by Chloe Cox
She guzzled it, allowing a dribble to fall down her chin. The voice laughed.
“One more glass, I think.”
And just as she finished the first, another was at her lips. This time, as she swallowed, a finger followed the drizzle down her neck, where it had spread, to the hollow of her collarbone, over the ridge of bones, and down into the valley between her breasts. The amberwine she had swallowed seemed to ignite inside her. Her nipples came awake and poked through the thin material of her dress. She raised her bag to cover herself.
The voice laughed, and a hand pushed her bag down, and viciously pinched her nipple.
Lucia choked on the last of her amberwine, sputtering into her hand as the voice laughed behind her. She would have turned around then if Paolo had not returned.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Nothing. I didn’t move,” she said stupidly. She was still acclimating to the amberwine. “The man—”
But there was no one behind her.
Lucia turned back too fast, her head swimming in amberwine. She could see that Paolo was annoyed. He grabbed her wrist harder than was necessary. “Come with me.”
Lucia snatched her hand back, and, for a moment, just a moment, considered slapping him again. Here, in front of all these people, in front of everyone he obviously wanted to impress. The amberwine was dulling her inhibitions, all right. But where Cesare’s interference had protected her before, now there was no one. And where before Paolo had been so clearly in the wrong, now…
Now she could see the knowledge that she needed him, in his eyes. He knew about her father. Of course he did.
Lucia gathered up everything in her that was strong, and proud, and even used the fire that was building in her pussy and her breasts and her skin, and made a decision.
“Show me,” she said, and offered her hand to the boy she had come to despise.
Paolo dragged her around the edges of the cavern, undeterred by any of the many possible distractions in their path. The invitation of a buxom redhead, covered only in the plumage of a peacock, didn’t even turn his head, nor did he take notice of the blonde with blood red lips who brandished a flogger in his general direction, and he did not take the time to refuse the implied invitation extended to both of them by a couple lounging in lace.
Lucia had never seen Paolo so anxious. Where are we going? she thought. Where is he taking me?
And then she saw the Rooster.
It should have been a ridiculous mask. It was more headdress than mask, with the Rooster’s comb fashioned out of some menacing burnished metal, but it spread down to cover his entire face. He was, undoubtedly, the most dangerous looking rooster Lucia had ever seen. He stood with a pike, guarding one of the narrow passages that led out of the cavern. And when they approached, he nodded silently at Paolo, and stepped aside.
Lucia felt the first tickle of fear around her throat. A promise, more than anything else. She willed her feet forward.
The sides of this passage were older, far older, studded with the bones of long dead citizens of ancient J’Amel, a macabre reminder that they had all literally built their lives on those who came before. The glowing glass vials hung farther and farther apart, leaving a moment of pure darkness between each island of light where Lucia could almost imagine herself to be anywhere at all, if it weren’t for the iron grip on her wrist.
“Paolo,” she started to say, and when he didn’t stop she fell silent, realizing it would be worse if she spoke of her fear and he simply didn’t care.
She had to think of her family. Of her promise.
And right when she thought she couldn’t bear it any longer, when she thought she’d cry out and scream and fail her family utterly, they stopped.
“Where are we?” she whispered.
“We’re here.”
She heard Paolo digging in his pocket, and managed to peer over his shoulder. There was a single glowing vial above him, illuminating another old, heavy door. From his pocket he produced an ancient looking key.
That’s why he left me, to get the key, she realized. From whom?
The door opened easily, with a noticeable absence of creaking complaint, and Lucia’s suddenly over-active brain concluded that it must be a well-used door. Or, at least, a well-prepared door. This was all very deliberate. Something had been planned. Something was…
“After you.” Paolo suddenly stood aside, and smiled at her graciously, his arm extending towards the open doorway. Lucia peered ahead cautiously, not wanting to betray her fear. The door opened onto a short sort of foyer, making it difficult to tell what lay beyond. She could see a sliver of a torch-lit chamber, though. And a table. A fully set table, decorated with candles.
Suddenly she felt very foolish.
“Thank you,” she mumbled, and walked through.
As with the main cavern of the Severille party, this chamber had a ceiling so high above the torchlight that it seemed to disappear, while the edges were ragged with shadow. There was the faint sound of music, though, and drums, and the air was fresher—there must be ducts, some sort of passage to the outside. Lucia had lost all sense of place and depth, as though this place were outside of space and time. She found this strangely comforting. And so, too, she found the well-laid table, covered with fine silver plates and glasses, and an expensive bottle of amberwine, to be comforting, as a gesture that she was to be well-cared for. Perhaps this wouldn’t be terrible. Perhaps he wasn’t a monster. Perhaps he would want to help her father.
Then she saw the chains, and the shackles.
Lucia spun around just in time to see the door close behind her. The lock slid into place with a sickening click.
Don’t leave me alone, she thought, momentarily desperate, even for Paolo’s company. Her eyes rolled wildly around the chamber as her heart beat a panicked staccato rhythm, and saw no one.
