Chapter 4: The Dawn Ride
The world before dawn was a study in blues and greys, the air sharp with the promise of heat. James’s hand was not gentle when it closed around Regulus’s arm, hauling him from the tangle of furs. Regulus gasped, the ache of the past two nights flaring bright as a fresh brand.
“Up,” James grunted, his voice thick with sleep. He thrust a heavy woolen cloak at him. “Put this on.”
Regulus fumbled with the simple bronze clasp at the throat. His fingers, accustomed to the delicate gold of the harness, felt clumsy and stupid. James watched for a moment, his expression unreadable in the gloom, then swore under his breath and batted Regulus’s hands away. He fastened the clasp himself, his knuckles brushing Regulus’s jaw. The touch was startling in its perfunctory neatness.
Then James was on his knees, gripping Regulus’s ankle. He shoved a stout leather riding boot onto his foot, his movements efficient, impersonal. The discarded decorative sandals were kicked into a corner as if they were offal. “You’ll get proper clothes at the villa,” James muttered, as if to himself, his calloused thumb pressing into the arch of Regulus’s foot for a fleeting second before he shoved the other boot on.
The stables were a cacophony of stamping hooves and low chatter. The main party—a contingent of James’s gladiator brothers, a supply cart, a few mounted guards—had already left, their dust still hanging in the still air. The stablehand, a boy with wide eyes, gawked at the legendary Lion and his strange, pale companion.
James ignored him. His warhorse, a beast of gleaming black muscle named Shadow, stood ready. James swung into the saddle with a fluid grace that belied his size. He leaned down, extending an arm. No words. Regulus took it, his body protesting as he was hauled up to settle behind the saddle, perched on the horse’s broad hindquarters. There was no comfort, only precarious balance and the hard plane of James’s back.
James clicked his tongue and Shadow leapt forward, erupting from the stable into the cobbled yard and out through the city gates at a swift trot that quickly became a gallop once they hit the open road. Regulus had no choice but to wrap his arms around James’s waist, holding on for his life. The wind tore at his cloak. The powerful rhythm of the horse sent jolts of pain through his tender flesh. He pressed his face between James’s shoulder blades, inhaling the scent of leather, horse, and the undeniable, clean sweat of the man.
After a mile, the punishing pace eased to a canter. The silence between them was vast, filled only by the crunch of hooves on gravel and the distant cry of a hawk. The road unfurled, a sun-bleached ribbon cutting through fields of wheat that swayed like a golden, whispering sea. The scent of crushed wild thyme and distant olive groves replaced the city’s stink.
“Why did we not leave with the others?” Regulus heard himself ask, the words torn from him by the wind and a need to pierce the quiet.
James’s back tightened. For a long moment, Regulus thought he would not answer. Then the reply came, gruff and low, almost lost to the air. “Wanted you to sleep.”
The admission landed like a physical thing. It wasn’t kindness. It was logistics, a statement of fact about conserving a resource. And yet. Regulus’s arms, already tight around him, tightened further, a fraction. He felt the corded muscles of James’s stomach jump at the involuntary squeeze. James said nothing more.
They rode for hours. The sun climbed, brutal and white. Sweat traced paths through the dust on James’s neck. Regulus’s thighs burned from gripping the horse. His mind, unhooked from the immediate terror of the palace, began to drift. He thought of his brother, Sirius, the elder, the warrior spirit. Torn from their father’s side the same day Regulus was, but handed not to a privileged daughter, but to a legion master. He would be in some stinking frontier camp now, his elegance ground into the mud by drill and discipline. He was probably dead. Regulus hoped, with a sudden viciousness that shocked him, that he was not. He hoped Sirius was alive, and angry, and planning something ruinous.
The landscape began to change. The flat plains gave way to rolling hills. The air grew damp, carrying a new tang. Salt. Regulus’s head lifted. The sea. His father’s domain. A hollow ache opened in his chest, so profound he swayed in the saddle.
James felt it. He glanced back, his profile sharp. “We’ll stop up ahead. Ruins. Shade.”
