The Traitor’s Mercy by Iris Foxglove

Chapter 13

The House of Onyx lay quiet on the morning of Lord Chastain’s yearly hunt. The carriage bearing Lord de Rue, Charon, and Yves to the Chastain estate was already winding its way through the city, and the courtesans who remained closed their curtains against the midmorning light. Sheets swayed in a soft wind outside, and the only sound came from the slight creaking of the office door, its lock bent, the table scattered with the colorful contents of Lord de Rue’s correspondence drawer.

In the heart of the city, Sabre crossed the square where the gallows once stood. His father’s signet ring shone on his forefinger, and Lord Chastain’s favor hung heavy in his pocket, thumping against his thigh with every step. His long hair was unbound, with none of the ribbons young nobles tended to favor, and if his mother were to see him as he climbed the steps of the palace, she would have chided him for being underdressed in just a white shirt and simple trousers.

She would have said worse, he thought, if she knew what he was there for.

Sabre stopped to bow when a guard approached him at the doors, which he never would have done a year ago.

“Sabre of the House of Onyx,” he said, and the guard rocked back on her heels, glancing at the door. “Here to keep my appointment with his majesty the king.”

He handed the guard the invitation to Lord Chastain’s hunt that he’d stolen from Laurent’s desk, and she went ashen.

“Oh. Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Sabre said. “Unfortunately.”

The guard sighed heavily. “Right. Sure. It’s been that kind of morning.” She gestured for Sabre to follow, and turned off down a side hall, which Sabre hadn’t used before. He’d always known that servant passages were everywhere in the palace, but it was another thing entirely to see them himself, the gleaming veneer of the palace stripped away to reveal cheap paint and faded rugs. They passed servants in the palace livery, who barely gave Sabre a second glance as he was led in a wide spiral to the attendance hall, where the guard pushed Sabre gently against a pillar and pointed at the ground.

“Stay,” she said, as one would to an errant pet.

“Would it be easier if I sat down?” he asked.

“No, it’d be easier if you went home. Or to the pleasure district. Wherever you live.” She paused. “Do you live there, in the houses? I’ve never seen inside one of them before.”

“Yes, we do,” Sabre said.

“Rent free?” she asked, and sighed when Sabre shrugged a shoulder. “Ah. Of course. Forget I asked, then.”

She knocked politely on the high doors to one of the audience chambers, straightened her shoulders, and disappeared through the door.

Sabre waited, leaning against the pillar, while a patch of sunlight slowly crept along the floor at his feet. With nothing to distract him from the weight of what he was doing, his heart was starting to race, and he kept twisting his father’s ring on his hand, struggling just to breathe without gasping. When the door opened again, he jumped to attention, and the guard didn’t even have to give the order to send him forward, moving as though drawn on a line through the hall and into the audience chamber.

The chamber, like the throne room itself, was built like a sun, with a rounded ceiling and thin gold plates fastened to the windows, which made the light that spilled over the marble floor look like sunlight through a honeycomb. The king stood facing the window, a hand on a dark wooden desk, already dressed for a hunt.

Sabre forced himself to ignore the treacherous rolling in his stomach and dropped to his knees.

“I heard you had a fondness for pain,” King Emile said, his back still turned, “but even I would call this excessive.”

“You requested my presence, Your Majesty,” Sabre said. He couldn’t hide the way his voice shook.

“That doesn’t mean I particularly need it,” said Emile. He turned, adjusting a golden pin on his cuff, and Sabre looked down. It was unsettling, seeing his own features on the king’s face, now. “You seem to be thriving in your new status. Half of my court has seen fit to visit you, if gossip is to be believed. Would that be correct, by your estimate?”

Sabre looked down at his hands on his thighs. “No, Your Majesty. Not half, yet.”

“Then they’re over-ambitious. What a shock. I may never recover.” He stopped before Sabre, and Sabre shivered as he lay a hand on his shoulder. “Are you still bent on proving your family’s innocence? How has that gone for you, I wonder?”

Sabre couldn’t seem to gather enough breath. “I. Can’t prove what isn’t there, Your Majesty.”

“Ah, I thought Isiodore would tell you. Your mother—” He clicked his tongue. “I’m sure my inventive and loyal courtiers have told you much of what you missed that day, when you were safe under my boot, but they didn’t tell you what she looked like when I called you down, did they? Your mother, I mean.”

Sabre closed his eyes. “No, Your Majesty.”

