through a much worse life. The second he told the so-called Visored to find Momo, any chance he had to reach his sister would be lost forever.

It was a trap. Maybe, it was also a test. If so, it was a simple one only a desperate man would fail. Desperate he certainly was, but he was no fool.

Turning to lean on the balcony, his eyes scanned the walls of the estate, noting the obvious guards and seeking. As if the assassin knew, a black gargoyle uncurled on the crenelated stone, nothing more than a lengthening shadow but he could feel the killer's focus on him. He scanned the gardens below. Bold lovers, couples locked in embraces, out in the open air with only the privacy of night, needing little else.

This place was treacherous, a calm ocean prone to lethal storms, even deadlier monsters lurking just beneath the peaceful surface. Tempting. Very tempting. He raised his gaze and his hand, beckoning with upraised palm and closing fingers, a gesture of summons. The breathing darkness on the wall swayed, then vanished.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

"So, this is where you were hiding."

Blue silk strips rippled in the cooling breeze, letting flashes of green and gold shine through. Yumi was a genius, she had to admit, from the fanciful scales to the sharp angled gauzy wings. The royal mistress pivoted like a dancer, like a warrior, any surprise immediately translated to readiness, fight of flee.

"Ooo, and you're hoarding drinks! I could use one. Gin's down there pretending to be benevolent. Yeah, right after he put a severed head on display. The man has no scruples. Lord Nnoitra, no less, rotting away in the foyer while all his former friends and clients dance. Course, it was your master that cut the bastard down, so guess we're both fucked."

Ran grabbed two of the bright crystal flutes from a silver tray by the couches to cover the slight stumble in her step as she walked across the wide balcony. There was something in the young man's clear eyes and the warning tension of his body that was suddenly intimidating. She'd been the first to note it, the painfully obvious signs that Toshiro was no born slave. Born as far from a collar and chains as one could be.

Not that it had saved him; the mighty fallen even lower than the poor girl who had been sold by everyone around her, including herself. Here he was, a former lord owned, a whore in fact, a slave in name. For all the pretty emeralds the boy wore, he owned nothing, shackled in finery and the illusion of respect. There was the proof, the green cat's eye held tight against the gold-dusted neck, just below a fresh cut and bruises that screamed the truth of his position.

"Ah. I see."

Confusion cleared from the glittering eyes, turning into a blank expression, still studying her as his gilded fingers accepted the glass. If he had been drinking at all, she couldn't tell. Rangiku held her liquor well, but the night had already driven her to empty several glasses and she'd had a head start before the party even began.

"Oh? What do you see, genius?"

"You're afraid of him."

"Of course, I'm afraid of him. I just told you he decorated his party with a severed head! Anyone in their right mind would be afraid of him."

Black lashes swept down, revealing a thick silver eyeshadow, a streak of green glitter in the crease. Yumi had really outdone himself. Toshiro was a walking advertisement of her friend's talent, and quite an effective one. In a building full of whores on display and guests trying to rival them, this short, pale slave had turned every single head.

"No. That's not it. That kind of fear is an aphrodisiac to some. I should know. My master is, as you said, the one who severed that head. But this fear," he faced her fully, crescent moon behind him, adding highlights to the already startling hair, "hits you when you look at me."

She laughed, some of the tension draining away. The kid really had an unnerving gaze, made you think he could see right through you. But that was obviously just a trick.

"I'm not afraid of you, honey."

"Your eyes keep slipping down, Ran. You see me, and you know, at least a little, who I was. A foreigner, yes, but not one captured in battle, not one immigrated into an unjust society, and not one who was raised in poverty with no options but this or suffering. And you look at the collar around my neck. Pretty thing, isn't it?"

All the tension came back, the sick panic that had been settling heavier and heavier in her mind. She stared determinedly straight into the dark blue of his bright eyes in the shadows, not looking at the gold-painted nails caressing the cat's-eye emerald. She took a step back, and his cold eyes warmed, just a little.

"And you think, if Ichimaru could so easily do this, enslave a free nobleman, not only with no consequences but with lavish rewards . . . how much he could do to you. And you panic, telling yourself that what you feel can't be real, it's just that you have no choice, and that makes you angrier. Then you think, no, you are protected, a citizen of Hueco Mundo. You are known and loved, people won't stand idly by if you appear with a true collar around your neck or if you vanish entirely."

Something half growl of outrage, half whimper of exactly the fear he'd accused her of escaped, and his eyes released her to stagger back another step. He turned and looked over the railing, to the purposefully dark stone gardens below and the pairs and trios of clandestine lovers scattered among the short trees and tall boulders.

"There would be no public outcry, Rangiku. Not here. There would be no prince to intervene, not on your behalf, anyway."

"Have I done something to deserve such cruelty from you?"

Wow, she actually sounded hurt. She probably was, just too shocked to feel it, too mixed up with all the thoughts and feelings and possibilities, she couldn't even tell if she was sad or pissed or what. Because he was right. As much as she wanted to deny it, it was as if Toshiro had looked right into her heart and saw every shadow.

"Cruelty?" He turned toward her again, head cocking to the side in a gesture of confusion that wasn't reflected in those knowing eyes. "I'm trying to be kind, Ran."

"Kind? That was not kind."

"I do not know the snake as well as you, but I do have some knowledge of men of power, and firsthand experience of Gin's motivations and the lengths he will go to achieve his goals."

The way Toshiro leaned back against the edge of the balcony with the superior air of one who understands everything, is in control of everything, it would have been impressive had the boy been a couple of feet taller. Not to mention the way the wings spread out, pushed wide against the railing. He looked both unreal and ridiculous, thank the gods, or she might have pushed him over the edge for being such a condescending prick.

"We do what we must, Rangiku. The reason you are having trouble seeing this is that you have let yourself become tangled in emotion. You are looking for a way to turn what is between the two of you into something tender. But your mind knows better than your heart. What's between you is not soft and gentle. It's a sword, Rangiku, unforgiving and lethal if you don't handle it correctly.

"Which doesn't leave you without choices. Reject him and he will have you anyway. I can tell you that this pretty collar is as heavy as lead, and I doubt you'll enjoy it. Run and, very likely, he will have you anyway. Accept him as you keep trying to see him, as an open-hearted lover who cannot bear to face the world without you, and you will despise one another as you each pretend instead of owning the truth.

"Or, acknowledge that part of you, the part of you that worships everything you are trying so desperately not to see in him. Most of you loves the sword, loves the fight, the danger, the risk of getting hurt. Accept it and take the hilt, fight with him, dance with him, fuck him, and love not the man but the way your soul sing when you are challenged every moment to win or die."

"Is that what you're doing, favored mistress?"

The flinch was tiny, barely a twitch of decorated eyelid and a tensing of shoulders, but she watched for it with greed. It didn't feel as good as she expected, not when the bitter truth of his words was still hanging in the air. It didn't feel good at all as she watched what little compassion had been in his pretty face freeze over as he downed the rest of his drink in one swallow, turned to hold the glass out over the rail with odd deliberation and let it fall. He walked past her to the sound of crystal shattering on stone.

"Yes, Ran. That is exactly what I will be doing."

A/N - Sorry for the long absence, friends. It was good things for a change - got promoted. Workload tripled, no time to write, but it's evening out a bit now. Updating Demons shortly, and I'm working on the Love Calls/To Be By Your Side epic again. Hope the long chapter of plotty plot plotness wasn't too much plot for you!