The ruins were the bones of an old imperial outpost, half-swallowed by ivy and time. A few arches still stood against the sky, their stones warm from the sun. James dismounted near a trickling spring that pooled in the ancient cistern. He led Shadow to water, his movements economical. Regulus slid from the horse’s back, his legs buckling as he hit the ground. He caught himself on a crumbling wall, the rough stone scraping his palm.
James unhooked a waterskin and a cloth-wrapped bundle of food from the saddle. He sat in the shade of an arch, his back against the stone, and gestured for Regulus to sit opposite. The silence resumed as they ate flatbread, cheese, and dried figs. James drank deeply from the skin, then offered it. Regulus took it, their fingers not touching. The water was warm but clean.
“This was a watchtower,” James said suddenly, his gaze scanning the broken horizon. “For the old coastal road. Before the Emperor’s grandfather paved the one we rode.” He spoke as if reciting something learned by rote.
“You know its history?” Regulus asked, unable to mask his surprise.
James’s hazel eyes flicked to him. “I know the history of places that can be defended. Or ambushed.” He took another bite of cheese, chewing slowly. “Your brother. The soldier. What’s his name?”
The question was a knife to the ribs. “Sirius,” Regulus said, the name feeling dangerous on his tongue.
“Is he good?”
“He was… brilliant. With a blade. With a strategy. He could command the loyalty of stones.”
“Then he’s probably not dead,” James said, matter-of-fact. “Men like that get used, not wasted. He’ll be in the north, freezing his ass off, teaching farmers how to hold a shield.”
It was the longest speech Regulus had heard from him. It held no comfort, only a bleak assessment. Yet, it was the first thing anyone had said that acknowledged Sirius might still be Sirius, not just a vanished ghost. Regulus looked down, suddenly unable to meet his gaze.
James finished his meal and stood. He stretched, the muscles of his abdomen rippling under his tunic. The quiet of the ruins was profound, broken only by the buzz of insects and the sigh of the wind through ivy. The tension from the road hadn’t dissipated; it had condensed here, in this secluded, forgotten space.
“Come here,” James said. His voice had changed. It was lower, a tone Regulus had come to know.
Regulus didn’t move. He looked up from his place on the ground, his silver eyes meeting the Lion’s. “Why?”
A spark flashed in James’s gaze—surprise at being questioned, then a dark, answering heat. “Because I own you. Because we’re here. Because I’m hard just looking at you sitting in the goddamn dirt.”
The obscenity was crude, direct. It stripped away pretense. Regulus felt a corresponding, treacherous heat bloom low in his own belly. He stood, his limbs stiff. He walked the few paces to where James stood. He didn’t drop his eyes.
James closed the final distance. His hand came up, not to strike, but to cup the back of Regulus’s neck, his fingers tangling in the dark curls. It was the same grip from the throne room, but different here, without an audience. It felt more intimate, more terrifying. “You’re thinking too much,” James murmured, his breath hot against Regulus’s lips. “Stop thinking.”
Then he kissed him.
It was nothing like the brutal taking of the previous nights. It was a conquest of a different kind. James’s mouth was demanding, hungry, his tongue sweeping in to claim the hollows of Regulus’s mouth. It tasted of cheese and figs and salt. Regulus gasped into it, his hands coming up to brace against James’s chest. The wool of the tunic was damp with sweat. He could feel the fierce drumbeat of James’s heart.
James broke the kiss, his own breathing ragged. He pushed Regulus back against the warm stone of the arch, the ivy trembling around them. His hands went to the clasp of the cloak, then the rough tunic, yanking them both open. The sun dappled Regulus’s pale skin through the leaves. James’s gaze raked over him, over the subtle, soft curves of his chest, down the flat plane of his stomach to the thatch of dark hair and the delicate, dual folds of his sex.
“Fuck,” James breathed, his voice full of raw wonder and base hunger. He dropped to his knees in the dust.
His mouth was on Regulus before he could process it. Not on his mouth, but lower, hot and wet and devastating. James’s tongue, which had just been in his mouth, was now tracing the sensitive, unique shape of him, licking into the slit that was both and neither, seeking the small, stiff nub hidden within. Regulus cried out, a sound that shattered the ruin’s silence. His head slammed back against the stone. This was an violation of an entirely new order. It was intimate, exploratory, and brutally pleasurable.