But she wasn’t alone.
CHAPTER 6
Cesare felt as though the entire universe were laughing at him, and not for the first time.
He was grateful, at first, for the shadows of the tunnel in which he stood, intending to observe his prey before he began the interrogation. A good hunter watches. He wanted to see the girl’s reactions to the table settings, the chains, and to his face, when he chose to show it to her.
But it was this girl. The woman he intended to interrogate was the girl from the Dance of the Seasons. It defied logic, fate, luck. But even in her plain dress, with her green eyes bright beneath her homemade mask, he would have known her anywhere. His whole body sensed her. The honest grace of her movements, the quick intelligence of those green eyes, the delicate hollow where her collarbones met at the base of her neck, all called to him.
And even, from here, her scent.
He shook his head, and his shoulders rounded with the effort of containment. It was her. His peregrine. The one who had unknowingly saved him so many times already, who had occupied his thoughts since the Dance of the Seasons, who had given him his one hope that he might one day be free from the constant struggle to hold on to his humanity. Who even gave him the hope of love. It was her.
She was the traitor.
The anger came upon him. And it felt good. Familiar. Comfortable.
No, he reminded himself, fists clenched, that is not proved. Daughter to a likely traitor, then. Possible conspirator. And it was her who had nearly been raped by Paolo Ramora at the Dance of Seasons. Paolo Ramora, whom he had ordered to deliver him the vintner’s daughter.
A wave of guilt washed over him, and he was almost grateful for that, too, as it momentarily dampened the fire he felt at the sight of her. What that must have been like, for her, to be compelled to follow the Ramora scum. Under what circumstances would she subject herself to that? How desperate would she have to be?
Desperate…or cunning. Possibly both. It was natural for him to be suspicious of the idea that there might truly be somebody for him, and he hated himself for it. It only made it worse that he knew he
was right to be suspicious.
“Is anybody there?” she called out, her voice catching.
Miserable, he watched her eyes dart to and fro beneath her mask, her body tight and ready for flight, like a frightened animal. She was pressing some strange parcel to her belly, as though worried someone might try to snatch it away from her, and he wasn’t entirely surprised when she dashed to the shadows at the edge of the cavern and stuffed it into some convenient crevice. He knew she couldn’t see the entire chamber, would only be tormented by the shadows and the suggestion of what lurked within. Which was him, mostly, but she also had no idea why she’d been left alone. He watched her slowly get her bearings, watched her try to calm her heaving chest—he was ashamed for being distracted by her breasts at that moment—and then saw her turn to the dinner setting.
He’d thought himself so clever when he planned that. Always keep a prisoner off balance during an interrogation. Pain, and then comfort; enemy, and then friend. Disorient them enough, show them just a bit of human kindness, and eventually they want to confess. Everyone wants to confess, in the end. It’s human nature.
He smiled bitterly at that thought. Human nature, indeed. He envied them their confessions. To confess was a luxury he would likely never have again.
This interrogation demanded that he be in complete control of himself, and he knew already that this was not possible. He had to have her. Over and over again, he had to have her, or he’d lose what was left of his mind, right here in this cold underground cavern. The one woman he’d ever found that he genuinely needed, and now he had to discover if she was the traitor who hoped to kill him. He turned his rage to the stone and raked his hand across its rough edges, leaving four long marks, a growl rising unbidden in his throat, and stepped into the torchlight.
She stumbled a few frightened steps backwards.
“Do you recognize me?” he asked, stepping fully into the light.
He could see her mind working furiously behind those beautiful green eyes. Of course she recognized him; the entire city knew what he looked like. She was trying to figure out why he was there.
“I think possibly I’m hallucinating,” she finally said.
“You are not hallucinating.”
“That really seems like the most likely explanation,” she said, sounding dazed. He noticed her breathing had become quite shallow. There was sweat glistening between her breasts, and the slight smell of sex. He took a deep breath that he felt all the way to his feet. It did not help.
“Remove the mask,” he ordered.
She did.
“I recognize you, Lucia Lyselle. You refused to tell me your name.”
“I’m sorry.” Her voice was so slight. He stepped towards her and saw how his every motion registered in her body. It wasn’t fear—not of him. It was confusion, and struggle, and…something else. She danced with him, even if she didn’t know it. He gripped the back of one chair and felt the wood give beneath his hands.
She was calling it forth.
“Why did you come here tonight?” he asked.
“Paolo Ramora asked me to.”
Lucia’s face darkened at this, her mouth tightened. Someone less familiar with the act of containment, of self-control, of hiding in plain sight, might not have noticed. Cesare did.
“The boy from the Dance of Seasons.”
“Yes.”
“The one who—”
“Yes.”
It had been a long time since anyone had cut Lord Cesare Lupin off in conversation, longer still since anyone had used such a tone to do it. He couldn’t help but marvel at her. So unlike any woman he had ever met. The sight of her determination, and the smell, now, the unmistakable smell of desire, was overpowering. His cock was growing, waking like a hungry animal.
