Page 16 of Garden of Poisoned Delights

Sebastien didn’t know what to say. “I enjoyed that it sustained Sariel, my flame. Contrary to my blood-soaked, murderous past, I’m no sadist. I wouldn’t have hurt anyone, outside of the dark room, or for anyone but Sariel.” And now you.

“No, you’re not,” Devon agreed, gently moving his hands over the scar on Sebastien’s stomach. “You’re the opposite of a service submissive—a caretaker dominant, maybe. That’s why you took people there, and…killed them, for Sariel. That’s why you don’t mind that what you do for him is different, now.”

“Perhaps. It could also be that love lasts longer than even the sharpest memory of pain, or the loudest scream of terror. I left all of that behind when I would leave the room, when it was over. Love, it seems, is always with me.”

Devon snorted. “What was it you said? Like blood under your fingernails?”

Sebastien felt his cheeks go hot. “A poet I am not, my flame. You are the artistic one in our family.”

“Maybe not just me,” Devon said, glancing away. “My brother used to write stories. Maybe he will again, like I’m writing music.”

“Maybe he will.” Sebastien thought of the letter tucked in his waistcoat pocket. “Would you like me to get rid of his letter for you?”

“No.” Devon shook his head, then found a bottle of scented shampoo and tipped some into his palms to wash Sebastien’s hair. It felt nice, Devon’s strong fingers gently rubbing the shampoo into his scalp, combing through the wet strands. “I’ll keep it with my music books.”

“If you wish.” Sebastien ducked under the water again to wash the shampoo from his hair. This time, when he resurfaced, Devon was washing himself with the bar of soap, which was an enjoyable sight even if Sebastien would need a bit longer to appreciate it properly. “Will you write him back, then?”

“I don’t know,” Devon said. “I need to sit with it. I know you call me a flame, but maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to burn everything to cinders. It’ll take some time before I’m ready.”

“Of course.” Sebastien smiled at him. “Take all the time you need.”

Devon was quiet again, and Sebastien was content to let him be, drifting on the edges of submission and sex, the hot steam, the simple luxury of the water.

It wasn’t until later, after supper, when Devon was tinkering at the piano and Sebastien was reading, that Sariel stirred awake, whispering in his mind.

Host. Ask Beloved if my cock made him smile.

“Sariel would like to know if his cock made you happy, Devon.”

Devon’s fingers hit a discordant note on the piano, clearly startled by the question. He cleared his throat, and Sebastien could see the tips of his ears were red. “Ah. Yes, Sariel. Yes, it did.”

Good, the demon murmured. Next time I will have two cocks. Then you will both smile.

Sebastien choked. “I—ah, yes, perhaps.”

I am very clever, Host, Sariel said, curling up again inside of him. Am I not?

“Very clever, my demon,” Sebastien said, smiling, relaxing with his book as Devon’s piano filled the quiet room with music. “Very clever indeed.”

CHAPTER 3

Dramatics

“Can anyone tell me,” Laurent de Rue said, fifteen minutes after the lights went on in the House of Onyx, “why a courtesan from the House of Gold is standing outside in a full mourning veil?”

Sabre, walking through the common area with tea, froze in the doorway. Margritte and Nanette immediately went to the windows, pushing against each other and getting tangled in the violet curtains, and Rose climbed on the couch to look over both of them.

“It’s Crystelle the Magnificent,” Rose said. Sabre backed a step into the kitchen. “Look, that’s the big diamond they always wear. Are their gloves spiked?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them,” Yves said, from where he was leading a curious country lord up the stairs. “Tell me what it’s about when I come down again. Crystelle’s a riot.”

“They look like they want to start one,” Laurent said, going to the window as Sabre put down the tea set on the kitchen counter as quietly as possible. “And they’re going to scare away customers looking like they’re attending the wedding of a man they probably murdered.”

“Oh, they wouldn’t. They’d hire someone else to do it.”

Sabre slipped out the side door from the kitchen, emerging into a dark, stuffy summer night in Duciel. The rosebushes crowded thick around him as he skirted the side of the building, and he peered around the corner to find that Rose was right—Crystelle was indeed standing under the lamp in front of the House of Onyx, looking mad enough to spit venom.

And it was all Sabre’s fault.

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