“So fucking wet,” James growled against his skin, his stubble scraping the inside of Regulus’s thigh. His tongue probed deeper, then focused on the tight, hidden entrance below. “Always wet for me. This pretty cunt is dripping.”
He lapped at him like a man dying of thirst, his hands gripping Regulus’s hips, holding him in place for the ravishment of his mouth. The pleasure was an avalanche, terrifying in its intensity. Regulus’s fingers clawed at the stone, at James’s hair. He was panting, little broken sounds escaping him with each clever, ruthless stroke of James’s tongue.
James stood abruptly, his own trousers shoved down. His cock stood thick and flushed, aimed at Regulus like a weapon. His eyes were wild, his arrogance replaced by a pure, predatory need. He spat into his hand, slicked himself, and without preamble, notched the head at that wet, thoroughly prepared opening.
“Look at me,” James commanded, his voice a guttural rasp.
Regulus’s eyes, glazed with unwanted ecstasy, focused on his.
James pushed in. It was a slow, inexorable possession, aided by the slickness of saliva and Regulus’s own traitorous arousal. There was still a burn, a stretching fullness, but it was threaded through with a shocking, deep pleasure. James seated himself to the hilt with a deep, shuddering groan, his forehead falling to rest against Regulus’s shoulder.
“Gods… you feel… I can’t…” he muttered, incoherent with sensation.
Then he began to move. This wasn’t the angry, punitive fucking of the palace. This was something else—driven, intense, almost reverent in its single-minded focus. The rhythm was deep and rolling, each thrust grinding Regulus against the sun-warmed stone. James’s mouth was on his neck, sucking a bruise into the pale skin. One hand stayed anchored on his hip, the other found its way between their bodies, his calloused thumb circling the sensitive bud his mouth had just abandoned.
“Come on,” James panted into his ear, his breath scorching. “Let me feel it. Come on my cock, you perfect fucking thing.”
The combination was too much. The relentless deep strokes, the clever pressure of his thumb, the obscene, filthy words in his ear. Regulus’s control shattered. His body bowed, a silent scream on his lips as a climax ripped through him, white-hot and catastrophic. His inner muscles clamped violently around James’s invading length, milking him.
James shouted, a raw, animal sound that echoed off the old stones. He drove in one last, brutal time, his body locking as he spilled deep inside, pulse after hot pulse. He slumped against him, his full weight pressing Regulus into the arch, both of them slick with sweat and spent.
For long minutes, they stayed like that, joined, breathing in ragged unison. The world came back: the buzz of flies, the smell of dust and sex and salt. James was the first to move. He pulled out, a soft, wet sound that made Regulus flinch. He turned away, adjusting his clothes with quick, practical motions. His hands were steady, but his breathing was still uneven.
He went to the spring, soaked the cloth from the food bundle, and returned. Without meeting Regulus’s eyes, he began to clean him. The cool water on his overheated skin was a shock. James’s touch was the same as before: methodical, thorough, devoid of sentiment. When he was done, he tossed the cloth aside and busied himself with the horse.
Regulus pulled his clothes together with trembling fingers. The ache was back, a sweet, deep throb. He felt scoured out, remade. The clarity of his earlier planning was gone, muddied by a physical understanding that was more dangerous than any theory. James Potter, in the shadow of ancient ruins, had worshipped him with his mouth and ruined him with his body, and the two acts felt inseparable.
“Mount up,” James said, his voice back to its normal gravel. He didn’t look at Regulus as he swung into the saddle.
They rode in silence again, but the silence was now charged with a new, electric comprehension. The road began to climb a final hill. The salt scent grew stronger, carried on a cool, insistent breeze.
At the crest, James reined Shadow to a halt.
Below them, nestled in a curve of land between dark green cypress trees and a crescent of white sand, lay a low, handsome villa of pale stone. Olive groves terraced the hills behind it. But beyond it, stretching to the edge of the world, was the sea.
It was the deep, endless blue of a twilight sky, flecked with white horses, crashing rhythmically against the shore. The sound of it, a vast, sighing roar, washed over the hill. The smell was his father’s halls, his childhood, his birthright.