“Oh, she was furious. I suppose she wanted you all to die together.” The king touched Sabre’s hair, so like his father’s, like the king’s. “A last revenge, perhaps, letting me watch Arthur de Valois’ legacy die twice.”

“You were there?” Sabre refused to look up. “When my father died?”

“Lord Chastain always invites me to those ridiculous hunts of his,” Emile said. “Your father was an exemplary rider. More beast than man on horseback, Isiodore used to say. How strange, then, that he would fall while chasing a fox.”

Sabre turned his gaze to the honeycomb pattern on the floor, the way the light seemed to sparkle on the marble.

“And why would you accept my invitation to Lord Chastain’s hunt, when your Lord de Rue already sent his deepest regrets on your behalf?”

Sabre was trembling at the king’s touch. He knew it, knew Emile could feel it, and wondered if some small part of the king regretted it, turning his young cousin into a man who would swallow terror in his shadow.

“I made a vow, Your Majesty,” Sabre said. Emile said nothing. Vows were worthless, he supposed, to a man whose cousin’s wife plotted his murder. “I have something of yours.”

“If we’re being metaphorical,” Emile said, and his fingers traveled down Sabre’s shoulder to the collar at his neck. “You do.”

Sabre took a shivering breath, and dug in his pocket for the ring. “Lord Chastain gave this to me. The son of a traitor.”

Emile picked up the ring and held it to the light. “Foolish, possibly, to give a favor to a man who has so clearly lost mine.”

“Or cunning,” Sabre said, and looked away as the king glanced at him, his gaze cutting. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I should not have spoken out of turn.”

“Probably not,” Emile said. “But then, your father was the same. Eventually, the blood will out. Let’s see which sort runs in your veins, mm?” He tipped Sabre’s chin up, and Sabre looked into eyes gone glassy and vague. “Well? We’re due to leave in an hour. I can’t have you underfoot in the meantime, so come with me and I’ll, oh, chain you to the carriage until we’re ready. You’ll feel right at home, I’m sure.”

“Y-yes, Your Majesty,” Sabre said, bowing slightly over his knees. “As you wish.”

* * *

The last timehe’d been to one of these fêtes, Laurent had been one of the hunted. And he’d thought the whole thing a bit of a bore, if he were honest, but maybe that was because he wasn’t really one to enjoy being treated as prey instead of predator.

But no, as it turned out, it wasn’t all that fun to go as a guest, either. At least when he came there dressed as a fox to be hunted, he was paid for his time. This was Charon’s first time at the hunt, and he looked mildly interested at seeing the snow-covered pines on the way to Lord Chastain’s country estate. Yves, who’d been invited every year, was clearly thrilled to be there. As he’d told Laurent, he simply got caught quickly and spent as little time in the snow outside as possible. Charon would, he imagined, be hunting the few nobles who wanted to be caught and ravished in front of the fire.

Laurent had no idea what he was going to do, other than shadow the prince and make sure nothing happened to him. How he, a noble who’d sworn off having anything to do with politics, ended up in this situation was anyone’s guess. Except it would only take one guess, wouldn’t it? The reason was back in the pleasure district, probably doing laundry and being run ragged by Dot and Laurent’s sister.

“Do they do this in Arktos?” Yves asked, batting his lashes up at Charon, whom he was sitting next to in the carriage—and by sitting, it was more pressed up against, as if he were freezing and needed Charon’s warmth. And maybe he did, given his fox costume involved some clever usage of fur and very little else. His eyelashes were glittered. He looked ridiculous but adorable, which was absolutely intentional, and he did have a warm cloak, fur-lined, that he could have worn over his skimpy outfit but was, mysteriously, packed away in his traveling trunk.

“Chase each other for sex? Not quite so literally,” Charon said. If having a half-naked, glittery-lashed Yves using him as a human furnace bothered him, Laurent couldn’t tell. “And the desert, of course, there is no snow there.”

“Just those little dragons,” Yves said, smiling. “I would like to see those, someday. I still think you’re making them up.”

“I am not, and they are a nuisance, seeking heat always.” Charon glanced down at him, pointedly. “Hmm.”

“Don’t you dare, I’m not a nuisance,” Yves laughed. “I’m surprised Sabre isn’t here, but I guess it’s for the best. Some of those nobles might actually try to kill him. That Devon Chastain is crazy.”

“Don’t say anything like that once we’re there,” Laurent admonished, leaning back against the velvet-padded seat of the carriage. It was rented, because he’d declined the offer to have one from Lord Chastain’s estate sent to fetch them. Not after that story about Sabre’s father and his hunting accident—he was going to double-check anything that had to do with horses while he was there.

