Rooks and Romanticide by J.I. Radke

between the Dietrichs and Ruslanivs,” Cain reminded him, and when Levi stared back stupidly, Cain narrowed his eyes. “The feud itself runs deep. You know that, surely, even claiming neutrality as you do. But with my standing as the Dietrich heir, my focus is not on ancient bloodlust. My focus lies in the present.” He paused. He shook his head, throwing his gaze elsewhere. He could feel the hatred coming down over his face, washing away all the good feelings. “You know what happened to me, don’t you? It wasn’t that long ago, and it was the talk of New London for months.”
    Levi stared at him, eyes heated and alive with that raw dark passion of his.
    â€œMy parents were murdered,” Cain filled him in, coldly. “And I know the culprits are Ruslanivs in some way or another, because no petty street gang could manage something so calculated—killing my parents and making my life a living hell for as long as they did. I’m going to make them pay. I’m going to make them bow down and kiss my feet. That, Levi, is the Dietrich focus while I am head of the family. You get it now, I assume?”
    Cain knew the weight of such a revelation was crushing. He understood the gravity of his place, and his motives, and his history, and his impetus. He was aware of the demands it made of others. But if Levi did not get it, then there was no point in using him for anything—scouting, patrolling, fighting, nothing .
    â€œYou will not rest until you’ve exacted your revenge,” Levi surmised in a husky voice, Turkish cigarette smoldering between his knuckles and a new curious light sparking in his aloof eyes. “I understand.”
    He put out his cigarette against the front of the pew, a blatant desecration that pleased Cain for some reason.
    â€œDo you?” Cain drilled. “Do you understand, Levi? I know you want me.”
    â€œLike you want me.”
    â€œI won’t deny it. But I haven’t contracted you as my paramour. I’ve contracted you as a fighter.”
    â€œAh, my lord,” Levi said quietly, “I told you before, I am whatever you want me to be.”
    Cain’s face pinched. He felt the stab of a tiny and guilty fear, the dreadful idea that perhaps the primal throb of lust was unreciprocated. I am whatever you want…. Did Levi mean to imply he was simply going along with all this for money—killing and sex for money? Could one really hold it past a man to do something so depraved? Did Levi pity him? Did he think he was lonely or something? A wave of cold, black, insulted rage crested in Cain quickly, to feel so pathetic and manipulated—or at least, to suspect as much.
    â€œI want you to be honest with me,” he whispered urgently through his teeth, before he realized the depth of the ache at such a suggestion.
    Levi’s eyes moved across his face, almost frantically. It was odd. It was like a man with a secret, looking a complication right in the eyes. Maybe it was just that he had been trying to convince himself he would be whatever Cain wanted, because it was too much for him to admit inside that the feelings were real. If freelance gunmen hadn’t buried all their own feelings early in life. Maybe Cain was just lucky enough to have found the last gunslinger on the streets of New London who possessed a functioning moral compass—and whether it might one day spin wildly out of control like Cain’s own, didn’t matter.
    â€œHonest….” Levi echoed, and Cain couldn’t bully him any longer.
    He could see the emotional struggle blazing in Levi’s eyes. And he looked so little and defeated, on his knees before him, wide dark eyes and loose blond hair. It was like he was trying to piece together normal feelings inside, his own version of bruised and broken trust after the world had stomped on his soul too many times. Or so Cain guessed.
    â€œHonest,” he repeated. “Be honest