Bee Among the Clover by Fae Sutherland, Marguerite Labbe

He wanted the slave, wanted to know the surrender from him that Wulfgar did. Wanted to know what it would be like to have that beautiful, lean body naked beneath him and Roman’s whimpers pleading for more.
Aron was lost in thought, not paying much attention to the activity going on around him, and so didn’t notice Osric’s approach until the battle-lord stood in front of him. Aron met his eyes and straightened, his instincts flaring to life. He didn’t like the man overmuch, and there was something he couldn’t quite place that made Aron distrust him. But for some reason, the battle-lord had taken a keen interest in him.
Osric glanced over his shoulder in the direction Aron had been staring in the direction Roman had gone, and a knowing grin appeared on his scarred, weathered face. “A pretty piece, eh?” His tone was conversational, and he leaned against the fencing beside Aron, watching the other warriors battle back and forth. He nodded toward the stand of trees, arching a brow at Aron.
“Have you had him yet, boy?” He gave Aron a slow smirk, and a dark light entered his beady eyes. “I have. Perhaps if you serve Wulfgar well enough, he’ll share his prize with you as he did with me.”
Aron tensed, eyes narrowing and a furious rage filling him, but before he could react to Osric’s taunts, the man was gone, back to sparring, and even Aron’s temper didn’t make him so foolish as to think of attacking one of the battle-lords.
His eyes darted back toward the trees, and a knot formed in his stomach. He got a similar sensation when he, Roman, and Wulfgar were in bed, when Wulfgar was fucking the slave, but nothing this intense. He wanted to rip Osric in two; at the same time he wanted to stalk to those trees, find Roman, and take him then and there.
It was startling and confusing, and he wasn’t sure what had caused it. Osric had been with Roman, what of it? It wasn’t at all uncommon for slaves to be shared with a thane’s men; in fact, it was more uncommon for them not to be shared. Yet the idea of Roman handed over to these brutish men and used by the likes of Osric made Aron see red.
Jaw set, he pushed away from the fence and began moving toward the trees.
    R
OMAN looked up from his book, hearing the crunch of snow, and saw Aron enter the copse. Tensing, he wiped the nib of his quill on a spare cloth he had brought and slipped it back into his pocket, stopping the inkwell tightly as he watched Aron’s progress. The young thrall was looking around, and Roman knew he could only be searching for him. Maybe he would go away when he couldn’t find him.
    He sighed when Aron looked at the ground and made straight for him. He should’ve taken the time to wipe out his tracks. Roman lifted his journal and blew on it to dry the glistening ink before tucking it away again in his cloak as Aron stopped in front of the tree and looked up.
    Their eyes met, and Roman noted the angry, unsettled look on the other man’s face, wondering what had happened. Maybe Wulfgar felt the need to have them in his presence early. A snide remark leapt to his tongue, but he held it in. The truth was, this young man was not his enemy, and he wasn’t in the mood for one of their verbal battles.
Aron blinked, then frowned. “Did you get run up the tree by a wild animal?”
    Roman snickered, and Aron’s eyes narrowed further as he frowned up at him. Roman shook his head and gave him a mocking glance. “No, Aron, I did not get ‘run up the tree’. I was writing.” He saw Aron’s incredulousness and sighed. These barbarians and their lack of education at its basest levels.
    Aron glanced around, and then back up at him, his voice impatient when he spoke. “Will you come down? I don’t like standing here appearing to talk to a tree.”
    Roman bit back another sigh and obeyed, swinging down and landing lightly on his feet in front of Aron, brushing the snow and bits of tree bark from his tunic and breeches. He tilted his head and