You’ve had centuries where it’s been you and only you with this responsibility. Yeah, you have a partner now. But Dorian Hook is so much younger than you. He’s been around a much shorter amount of time than you. And even if he’s now technically immortal and in charge of you (though he’s only spanked you the once)…this is still your responsibility to deal with.

You stand up from the bed, brush yourself down and give Dorian a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “It doesn’t matter what happened. It’s over now.” Your voice is cool. Carefully controlled. Carefully modulated. You step away from the bed. You step away from him and watch his hands fall with something approaching regret.

For a moment, just for a moment, you think he’ll let it go. That he won’t push you to reveal what you’re not ready to; what you don’t want to. And then his eyes narrow. He steps closer to you. He grabs you by the shoulders and he looks directly into your eyes. “You’re lying to me.” His voice is low, but the weight of disappointment in it is heavy. “If you continue lying to me, I promise, you will regret it.”

“You know I’m thousands of years older than you.” You shift your weight from one foot to the other, unable to quite bring yourself to pull free of him again. Unable to resist that part of you that instinctually needs to submit to him. “I don’t need to listen to you. In fact, if we consider our respective ages, it should be you listening to me.”

Dorian gently squeezes your shoulder, not breaking eye contact with you. “The appearance you have when we’re together doesn’t just come from me, Anubis. You looked like an anteater when you were with Mary. But you didn’t say or do anything with me to colour my perception of you.”

You don’t want to admit that he maybe has a point. Your soul might be ancient, but the form you wear is a young man. Younger than Dorian. And you know it’s because you feel that need to submit to him. It’s a need that you’ve accepted, at least mostly.

But you just don’t want him involved in this. Not when it’s something so dangerous to you yourself.

“I’m not lying to you.” Your voice sounds steady. Almost conversational. You place your hands over his and give him another smile that doesn’t meet your eyes. “It’s over now. There’s nothing you can help me with.” Even as you speak the words, you can’t quite figure out why you’re lying. Is it because you’re pushing? Testing the boundaries? Gods, you hope not. Surely you’re too old to be pushing your partner to step in and take control.

Too old or not, your response has clearly irritated Dorian. His mouth firms into a grim line and his grip tightens on your shoulders, to the point of making you wince in pain. He doesn’t say anything else. He begins leading you out of the room.

You traipse along behind him, even though you could pull back and break his grip easily. You stare at the floor, face flushing even though both of you are invisible to humans without psychic ability. One of the perks of being a guardian. And the partner of a guardian.

Dorian doesn’t say anything as he leads you along the corridor. He doesn’t speak as he guides you into one of the empty rooms, making sure the door’s closed behind you. And he still doesn’t say anything as he walks towards the bed, tugging you along behind him. The silence continues when he sits on the bed and draws you round to his side. He presses his hand against your lower back, pushing until you bend forward, over his knees, squirming until you’re comfortably in place. Or at least as comfortable as you can be, considering what’s about to happen.

You can’t help but tense up when his fingers grip the waistband of your pants, tugging them down to your knees. Your underpants follow seconds later and you clench your fingers in the bedsheets, mentally preparing for the pain; the emotional more than the physical.

The first smack makes you jump and you hiss out a sharp breath. As you draw in a new breath, his hand lands for a second time; and then a third, smacking steadily and firmly.

It’s not the worst physical pain you’ve received, but the repetitive smacks start you squirming almost immediately. Dorian smacks in a firm, steady pattern, working his way down to your mid-thigh, making sure every inch of your backside feels the correction. And then he begins to smack again from the crest, covering skin that’s already received attention.

You can cope with the pain of the smacks, even though they’re steadily heating up your bottom. You can’t help whimpering when his palm lands on a particularly sensitive spot, or a part that’s already received attention. But while you can’t help but squirm in response to the smacks, you manage to avoid throwing your hands back over your stinging bottom. Or take a swing at your partner.

“You don’t lie to me, Anubis.” His voice is low. Almost dangerous. His hand continues its relentless rise and fall as he speaks, each firm smack serving as an emphasis for what he’s saying. “I don’t care that you’re thousands of years older than me. I don’t care that you’ve been doing it alone for just as long. You’re not alone now. And you will never be alone again.”

The swats increase in force by the time he reaches the end of his speech. They’re harder and faster and your backside is nearly throbbing by this point. It certainly feels like you’ve sat on a bunch of burning coals.

But it’s not the pain of the spanking that draws the tears to your eyes and causes the floodgates to your emotions to open. You’ve had worse pain. Far worse physical pain.

It’s the words that break you. That promise. That you’ll never be alone again. It feels so good that it hurts and you slump limp over Dorian’s lap, crying out the storm of emotion that’s overtaken you.

Dorian rubs low down on your back, even as his other hand continues swatting; though the smacks are comparatively lighter to what he was giving you. “Tell me.” His voice is stern. He expects an answer.

He expects an answer and you’re ready to give him one. Not because of the pain in your backside. Or because of the fear of more smacks being delivered.

No. It’s the words that have broken through to you. His promise. You don’t get up. You don’t tear your eyes from the floor. You don’t move from the position he put you in as you explain, your voice soft but still clear and honest. “It was a shockwave. An effect I felt because a guardian, like me, was…was….” And here’s where you stumble. Because there are plenty of words for aspects, but none for exactly what’s happened.

“Killed?” Dorian supplies, his voice gentle.

You get it. He thinks he understands. Doctors deal with death. They deal with sickness every day.

But nothing like this.

Still, you try to explain. To put it into words. To help him understand the impossible. “It’s not death. It’s corruption. Sickness. A guardian spirit twisted into something other.” You search for the words to paint a clearer picture. “A wound that’s become infected.”

“So what do we do?” Dorian’s voice is calm. Accepting.

You don’t question his use of the word ‘we’. You push yourself up off his lap, tugging your clothing back into place and resisting the urge to rub your stinging backside. You eye the bed and then sit, carefully, unable to help but wince. “We have to go to the source of the corruption.”