Page 10 of Garden of Poisoned Delights

The dog barked, going down on her haunches, tail wagging. Her hellfire eyes gleamed up at Sebastien.

“I shall take that as a yes,” Sebastien said, and turned the doorknob.

The room was clean, but had the faint air of disuse as he stepped in, and for a few long seconds, he wondered if Duchess was wrong. Then he heard something, a soft sound like a sob, and that’s when he saw Devon.

He was wedged between the bookshelf and a desk, and he was crying.

It wasn’t quite like watching Polly cry. For one, Sariel was immediately disconcerted, wings fluttering, clicking in Sebastien’s mind and demanding to know why is Beloved’s face wet like the girl in the hallway, who made him sad, will we flay them under the knife.

“Devon,” Sebastien said, going down on his haunches in front of his huddled, miserable submissive. Devon glanced at him, eyes glassy and tear-bright, and Sebastien ignored his demon’s restlessness because there was no one, presently, they could bring under the knife…at least until they knew what the letter said, and who had sent it. “My flame. Was it the letter you received that has upset you so?”

Devon laughed, a rough, raw sound. “Yes.”

Sebastien studied him, thinking. He reached a hand out, but he stopped before touching him. “I would like you to come out of there. Will you take my hand?”

“I’m not a child,” Devon snapped, anger rising, and would not take it. “I’m fine.”

He wasn’t. Sebastien stood, and put enough of his natural dominance into his voice to be effective. “You will be just as safe in our rooms as you are here, and I should think you’ll be far more comfortable.”

He didn’t often use his dominance—he didn’t often have to. Devon responded far more to Sariel’s influence in Sebastien’s voice than Sebastien’s natural alignment, but Sariel was a bit too unsettled still to do much beyond click in Sebastien’s mind like an anxious, demonic hen.

Devon slowly uncurled himself, pushing out of his hunched position, and winced slightly as he straightened. Without a word, he reached into his pocket and shoved something at Sebastien. His fingers were shaking, and he stalked off like an angry wolf to go stare out of the window as Sebastien unfolded the letter. It was growing dark in the tower; a storm was rolling in from the sea, and the windows in the tower shook as Devon braced one hand on the glass, staring out at the sky.

Sebastien took his time with the letter. Marius chose his words carefully at first, but his emotions seemed to spiral the more he wrote, and his apologies were punctuated by vague mentions of the new life he was building. Sebastien read it twice, then folded it and tucked it into the pocket of his waistcoat. He cautiously made his way over to Devon, but didn’t touch him. “Sariel and I have a question, Devon. Do you want me to bring him here, your brother? Is the pain this letter caused you too much for you to bear?”

Devon didn’t look at him. “I don’t know.” He was still staring at the storm outside, and his breathing was too fast, his muscles tense.

“Let us help you,” Sebastien murmured, and there was Sariel’s voice, a soft, clarion echo beneath his own. “My flame, Devon. Let this be, for a while. Let us settle you.”

Devon turned, and the thunder rumbled as the sky opened and the rain drummed against the window. “I don’t know if you can,” he said, aching, honest, but he held out a hand, slowly, toward Sebastien. “But you’re welcome to try.”

* * *

The storm broke over the d’Hiver estate with a fury. Wind rattled the windows and shook the doors on the first floor. Rain lashed the glass and made rivers of the garden, pooling in the courtyard by the front doors. Something howled in the woods outside, where Sariel’s influence didn’t reach, before it was drowned by the rumble and crash of thunder.

And in the warmth of Sebastien’s bed, framed on all sides by thick bed curtains that muffled the storm, Devon couldn’t be still.

It usually helped when Sebastien bound him in soft rope and secured him to the bed, but even with his collar on a lead hooked to the headboard, Devon couldn’t settle. The comfort he felt in being held—restrained, even when he didn’t want to be touched, and Sebastien sat back, watching him go still and quiet—just wouldn’t come. He flexed his hands and tensed his muscles, and after a few minutes of carefully arranging him on the bed, Sebastien clicked his tongue and started undoing the ropes again.

“If I could just go under,” Devon snarled, and Sebastien slowed, looking at him curiously. He was bent over Devon, his long hair spilling over one shoulder.

“You don’t always seek subspace,” Sebastien said. “Perhaps that is why. You want it now only because you want to forget, but you’re too stubborn, beloved. Your own nature fights you.”

“So my submission is a contrary asshole, is what you’re saying.”

Sebastien tilted his head slightly, affirming without repeating Devon’s choice of words. For all that he was a man who had, without much remorse, taken people apart under the knife for Sariel countless times, he was too polite to be crude.

Devon had seen enough of the Starian nobility to know that was rare in noble circles. Oh, they liked to pretend they were genteel, but behind closed doors, it was all fucking and cursing and bribing each other to stay on top.

Marius had said in his letter that he had given Sabre names. What names? Of collaborators? But their collaborators were dead, weren’t they?

A small, hidden memory drifted from the mess in Devon’s mind: Marius, fourteen and already acting superior, dressing for one of their father’s events in a neighboring county. Their father used to go alone, leaving them to their own devices once a week, but ever since Marius had been thirteen or so, he’d been allowed to shadow Oscar Chastain to watch the adults smoke and drink and talk about what horse had won at what race that week.

“I don’t know why I can’t come with you,” Devon had said. He hadn’t yet had a reason to hate his father, but he was already starting to resent Marius, who had gone cold and quiet the past few years. “If you’re allowed, then surely I’m old enough.”

Marius had flinched. It was brief—just a momentary fumble with the button on his collar—but it was there, and Marius covered it quickly with an arch look. “You’re still a baby,” he said. “This is for men.”

“You’re not a man yet. You can’t even grow a beard.”

---