“My lord, please. What kind of whore do you take me for, huh, I know not to complain about the clients. I’m insulted you’d even say that. But I’m also not wrong, about Devon.”

“He could use someone to whip him, I think,” Charon said.

“He’s a dominant,” Laurent pointed out.

Charon shrugged. “Doesn’t mean he couldn’t use it.”

“That’s probably true of all nobles,” said Yves, then added quickly, “present company excluded, of course.”

Laurent had been whipped before, but in the House of Gold, it was usually with the softest leather floggers, the ones with the widest strips. Or made of silk, which hurt more than people thought if they were in the hands of someone who knew how to use them. Laurent did, and he let himself think about using one on Sabre for a moment before putting it out of his mind.

“Did you know, in Lukos, they find their life mate and live in the snow for months,” Charon said, peering out of the window. “It snows so much they can’t leave their homes.”

“That sounds dreadful. Or amazing. Depends on the lifemate, or whatever.” Yves was almost bouncing in his seat. “Do you want to go there someday, Lukos? People do, or they try. I had a client tell me that, I think.”

“I would like to see a land like Arktos, but full of snow. And the wolf-people. Someday, perhaps.”

“I’ll go with you,” Yves said, beaming up at him. “If you promise to keep me warm.”

Laurent rolled his eyes, but he wondered if he should keep an eye on this. Yves was flirtatious as a rule, it was why he was so good at his particular skill as a courtesan, but sometimes the way he looked at Charon seemed more...honest, than his other flirtations. Or maybe Laurent was just projecting, since he’d done the most ridiculous thing he could have ever imagined by falling in love with a courtesan of his own house.

Because of course he loved Sabre. He wouldn’t be here, heading into the snow—which he didn’t like—to look after the crown prince of Staria, if he didn’t. And everyone knew it, of course. Their house was small, and while Laurent had done that on purpose, wanting to establish right away a sense of camaraderie rather than competition, it meant things didn’t go unnoticed. Everyone knew Nanette spent her nights in Simone’s bed, that Yves wanted to climb Charon like a tree and then kneel and make his weird tea for him, and if anyone claimed Sabre slept in his bed in his room, they’d be lying through their teeth.

“Both of you, stay away from Devon Chastain as much as you can,” Laurent said, as they turned onto the long drive up to the estate. “And if you hear anything about the prince—”

“We’ll tell you, we know,” Yves said, smiling. “It’s sweet you’re doing this for Sabre.”

“And don’t talk about him, if anyone asks, play coy—”

“Oh, no, however will I manage that?” Yves gasped, and put a hand on his chest.

Laurent smiled despite his rising tension. “Bat those glittery lashes at someone else, you brat.”

“I intend to,” Yves said. “Just have to do my usual, find the noble who is complaining about the weather the loudest and cozy up to him. What about you, Charon? I bet you’d be good at hunting, and you’ll have some poor noble version of me who wants to get caught.”

“It is all right, I will catch them quickly, do what they wish.” Charon did sound a little wistful, though, when he added, “but it would be nice if they gave me some sport, first. “

“I think you’d need a different kind of noble for that,” Laurent said, dryly, as the carriage came to a halt in the drive. A few moments later there was a sharp knock on the door followed by a footman there to greet them and take their trunks.

Yves, already primed and ready to be adored, allowed the befuddled young man to help him out of the carriage with a beaming smile and a flutter of lashes, a swish of his tail. “Yes, please do show me to the fire before I freeze my cute tail off.”

“Um,” the footman squeaked. He looked to be all of seventeen or so, and was entranced by Yves immediately. “I, yes, I—Mr. Ah, that is to say—”

“You’re adorable, sweetie, I’m a whore. You can call me Yves or whatever else you want. I’m technically part of the help, you know,” he said, linking his arm with the footman’s. “Charon can get the trunks, it’s fine. Show me to the warmth, good man, what’s your name, again?”

“I didn’t, ah, say it,” the footman said, as Yves dragged him toward the front of the estate.

“Is he sure he is a submissive,” Charon said, sighing.

“He’s going to get a reminder if he doesn’t behave,” Laurent said, and then laughed despite himself. “Which he’ll like, so. I can help you with the trunk.”

“It is fine, I have it.” Charon glanced over. “The prince must be here, yes? That would be his carriage, I imagine.”

