Page 11 of Garden of Poisoned Delights

“Lord Havish says I’m—” Marius stopped, blinking at his reflection in the mirror. “He says I’m an old soul. That’s why I’m allowed.”

“Lord Havish is stupid,” Devon muttered, and Marius went pink.

“As if you know anything!”

And he hadn’t. Even when it had all gone wrong, Devon hadn’t gone to those weekly events with his father. He was too disruptive, too much trouble. But Marius wasn’t any trouble at all.

Marius had spent quite a lot of time with the Havishes. He stayed whole weeks there, coming back with new suits and riding clothes and books with embossed letters on the spine. He’d been invited to a few other estates, as well—Devon remembered the misery of those weeks alone with his father in their empty house while Marius ran about with other noble sons.

But he hadn’t, had he? Devon stared over Sebastien’s shoulder as he realized it too late. Marius hadn’t been visiting their sons at all.

He’d given Sabre a list of names.

“Beloved.” Sebastien’s voice was hollow, echoing with Sariel’s influence. “You are far away.”

“I think Marius might have had it worse,” Devon said, and Sebastien raised his brows.

“You can only know what you feel, beloved. It’s foolish to compare.”

Devon supposed Sebastien would know. He couldn’t imagine how it must have felt to be a boy, dying of his wounds after watching the brutal murder of his family, dragging himself toward the demon who would consume his soul—or for Sariel, trapped in the dark and knowing only pain and fear for centuries. It didn’t make sense to make a contest of it. Pain was pain, however it happened.

“It was easier when I hated him,” Devon said, and sighed as Sebastien unhooked the lead from his collar. “I wish I could just…I wish it could be quiet, just for a while.”

Sebastien paused, a hand hovering close to Devon’s cheek, before Devon nodded slightly. Sebastien cupped his cheek with a hand as he used the other to test the ties on his wrist, a wordless comfort that was worth far more than fumbling platitudes. Sebastien tugged at them and frowned.

“This will need the knife. You pulled too tight, and the knot twisted underneath.” He sounded disappointed in himself; Sebastien liked to be precise with his rope work, taking time to test every knot. He stepped away to fetch a knife, and lightning flashed, making the steel flicker with light from the window. Devon’s breath caught, and Sebastien looked at him oddly, head tilted.

“I will not cut you,” Sebastien said, and Devon nodded, holding his breath as Sebastien drew the knife closer.

“I know.” The flat of the knife touched Devon’s wrist, and for the first time all night, Devon went still.

Sebastien held the knife there for a breath, watching Devon intently, before he lifted it away and cut through the rope. He paused as though listening to another voice.

“Yes,” he said, after a while. “Perhaps it is the knife he wants.” Devon stiffened, and Sebastien smiled down at him. “Not in that way, beloved. No pain. But perhaps you want us to cut your thoughts away tonight, in the dark.” He carefully lay the knife over Devon’s throat, and Devon gasped as his cock stirred, heat coursing through his body. “There are many uses for a knife.”

“Do it,” Devon blurted out, before he could convince himself to stay up all night or get miserably drunk instead. “But take me—take me to the doors. I want to feel Sariel. I want him to…”

He wanted to feel Sariel hold his soul in his clawed grasp, feeding on the emotions that rolled off Devon in waves. He wanted to feel held, secure, wanted, in a way no other mortal was craved by their lovers.

“Yes,” Sebastien said, sheathing the knife. “I know.”

* * *

The black doors were open. That wasn’t unusual—Sebastien was long used to walking by and seeing them standing open, the darkness as solid as a painting on a flat wall, seemingly impenetrable.

What was unusual, however, was what he saw when he and Devon stepped into the waiting, welcoming dark, and the doors shut behind them, quiet as a sigh. There was a single light in the room, shining down on something Sebastien hadn’t seen in quite some time. It was in the shape of a cross, and looked similar to the post on which he’d once seen a duke whipped to the point of orgasm. But this one wasn’t meant for enjoyment. It was meant for what they used to do, he and Sariel.

“What is this?” Devon asked, blinking. “It’s never been in here before.”

“It has,” Sebastien said, putting a hand on the dark, slick wood of the cross. It was a strange thing, real and yet he knew it couldn’t be, and it made him think of the trees in the spectral forest where he’d found Duchess.

Sebastien shivered. Next to the cross was a small table, with a knife he knew very well indeed. He glanced at Devon, who joined him at the cross. He was quiet, but he didn’t look afraid.

“This is what I would have seen, isn’t it,” he said, after a moment, “if you’d brought me here to kill me?”

Sebastien saw no reason to lie. “Yes.”

Devon nodded, stroking the clean, smooth, dark wood. “It’s what he would have seen, if I’d said I’d wanted it. My brother. Marius.”

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