Page 6 of Garden of Poisoned Delights

He drew his fingers out, and Adrien gave him a suspicious look. “I suppose it depends on what time you consider dinner to be.”

“No earlier than six, no later than half-past eight. I am going to discuss some of the finer points of my work with Sabre. Let him burn the midnight oil in my—his—office and make his husband cross. It shall be his problem.”

“Me,” Adrien said, grinning at him. “That’s what you mean by it. The goose, right? I’m the goose, and I’ll be his problem.”

“You’ve a different name, and you absolutely will not ever know it. Now that you’ve said it out loud, your father will get another one, too.”

“May I please make suggestions? No, let Sabre,” Adrien said, and flashed a smile at him. His hair was in his eyes, which Isiodore knew Adrien must hate. “He’s earned it.”

“Perhaps.” Isiodore drew his wet fingers over Adrien’s cheek. “Now, brat, let’s see about that apology.” He stepped back, snapped his fingers, and pointed. “Stand before me. I abhor seeing you disheveled like that.”

Adrien’s look was almost pitying as he sprang to his feet and came to stand before Isiodore. “Why do you think I did it?”

It was touching, really, how well Adrien knew him. Isiodore was used to being the observant one, who could tell a lie at a glance, who knew what someone liked and didn’t like, even people for whom he had no particular feelings one way or the other. It was how they felt that mattered—did they hate Emile, did they want the crown, did they think Adrien should be quietly locked in a tower somewhere?

Perhaps that one he could understand, but if it were to happen, it would be Isiodore doing the locking and the tower would be their bedroom. “I think,” Isiodore said, briskly tugging fabric and fixing buttons, smoothing a wrinkle on Adrien’s shirt, adjusting his collar just so and dragging his fingers through Adrien’s hair, “when I am finished with Sabre’s instruction, we shall go somewhere, the two of us. I shall tie you to the bed, and we’ll see how much of my undivided attention you can handle before you’re begging.”

“That’s a dreadful idea,” Adrien said, cheerfully, turning so that Isiodore could fix his hair. “I know you’re angry about the council, Izzy, but consider this.” He yelped as Isiodore gave his ass a quick smack, then kept talking, because he was a de Guillory and Isiodore was doomed. “The council took advantage of my father, plotting against him, because they thought his paranoia so great that it made it impossible to tell a true threat from his own imagination. They thought me easier to dispose of–”

“Adrien, this is not making me want to do anything but take headache tablets and sleep,” Isiodore interrupted.

Adrien turned to face him, putting his hands on Isiodore’s shoulders. Isiodore clicked and gave him a stern look, and Adrien wrinkled his nose, rolled his eyes like he was the most put-upon submissive in the history of Staria, and dropped his hands. “I was only going to say, Izzy, we’re terrifying in new and interesting ways, aren’t we? Getting along, a house united. De Guillory and de Mortain and de Valois no longer at odds. They can squawk all they like, but they’re no longer wolves in a henhouse, just the hens.”

“They’ve always been hens.” Isiodore shook his head. “You may touch me if you ask properly, brat, after I’ve seen to the apology you owe me. You’ll take those pants off, fold them properly, and put them on my chair. Bend over the table and present your bare ass to me.”

“Why did you fix my clothes if you’re only going to have me strip?” Adrien asked, though his hands went to his belt so fast, it was dizzying.

“If my submissive is going to be disheveled, it’s because I’ve made him that way. Do as I say, Adrien.”

“Yes, yes.”

No yes, sir yet, but that was all right. Isiodore would earn it. He went to the council door, opened it, and summoned the guard. Adrien had made him learn their names, but this one, he knew from his other work as one of Sabre’s agents employed to keep Rose and Hektor safe at the theater. Luca’s bumbling actor image worked in part because that was exactly what he was.

“Please see we aren’t disturbed,” Isiodore said. “Thirty minutes.”

“That’s all you think you’ll need?” Adrien called, from where he had best be bending over a table, if he knew what was good for him.

“I’ll only need five,” Isiodore called back, and Luca blushed, his eyes downcast, but he nodded and snapped a mostly-decent salute before Isiodore closed and locked the door.

Adrien was bent over the council table, wriggling his ass, grinning over his shoulder at Isiodore. “I would have thought that five minutes wouldn’t be long enough for how many spankings I’d earned.”

Isiodore considered it as he pulled off one leather glove, flexing his fingers, then shoved it unceremoniously in Adrien’s mouth. “It isn’t how many you’ve earned, brat, but how hard. Drop the glove if you need me to stop.”

“Mmph mm mmph mm,” Adrien said, and Isiodore smiled at him.

“The sound of a brat with his mouth stuffed full,” he said, and laughed as he could see Adrien was already trying not to rut against the table, “the only sound I wish to hear at the council table. I wonder what that says about your henhouse metaphor.”

“Mmm, mm mmph mm mmp mmm,” Adrien said, because of course, he tried to answer.

“Think about it and let me know,” Isiodore said, and their eyes met as he brought his hand smartly across Adrien’s ass.

It took less than thirty minutes, but more than five, to have Adrien’s eyes tearing up and for him to go boneless and easy under the sting of Isiodore’s hand. He spanked Adrien until he finally started to cry, and then took his glove out and dried Adrien’s face on the wet leather as best he could before slipping it back on.

“Now you can be sorry,” he told Adrien, and started again. It was easier on his hand this time, with the leather, and it meant he could hear the soft sounds Adrien made, watch the way he kicked his boots at the floor. “And what is that—is there a scuff on your boot? You’re the future king but you said it yourself earlier, about houses united. You’re of House Mortain, and we don’t go about with scuffed boots. See that doesn’t happen again.” He spanked Adrien under the curve of his ass, and smiled when Adrien yelped.

“I—yes, Izzy.”

Isiodore pulled him up by the hair, pleased when Adrien gasped and half-fell back against him, though Adrien was a few inches taller than he was. “Yes, what? You wanted your husband, Adrien, you have him. Your husband is your dominant and you’ll answer him properly.”

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