Free The Butcher and the Beast by Sean Michael Page A

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