Page 3 of Garden of Poisoned Delights

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Isiodore was going to end up dead by the end of the week, probably. As much as Emile might have turned a new leaf when he’d fallen in love with a former Mislian pleasure slave, he doubted that newly-awoken tenderness would extend to Isiodore murdering his son for teasing him.

The moment he’d gotten a look at Adrien, it was immediately apparent that he’d done something wrong. He’d sauntered into council doing his level best to mimic his father, attempting to arrive late and with his hair out of sorts and his boots scuffed. Isiodore’s dominance had flared like a bonfire the moment he’d seen it—Emile could do what he liked with his appearance, but Adrien would be put together if Isiodore had to dress him himself. Even before Adrien’s pointed comment about how nice it was to have an attentive husband, he’d known exactly what the issue was.

Did Adrien really think that Isiodore had wanted to spend the last few days wrangling Emile and the council? Could he really imagine that Isiodore preferred subtly threatening the Minister of Finance into doing what Adrien wanted, over tossing his husband on the bed and fucking him senseless until he couldn’t breathe without sobbing and asking permission? Was his husband, a clever man and too bright for his own good—a man who had learned an entire foreign language as a teenager without anyone knowing—really so stupid as to think Isiodore would rather be anywhere but on top of him, with his hand around Adrien’s throat?

Apparently so, if Adrien’s attempt to undermine his authority and blind him with the signet ring was any indication. Isiodore was going to show him just how wrong he was, shortly after he dealt with the council and the fucking smirk on Emile’s face, which was making Isiodore want to stand up and walk out of the room without a word.

He couldn’t do that, of course, just like he couldn’t concentrate on Adrien’s boot so close to his cock—his aching cock, because of course it was aching, he’d been wrangling a threat to the crown in southern Staria for nearly a week. Between the travel there and back and the fallout he’d had to handle when he returned, he’d been rising before dawn and going to bed after midnight for almost a week. He’d done all of that to keep entanglements and petty disagreements away from Adrien and Emile, as he’d always done, serving in his position as the left hand of the king and the consort of the crown prince. Sabre de Valois might serve Adrien as his left hand when Adrien was crowned, but Isiodore would be spymaster until he took his last breath, especially if it kept Adrien safe.

He would have thought that Adrien knew that, but apparently, Isiodore had failed to impart this lesson with any lasting…impact.

A situation he would be more than happy to rectify.

“We would also like to revisit the mandate about allowing an additional day of leisure for palace servants,” huffed Lady Montagne.

“It isn’t a day of leisure, it’s a day to spend with their families,” Adrien said, and while his voice lacked Emile’s dominance, it did not lack the sharpness. “Surely you can see why that might be appreciated by your domestic staff.”

Adrien had also been reading a fair bit of material from both Thalassa and Katoikos, where the word servant was almost nonexistent. In Thalassa, it was because they didn’t have nobles, and in Katoikos because it was something for them to argue about in the senate.

Lady Montagne blinked at Adrien. “I certainly do not understand why I—why noble families should be inconvenienced so that servants may lay about eating grapes and gossiping about their betters.”

“They’d have to have some to gossip about,” Adrien said, without lowering his voice.

Next to him, Emile smiled. “A fair point, Adrien.”

“Your Majesty,” Lady Montagne said icily, bowing slightly to the king. “We don’t all have a submissive to prepare our tea.”

“This isn’t a matter up for debate,” Adrien told Lady Montagne. “It’s been decided. If you worked a day in your life, I imagine you’d want more than a day to relax, too–”

“Adrien,” Emile drawled. “I believe you’ve made your point.” He sounded like what he was really saying was please, keep making it.

Isiodore opened his mouth, and then he felt Adrien’s foot again, teasing at his inner thigh. He shut his mouth. If the de Guillories wanted to be a pain in the ass of the Starian council, let them, then. He settled back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, and said nothing as Lady Montagne finally gave up and sat down in a huff.

He reached down and took Adrien’s foot in hand, firmly pushing it to the floor with a slight glance at his husband. Adrien was doing his level best to start acting like Emile again, and while it was amusing as the council realized exactly how mild-mannered Adrien wasn’t, Isiodore wasn’t in the mood to play along.

Adrien kept leaning back in his chair and tilting his head just so, making certain Isiodore noticed he wasn’t wearing his collar all while showing his throat, and he would let him fall next time, he swore to whatever divine spirit kept watch over brats. Isiodore’s dominance was nearly roused to a fever pitch, and Emile, damn him, was almost laughing outright, eyes flickering between Isiodore and Adrien, his usually cold eyes bright with unholy amusement.

I am going to retire, Isiodore thought, while Adrien stretched and casually insulted the Minister of Trade, to Diabolos. Perhaps I’ll take Xavier up on that offer to be a pirate. It cannot possibly be more annoying than this.

“And another thing,” Adrien said, leaning forward, his messy hair falling in his face. “I don’t think we need to continue the tariffs on lumber to Gerakia, do we? Considering how many of their scholars have offered to provide economic analysis for reducing our costs in cross-border trade. Why have borders, anyway? Wouldn’t it make more sense to simply open them?”

“Wouldn’t it just.” Emile looked half a second away from clapping. Emile de Guillory, a man who had once refused to allow Mislians to even think the word “Staria,” was saying this?

Isiodore kept his face impassive and scribbled a note to Emile, then handed it over without looking at him. Emile read it, and laughed, loudly, right in the middle of the red-faced Minister of Defense’s attempt to carefully explain why that might not be a good idea.

He wrote something back, and pushed it across the table. Isiodore was rather surprised Emile hadn’t fashioned the paper into a bird and attempted to fly it across the chamber.

Isiodore had written, Is it a good idea to taunt the one man who has stopped every attempt to take your crown from you?

To which Emile had dashed off one simple word in reply—Absolutely.

“Our military is mostly naval, anyway,” Adrien was saying, and Isiodore saw a few nobles exchanging glances.

Sabre shifted behind Emile, a hand going to the hilt of his sword. His eyes narrowed, and Isiodore had a sudden and very vivid image of Aline de Valois a month before she and her daughter had been arrested, exchanging looks with Lord Chastain in the council meeting. He’d thought nothing of it, then—there’d been rumors around the court for months about them having an affair—but he’d learned to be a bit more vigilant about covert glances, since. With Emile being so much more the man Isiodore knew him to be before Lianne’s death, and Adrien coming into his own and using his submission as wickedly as Sabre de Valois used a blade, he’d grown careless, and he shouldn’t. If it were safe, Adrien wouldn’t be annoyed at him, because Isiodore wouldn’t have had to leave in the first place.

Sabre met his eyes over Emile’s head, and Isiodore gave a slight nod to show he understood and would put a stop to this before the council decided that their ruling monarchy was too absurd to be trusted with the rulership of Staria.

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