Excerpt: Loving the Brute

Sarid was no more than eighteen, small for his age, with dark hair and coffee-brown skin. He was beautiful in a way that is most often feminine, slender and large-eyed. It was his eyes that Noam was especially fond of: pale grey, as though the colour had drained from them and left a dusty hue similar to sand under water. They looked best framed by wet lashes, respectfully lowered. The sight could drive Noam mad.
The boy had come to Noam late in the evening, had bowed and whispered, "My prince, I'm here."
Noam was still resentful of Sarid's absence earlier in the day when the blood had been rushing in his ears and he could think of nothing but rending Sarid limb-from-limb, feeling the snap and pop of bones giving way and blood pooling under the skin. "I was looking for you earlier," Noam said. He was seated, arms wide-set on the sides of the chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. "I even called your estate."
Sarid dropped to the floor and sat on his heels with his hands flat on the ground, his face obscured by his hair. "I'm so sorry, your highness. I was--"
"No excuses."
The boy fell immediately silent, as though slapped. Slowly, he inched forward, shuffling along the floor, until Noam's boot was underneath him. He pressed his lips to the hard leather, and Noam smiled in spite of himself. "Now, don't try to lighten your punishment by endearing yourself to me. You know it won't do any good."
"I would never try to do that," Sarid whispered, and then added, "your highness."
Noam stretched his arms over his head and cracked his neck. "You're a lucky boy, Sarid. I was angry earlier, but I've calmed down. I'll be much more attentive now."
"I'm always grateful for your attention, highness, even when you're angry," Sarid said. His voice was low and he was careful not to look up. He kept his eyes glued to the floor.
Noam felt a flush of pride when he looked at the boy prostrate in front of him. He was so willing, so obedient. He could be moulded and shaped with the slightest of commands. It was rare to find someone so high-born who could submit without questions to the will of another. It was what made Sarid special to Noam. "Beautiful boy," Noam murmured. "Come here and lay your head on my lap."
Sarid crawled forward and did as he was told, pressing his face against Noam's thighs with his eyes closed. For a moment, Noam was content to sit like that in silence, softly stroking Sarid's hair, watching as the boy's breathing slowed and he turned his face towards the gentle touch. He looked as though he might fall asleep. It would be sweet to see him sleep like that, dreaming of his prince, his head nestled so close to Noam's groin. But the boy could do better work awake.