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When the fearsome warlord Brasius chooses Kynon as his tribute, Kynon tells himself it’s the price of peace, and that he can endure anything. If his slavery will save his father’s kingdom, then he will be a slave and submit to every indignity the warlord and the senate of Segasa require of him. He can live with the shame; it’s the mind-blowing pleasure that frightens him.
But the warlord wants more than a tribute who will respond eagerly to whips and bondage. The warlord might just want the man underneath: the prince, the soldier and the tribute, if Kynon can figure out who that is. On an enforced journey of self-discovery, Kynon learns that being the warlord’s tribute isn’t just about submission. And, to be the tribute that Brasius wants him to be, Kynon will have to defy all the traditions of Segasa and risk the wrath of the senate that really holds his chains. Publisher's Note: This book is primarily LGBT m/m but contains one or more scenes of m/f sexual interaction. It also contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: strong BDSM theme and elements, dubious consent, violence. Readers with a history of rape or sexual abuse may find elements of this story disturbing. |
The increasing humiliation scenes in this book caused me to whimper along in sympathy.
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- The Romance Reviews
Reviews:
The Romance Reviews
La Crimson Femme
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The Romance Reviews
La Crimson Femme
The Blogger Girls
Black Raven Reviews
Night Owl Reviews
The Blog of Sid Love
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An Excerpt from Tribute:
Kynon risked a look at the man who was going to kill him. Brasius did not look as terrible as his reputation. He was only in his early forties, impressive for a man who had conquered half the world. The warlord was clean-shaven, lean and muscular. His dark eyes were clever and sharp. He wore simple, utilitarian clothes when he could have dressed like an emperor. That was what he was, everyone said, even though he ostensibly served the senate of Segasa. The Segasan senators had a wolf on a leash, Reiner had scoffed, and it would turn on them one day. Not today, though, Kynon thought regretfully. Not in time to save Caralis.
Kynon knew his face.
He had met the warlord once, years ago. It had been in the duchy of Hailon, for the old duke’s birthday. Kynon and his mother had attended as the official representatives of Caralis. There had been dignitaries from more countries, kingdoms, and principalities than Kynon could count. He’d been no older than thirteen or fourteen at the time and thrilled by the rumor that the fearsome warlord Brasius would be attending.
Bored with pageantry, Kynon had fallen in with a group of boys around his age. After a few days of awkward overtures, they were all fast friends, politics forgotten. The birthday celebrations didn’t interest any of them, and they were very soon the scourge of Hailon Castle. One night, the evening before the old duke’s birthday, they had been rushing down one of the narrow corridors in the keep. Kynon, at the head of the pack, hadn’t even heard the men before he’d rounded the corner and run straight into them. He’d hit one of them, and the force of the impact had knocked him backward onto the floor. Kynon had landed there, gasping, staring up at the man.
He was a tall man, and broad. His skin was tanned like a commoner’s. He had dark hair, an unshaven face, and eyes that looked black in the gloom. He had been dressed no better than a servant, but Kynon hadn’t been naive enough to mistake him for one, not even at that age. The man had had the imposing look and bearing of a nobleman.
“On your feet, boy,” the man had said, and Kynon, intimidated by the sheer force of authority the man exuded, hadn’t even hesitated. He had climbed to his feet, still trying to catch his breath.
The man had looked him up and down like he was waiting for something.
“Servants shouldn’t use this passage!” one of Kynon’s new friends had exclaimed.
Someone else had hushed him urgently, and in that instant Kynon had known exactly who the man was. The warlord’s dark eyes had flashed with something that might have been amusement as the realization had dawned in Kynon. He had stood, his arms folded over his chest, still waiting.
Kynon’s heart had thumped. His first instinct had been to apologize, to beg forgiveness, but he hadn’t wanted to lose face in front of his new friends. He had drawn himself up and looked up into the man’s face. He had folded his arms over his chest, mimicking the warlord’s pose, then tilted his chin up and said arrogantly, “You’re in my way!”
The warlord had narrowed his eyes, and for a moment Kynon had thought he’d strike him. He had felt his heart in his throat.
“Watch your step,” the warlord had said at last and passed him.
Kynon’s friends had surrounded him, all talking excitedly, confirming what he already knew: “That was him! That was the warlord, Brasius!”
Kynon had peered down the hallway, following the warlord with his eyes. As he had watched, the warlord had turned to one of the men with him, and over Kynon’s friends’ babbling excitement, he had heard the warlord say, “Find out his name.”