Laurent glanced over at the carriage near the front of the line, emblazoned with the starburst insignia, and shook his head. “No. That’s not the crown prince’s carriage, that’s the king’s. Do me a favor, and if he wants you to hunt him, don’t. Damn and blast, I wish I could have told Yves that His Majesty was here. I live in perpetual fear he’ll try his bratty act on Emile and we’ll all be sent to haul marble until we die.”

“It would weigh less than this trunk,” Charon said, dryly. “My lord. I will make sure Yves turns his charms elsewhere.”

“You have a lot to handle, I’m sorry, I should have brought Simone, too.”

“She would not have liked this,” Charon said, but didn’t elaborate as to why.

Laurent saw Yves already hanging off someone else’s arm—a noble’s, this time, at least—in front of the fire, chatting easily, while the footman hurried up to help Charon with a dazed expression.

“I’m so sorry, my lord,” the footman squeaked, at Charon.

“That’s me, technically, but it’s all right. Hurricane Yves does this to everyone. Just let us know where our rooms are, please.” Laurent made a note to leave a few extra coins for the footman, who was now half in love with Yves, probably. Last year, he’d apparently snuck off with a chambermaid after the noble who caught him in the hunt had fallen into a pleasant sleep in front of a warm fire.

Laurent changed into proper noble’s hunting attire that he had to admit looked dashing; it took some work to get his hair in the proper queue with the black ribbon, which he normally didn’t wear, since he liked to flaunt the traditional style of dress when he could. But he wasn’t here to make waves, he’d leave that to Yves. And Charon, who got more than a few eager looks as they made their way to their rooms. Laurent had one close enough to the courtesans that he assumed it was supposed to be a slight, but was glad of it. He didn’t intend to “catch” any of the courtesans, his own or any of the others brought for the event from the other houses.

It was odd to be there, attired as a noble, and he very nearly went down the back stairs instead of the grand staircase without thinking. The estate itself was very much like its lord; elegant, cold, and not inviting in the least. The decor was traditional to the point of boring, and while everything was clean and shining, the portraits showed a generations’ worth of men and women with expressions of either haughty disdain or dourness, not a single variation between those two things.

Laurent had no idea who his ancestors were, but if they were nobles, he hoped they weren’t these kind of nobles, though he was starting to think maybe there weren’t any other kind. At least in Staria, and whatever else he was, he was definitely not from Staria. Laurent found his way to the large group gathered in front of the fireplace, and paused next to a window that overlooked the sweeping expanse of the back gardens. They were manicured, but bare in the winter, and the snow was beginning to fall harder, faster, as the light waned. The hunt would need to start soon, while there was still some light left.

The snow made him feel uneasy. Laurent put a hand on the window, and felt the cold glass even through the leather of his gloves.

Hunt run run the smoke go faster we have to go faster the dragon I can’t see

The image was there and gone, leaving only the impression that even if he wasn’t here to be hunted, this year, somehow...he still felt like a prey. It wasn’t a sensation he enjoyed.

“One has to wonder if this farce is enacted because there are no foxes left to hunt,” a voice said, from behind him.

Laurent turned and tried not to stare. The man behind him was tall, pale as the snow outside with eyes almost as colorless as his snow-white hair. He was immaculately dressed, down to a sleek cane with a silver top, and looked as if he’d been formed by the snow itself.

Chills raced down Laurent’s spine as he remembered his manners and bowed to the only other duke of Staria. “Your Grace. I would imagine the foxes have gone to ground, given the weather, but I doubt it would matter for an event such as this. What a surprise to see you here.”

Sebastian d’Hiver did not often leave his manor house, far up on the northern coast near the cold winter sea. His family estate used to be the summer home for the court, since it was cooler there, but that practice had long since fallen by the wayside.

“I received an invitation for a winter hunt, but I suspect the prey shall not be to my liking. You are a noble now, they tell me. Lord—something they’ve made up, I imagine.”

D’Hiver was an odd man with a cold voice who they said went mad as a child and murdered his family in their ballroom. Nanette’s client, Lady Cornelia, had sworn her lady’s maid knew a girl from near d’Hiver’s estate that used to take the laundry to and from the manor, and the girl swore the staff told her all sorts of tales about how d’Hiver never ate, or slept, or did much but wander about talking to something only he could see and going through a set of double-doors with no handle that only opened for the duke.

Nonsense, probably, but d’Hiver never came to court and yet there was no particular ill will that Laurent had heard of between him and the king—if anything, Emile seemed to forget he existed. Maybe that was on purpose, and d’Hiver was just clever enough to play off his odd looks and strange demeanor.

