Page 8 of Garden of Poisoned Delights

“Oh, I would. Don’t leave a man a plug and then tease him into fucking you over a table, if you want to come.” Isiodore put himself to rights, though he left his gloves on the table. “Didn’t you hear me? Your pants, put them on. I’m hardly going to fetch them for you. I’m not a valet.”

Adrien was either so surprised or so under that he drifted over to the chair where he’d put his trousers. They weren’t folded, and he looked at them completely befuddled, then back at Isiodore. “How should I…? How am I supposed to, when this is…” He gestured vaguely to his cock, which was still hard.

Isiodore shrugged a shoulder. “I’ve no notion, but figure it out quickly. We’ve a meeting with the Lord Exchequer, and you should comb your hair beforehand.”

They had no such meeting, but that was all right. He’d take Adrien to a side parlor, let him kneel quietly at his side, give him some water and read his reports. Let Adrien think he was going to have to have a meeting with the Lord Exchequer like this, stuffed full of Isiodore’s come with a jewel-tipped plug and his hair a mess.

“When I want you disheveled, this is how I will see to it. If I don’t, then you won’t be.” Isiodore held back a laugh as Adrien nearly tripped trying to put his pants on. He kept up the charade for a few more minutes, and then gave in only because Adrien, in an attempt to calm his very obvious erection, picked up a pitcher of water and looked half a second away from dumping it over his head.

“Put that down and come here,” Isiodore said, because he didn’t trust Adrien not to upend it over his head once he told him he was only teasing. Isiodore drew him in and kissed him softly. “I’m only teasing. We’ve no meeting. But you should know, darling, if this court is a henhouse, there’s only one wolf lurking about, and it’s me. Have we learned our lesson?”

“Yeah,” Adrien breathed, staring at him as if Isiodore had hung the moon. “I have.”

He hadn’t, and they both knew it, but that was all right. Isiodore was nothing if not dependable.

“I love you,” Adrien said, softly, taking up his hand. “And when you let me come, I’ll show you just how much.”

Isiodore stared at him, this ridiculous man who was angry when he didn’t come home, who had probably given a priceless watch to a servant—no, a member of their domestic staff—out of spite, just to replace it with a plug in order to make a point. He was a future king that would change Staria for the better, right after he begged for Isiodore’s cock like the beautiful, needy slut he was. “Seven,” Isiodore said, smoothing Adrien’s hair back. “I’ll be home by seven.”

“See that you are, Izzy.” Adrien smiled, lovely and sweet. “See that you are.”

CHAPTER 2

From Your Tooth to your Claw

The tower room in the eastern corner of the Abbey hadn’t been used in over a century. It had been a study once, with a heavy oak desk and sturdy chairs, and a bell pull that went nowhere and made no sound. In most other noble manors, it would have fallen into disrepair, but the Abbey was run by Clara, Sebastien d’Hiver’s no-nonsense housekeeper. The furniture was clean and the cushions refitted, and someone came by once a week to dust the shelves and check the books for mold. The oak desk gleamed with polish, and even though no one had used it in generations, it didn’t look abandoned.

Which was a shame, really. At that moment, Devon was rather sympathetic toward abandoned things.

He unfolded the letter he’d just received from his brother Marius, flipped it over in his hands, and folded it again. The sound of the paper crinkling was the only thing distracting him from his own labored breathing, and it was hardly enough. He was wedged on the floor between the desk and a bookshelf, having unthinkingly sought out the most protected part of the room, and he’d let the candle on the desk burn out some time ago. Duchess, the hellhound that Sariel had taken from a forest as a gift, refused to let him brood in peace, and had shoved herself into the small space with him so she could plop her enormous, blocky head on his knees. When he looked down at her, she sighed, fiery eyes wide and loving.

And here he’d been doing so well.

“You’re wasting your time,” he told her, but Duchess just sighed again with that doglike expression of just how exhausting it was to look after a human pack, and he half considered feeding her the letter. Instead, he slipped it into his pocket again.

Time folded and stretched, and Devon turned his face to the glass doors of the bookshelf just to feel something cool on his cheeks.

The part of him that hated Marius had died somewhere in the letter’s third apology, choking under the pressure of the fury that Devon reserved for Oscar Chastain. Of course the one person who should have regretted it was dead. Of course Devon couldn’t shake it out of him, claw even a half-hearted apology from his dying throat. Of course it fell to Devon and Marius to blame themselves in his absence.

And now Marius was, what? On a journey of self discovery? Where? How? With whom? His letter had been a rambling mess of apologies and self-reflection, but it hadn’t said anything about how Marius had gotten there. He’d given an address, but still it felt as though Marius had simply laid his feelings at Devon’s feet and run.

That was uncharitable, perhaps. Marius had spent his whole life running from the truth, and this letter was clearly his attempt to face it. The last time he’d been at d’Hiver, he’d been chased out by hellhounds, so it wasn’t as though he could walk up to the front door.

But he should have.

But he shouldn’t have. That would have been worse, because then Devon would have to look at him and see the emotion on his face, and he wouldn’t be able to hide away in a tower room like a coward while his heart burned with too many emotions at once.

Duchess whined, and Devon covered his face with both hands, inhaling hard. Her weight lifted off his knees, and he barely noticed the sound of her claws clacking on the wood floor as she left. There was a time when Devon would have done anything to be left alone. He had dreamt of silence, of locked doors and empty halls. But now, alone in the tower room with Marius’ letter in his pocket, Devon felt like he was drowning in the quiet. It had fallen out of favor with him during his short time in the Abbey, as the people who lived there enfolded him into their strange, haphazard family. Sebastien and his demon were always present, just at the edge of his sight if not at his side, as Sariel liked keeping his mortals close. They’d held his soul in their hands and returned it whole.

Sariel called his soul a light, at times, like a beacon calling Sebastien’s demon forward so he could drink of his emotions, and Devon sometimes found himself drawn out of sleep to the sound of Sariel’s voice in Sebastien’s mouth, can we touch you, Beloved, can we hold your heart?

Yes, he thought now, as he tried not to weep in the dark of the tower room with his hands in his hair and his breath coming ragged and harsh. Yes, please. Come take it.

* * *

Sebastien was helping Clara take inventory of a recently discovered cache of d’Hiver silver that Polly, the newest member of their strange little family, had found in the cellar. It was a painfully dull task, and Sebastien would rather be doing anything else, but Clara was determined. She was in the early stages of her pregnancy, her belly gently swelling to fill out the front of her dress, and Sariel had murmured there are two hearts, Host, beneath hers, which was how Sebastien knew she was having twins. She hadn’t told him yet, and he wondered if she herself even knew.

Then he saw she was holding two of the smallest spoons from the silverware set, which he assumed were meant for sugar or perhaps stirring some delicacy, and he raised his eyebrows at her. “You want those for the babies?”

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