It had terrified him. For months he had been afraid of retribution. He’d had nightmares. Years later when Brasius had set his sights on Caralis, Kynon had wondered if the warlord remembered the boy who had crashed into him in Hailon and refused to apologize. Now, kneeling like a servant in his father’s throne room, Kynon felt as though his childhood fears had been realized. The warlord had come for revenge.
His stomach was in knots. He drew a deep, slow breath, trying to calm his nerves while his fate was decided. He could feel the blood pumping behind his ears. Strange, he thought, that even when his mind was resigned to death, his body wasn’t: his heartbeat was wild, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he fought the sudden primal urge to run. His body wanted to live.
Kynon risked a look at the man who was going to kill him. Brasius did not look as terrible as his reputation. He was only in his early forties, impressive for a man who had conquered half the world. The warlord was clean-shaven, lean and muscular. His dark eyes were clever and sharp. He wore simple, utilitarian clothes when he could have dressed like an emperor. That was what he was, everyone said, even though he ostensibly served the senate of Segasa. The Segasan senators had a wolf on a leash, Reiner had scoffed, and it would turn on them one day. Not today, though, Kynon thought regretfully. Not in time to save Caralis.
Kynon knew his face.
He had met the warlord once, years ago. It had been in the duchy of Hailon, for the old duke’s birthday. Kynon and his mother had attended as the official representatives of Caralis. There had been dignitaries from more countries, kingdoms, and principalities than Kynon could count. He’d been no older than thirteen or fourteen at the time and thrilled by the rumor that the fearsome warlord Brasius would be attending.
Bored with pageantry, Kynon had fallen in with a group of boys around his age. After a few days of awkward overtures, they were all fast friends, politics forgotten. The birthday celebrations didn’t interest any of them, and they were very soon the scourge of Hailon Castle. One night, the evening before the old duke’s birthday, they had been rushing down one of the narrow corridors in the keep. Kynon, at the head of the pack, hadn’t even heard the men before he’d rounded the corner and run straight into them. He’d hit one of them, and the force of the impact had knocked him backward onto the floor. Kynon had landed there, gasping, staring up at the man.
He was a tall man, and broad. His skin was tanned like a commoner’s. He had dark hair, an unshaven face, and eyes that looked black in the gloom. He had been dressed no better than a servant, but Kynon hadn’t been naive enough to mistake him for one, not even at that age. The man had had the imposing look and bearing of a nobleman.
“On your feet, boy,” the man had said, and Kynon, intimidated by the sheer force of authority the man exuded, hadn’t even hesitated. He had climbed to his feet, still trying to catch his breath.
The man had looked him up and down like he was waiting for something.
“Servants shouldn’t use this passage!” one of Kynon’s new friends had exclaimed.
Someone else had hushed him urgently, and in that instant Kynon had known exactly who the man was. The warlord’s dark eyes had flashed with something that might have been amusement as the realization had dawned in Kynon. He had stood, his arms folded over his chest, still waiting.
Kynon’s heart had thumped. His first instinct had been to apologize, to beg forgiveness, but he hadn’t wanted to lose face in front of his new friends. He had drawn himself up and looked up into the man’s face. He had folded his arms over his chest, mimicking the warlord’s pose, then tilted his chin up and said arrogantly, “You’re in my way!”
The warlord had narrowed his eyes, and for a moment Kynon had thought he’d strike him. He had felt his heart in his throat.
“Watch your step,” the warlord had said at last and passed him.
Kynon’s friends had surrounded him, all talking excitedly, confirming what he already knew: “That was him! That was the warlord, Brasius!”
Kynon had peered down the hallway, following the warlord with his eyes. As he had watched, the warlord had turned to one of the men with him, and over Kynon’s friends’ babbling excitement, he had heard the warlord say, “Find out his name.”
It had terrified him. For months he had been afraid of retribution. He’d had nightmares. Years later when Brasius had set his sights on Caralis, Kynon had wondered if the warlord remembered the boy who had crashed into him in Hailon and refused to apologize. Now, kneeling like a servant in his father’s throne room, Kynon felt as though his childhood fears had been realized. The warlord had come for revenge.
His stomach was in knots. He drew a deep, slow breath, trying to calm his nerves while his fate was decided. He could feel the blood pumping behind his ears. Strange, he thought, that even when his mind was resigned to death, his body wasn’t: his heartbeat was wild, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he fought the sudden primal urge to run. His body wanted to live.