Regulus stopped breathing.
James sat still before him, watching the view, then he spoke, his words barely audible over the distant waves. “Home.”
He clicked his tongue and the horse began the descent. Regulus held on, his eyes fixed on the endless, singing water. The weapon he’d planned to forge felt slippery in his grasp. The sea was here. And the man who owned him had just shown him, in the most visceral way possible, that ownership could be a form of devastating, complex attention. The villa awaited. The sea called. And inside him, a war between hatred and a terrible, newfound understanding had just begun.
The villa’s gates were wrought iron, twisted into shapes of waves and lions, and they swung open without a touch as Shadow approached, as if the sea wind itself obeyed James. The path beyond was crushed seashell, gleaming white under the afternoon sun, leading to a sprawling house of pale stone and terracotta roof tiles. Regulus’s gaze was torn between the intricate mosaics glimpsed through archways and the endless blue horizon framing the property.
James dismounted, his boots crunching on shell, and reached up to pull Regulus down. His hands lingered at Regulus’s waist, a firm, brief pressure that felt more like claim than assistance. “Eyes forward,” he murmured, his voice low. “They’re waiting.”
A line of household staff was assembled just inside the vast, shadowy entry hall, a dozen figures standing in neat, silent rows on the cool marble floor. The air smelled of lemon oil, brine, and baked earth. Their faces were a study in disciplined curiosity—cooks in simple tunics, gardeners with soil under their nails, maids with hands clasped—all eyes fixed on their master and the strange, pale creature beside him.
James walked forward, his stride echoing, pulling Regulus along by the elbow not roughly, but with undeniable ownership. He stopped before the staff, his gaze sweeping over them like a general reviewing troops. A stout, grey-haired man with a steward’s chain over his tunic gave a shallow bow.
“Master James. Welcome home. All is in order.”
“Remus,” James acknowledged with a nod. Then his voice, calm and clear, filled the hall. “This is Regulus. He is mine.”
The words hung, simple and absolute. Regulus felt every pair of eyes lock onto him, assessing, weighing. He kept his own eyes on a point just above their heads, where a shaft of sunlight caught motes of dust dancing.
“You will treat him,” James continued, his tone shifting into something hard and flat, “exactly as you treat me. You will obey his instructions regarding the household. You will show him respect. If I hear a whisper otherwise—if he tells me you’ve glanced at him sideways—I will have your head. I won’t sell you. I’ll take you to the cliffs and push you off myself. Understood?”
A unified murmur of “Yes, Master James” rippled through the line. The steward, Remus, bowed again, deeper this time. James’s hand tightened on Regulus’s elbow, a silent command to absorb the decree.
Then James’s gaze tracked down the line, past the human servants, and settled on the very end. There stood a small figure, barely reaching the shoulder of the maid beside her. Her hair was the color of seaweed, tangled and long, and her ears, peeking through the curls, were delicately pointed. A nymph girl, no older than thirteen, dressed in a clean but rough-spun dress. Her eyes, wide and dark as the deep water, were fixed on Regulus with a recognition that made his breath catch.
James released Regulus and walked over to her. The hall was so quiet Regulus could hear the distant crash of waves. James crouched down, bringing himself to her eye level. His voice, when he spoke to her, lost its commanding edge but was no less intense.
“What’s your name?”
“Luna, master,” she whispered, her voice like the ripple of a shallow stream.
“You’re from the coastal coves? The ones near the black rocks?”
She nodded, once, her gaze flicking between James and Regulus.
James reached out, not to touch her, but to point a finger, his expression unreadable. “You see him? He’s yours to tend. You’ll clean his rooms, bring his meals. You’ll answer his questions about the shore. You will keep him company when I’m not here. Can you do that?”
Luna nodded again, more firmly. “Yes, master.”
“Good.” James stood, his eyes meeting Regulus’s across the space. In them, Regulus saw no explanation, only a stark, deliberate choice. James had not just given him a servant; he had given him a mirror, a piece of his own drowned world, a constant, quiet reminder of what he was and where he came from. The war inside Regulus twisted, a new front opening in unfamiliar territory.