“May I sit down?” she asked, and began to pull out the heavy chair opposite him. She asked. The suggestion of her obedience to him, wrapped around the steel she so clearly carried within herself, was irresistible. He gave an order just to see it obeyed.
“No.”
She froze. He licked his lips.
“I want to see you. Stand where you are, and face me.” Her chest heaved rapidly up and down, up and down, and a red flush had begun to spread out from her bosom, but she did as she was told.
“Do not move unless I order it.”
He walked out from behind the chair, and watched as her eyes fell to his groin. She bit her lip, and the thing inside him howled for a taste of her. He paused for a moment, knocked back by the image of her on her back, legs spread, arching those beautiful breasts towards him. It was all he could do to remember to breathe.
She stood motionless, waiting. Breathing. He could hear her breathing.
Slowly he tested one foot, then the other. He was able to move without giving in. He must remember: she could be a traitor. She might make a fool of him. She might be tricking him right now. It would be the tragedy of his life, but it wouldn’t surprise him. It would only fit with everything he had ever been taught about himself.
He had to find a way to get at the truth. This was always something he’d been able to do, to play the pliant minds of enemies until they sang for him, until they willingly gave up their secrets. He could always find a way in.
He could always make them submit, in some way.
“Why listen to Paolo Ramora, after they way he treated you? Did you want to go with him?”
And here was her steel. The line of her mouth had gone hard, her chin had angled up, her eyes flashed a cold, stony green. Was that pride? He wondered. Or…?
“No,” she said. “I don’t…I don’t particularly like him. No.”
“Then why follow him?”
“Because I need his help.”
Cesare walked slowly around, studying her from every angle. If she were lying…well, this wouldn’t even have to be a lie, would it, if she were part of the plot. She would have needed help. He darted towards her, stopping inches away. She closed her eyes and sighed, and Cesare looked down to find her nipples poking through her thin dress.
It was incredible. Everything he felt for her—the way he felt his need for her in his very blood, the way she focused him into a fine, single, clear edge, the way her smell brought him back to himself, the way she was simultaneously maddening and calming—it was all reflected back to him, in her. She felt it, too. He was sure of it.
But the body and heart need not be one, he reminded himself.
“Why do you need his help?” he said, his voice hoarse.
“My father.” Here he saw her swallow, had to remind himself again that it might all be a ruse, that he could not simply take her in his arms. “My father is in trouble. He has been arrested.”
“Why? What has he done?”
Cesare saw a tendril of her copper hair fall across her face as she nodded forward—in grief or deception, he no longer cared—and without thinking he reached out to tuck it back behind her ear.
She leaned into his touch.
He nearly took her right there.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
He forced himself away from her and stalked back to his chair, falling into it with something akin to relief. She still hadn’t moved. She had remembered his order. That she might be so complimentary to his own extreme, Severillian tastes made it all the worse. His mind buzzed with an animal awareness that she was his, and he hers. No matter what had come before, no matter what women he had known, there would be no others for him after her. Even the memories of his many conquests were obliterated when he thought of her. He never expected to feel this way, and felt grateful for the chance to feel it now, even once. He would even accept her hatred, as he expected he would have to do.
But he had to know. For both their sakes.
“No one is arrested without cause in J’Amel,” he said slowly.
“It’s something to do with the Vintner’s Guild,” she blurted out. She sounded angry; she was not one to cry easily. “The soldiers came after
his still, asking about his vintages. And that’s why I came here with Paolo; his father is the Guild’s banker, and I thought he might know, maybe he would help if I agreed…”
One of Cesare’s skills as an interrogator was knowing when to stay silent. He did so now, but Lucia seemed unable to finish that thought.
“My father is not good with figures and records, and with…paperwork,” she continued at last, the anger draining away, leaving only sadness. “Taxes, and import duties, and…I help him, with things like that. It’s possible…”
“Yes?”
“It’s possible that I made a mistake,” she said quietly. Cesare watched the horror of that possibility play out on her face, as though it were occurring to her for the first time. If she were innocent, he was a monster to do this to her. To the woman he inexplicably knew owned his damaged heart.
If she were not…well, they were both doomed, in that case.
Of course she could never care for you, a voice inside his head sneered, a voice he remembered well. Of course she would rather see you dead. How could she care for a monster like you?
Even if she were innocent—the voice inside his head laughed at that—even if she were innocent, he’d still have to prove it, or watch her hang alongside her father.
Think, he implored himself, and looked at her inscrutable face. Of course, hers would be the one mind that would be difficult for him to penetrate.
“Why am I here?” she asked him directly, and there was that flash of steel again. Of intelligence, and resistance. And yet he was certain he’d felt the desire to yield in her. The beast in him had delighted at her quick obedience, had felt the thrill run up her spine. The two traits, opposed and yet twinned, putting her at war with herself: that, he understood. He wished to tell her that he understood. He wished to show her.
And suddenly he thought he saw the way in.