Maybe Laurent should try that. They did look a bit alike, he’d had someone ask him once if he was from some offshoot of the d’Hiver family. He could pretend to be related to a mad duke if it meant the royal eye landed elsewhere. Something to consider.

“It probably is made up,” he said, now. “Laurent de Rue—clever, isn’t it, to name a former whore lord of the streets? It should have been, oh, de lit, since I spent more time in a bed than anything.”

If he thought that would shock d’Hiver, it didn’t. The duke’s gaze slid past him to the snow. “There is something to be said for earning your title, Lord de Rue. And you are hardly the first noble to earn your title on your back.”

Laurent was startled into a laugh. He’d heard d’Hiver was as cold as his name implied, being the duke of winter, but he was strange and striking, and that wasn’t a lie. “Well, good to know I’m in such austere company, then.”

D’Hiver stepped forward, toward him, though Laurent told his immediate panicked reaction it was just to look out the window. “I have never met a Mislian before,” he said, to the snow. “But I know one who has. You would do best to avoid me, Lord de Rue, lest that one think you intend something you do not.”

“I’m—” Laurent bit that back and bowed, mystified. “As you wish, Your Grace. Happy hunting.”

D’Hiver smiled out at the snow. “There isn’t much here that we find worth hunting.”

Right, definitely time to go. Laurent made his excuses, which did not get him anything other than a brief nod, and headed into the room where everyone was gathered.

And then he forgot about d’Hiver, their strange interaction, and the fact he’d called him Mislian—because Emile de Guillory, the king of Staria, turned and walked immediately toward him. He was holding the lead of a leash, and on the other end of the leash, was Sabre.

“Ah, Lord de Rue,” the king said, his cold eyes fixed on Laurent like a wolf spotting a sheep. “It would seem you misplaced something.” He held the leash out.

Laurent took it, smiled politely and bowed. He wasn’t sure what to say, but now wasn’t the time. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Perhaps don’t thank me just yet,” Emile said, oblivious of the stares and the whispers that started up the second he walked in with Sabre de Valois on a leash. “Keep a better eye on your pets, de Rue, else they’ll have to be given to someone else.”

With that, Emile turned on his heel and walked out, leaving Laurent standing and holding Sabre’s leash, speechless and suddenly very, very eager to leave.

* * *

When Sabre droppedto his knees at Laurent’s feet, it was with a ragged, broken sigh of relief he was fairly sure half the room could hear.

Across the room, Adrien was staring at Sabre like he’d materialized out of the fireplace as a bad fairy sent to personally torment him. His face was unnaturally pale, and his fingers were curled tight around the stem of his water glass. Beside him, Isiodore looked utterly unaffected, speaking softly to Marius, Lord Chastain’s oldest son and heir. Devon, who was dressed like the prince Adrien never really managed to look like, smiled at Sabre from the door.

Sabre was not, however, looking at Laurent, who had to tighten the leash around his fist for Sabre to even stare at his fine leather boots.

“My lord,” Sabre said, in a soft voice.

“Lord de Rue,” said Lord Chastain, from behind Sabre. Sabre kept his gaze fixed on Laurent’s shoes. “Your people certainly know how to make an entrance.”

“Yes,” Laurent said. There was a chill in his tone that Sabre recognized. “They do.”

“We can, of course, provide a suitable costume,” Lord Chastain said. Sabre tensed as he lay a proprietary hand on the back of his head. “Perhaps a deer.”

“No.”

Sabre looked up, despite himself, as Adrien, still pale and strung tight as a bow, pushed himself away from the fire. Lord Chastain’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes were cold, as they had been when he first visited Sabre at the House of Onyx.

“Your Highness,” he said. “Did you have a suggestion?”

“He’ll go to the woods in what he has,” Adrien said, and for a moment, his voice was sharp, short, like his father’s. He met Sabre’s gaze, and Sabre remembered what Adrien had told him, when they were boys. A vision of Sabre, in the woods, with a sword. “He isn’t here to be hunted. He’s here as my father’s guest. Not yours.”

If Sabre weren’t there to ensure the opposite, he would have killed Adrien with his bare hands. Adrien just stared at him, frowning slightly, entirely unmoved.

“A coat, at least,” Lord Chastain said, stroking Sabre’s hair indulgently. “I insist.”

“He won’t be wearing one,” Adrien said, with a certainty only Sabre had ever heard. It must have taken Lord Chastain by surprise, at least, as he stared at Adrien a moment before smiling faintly.

“As Your Highness wishes, of course,” he said. He turned his smile to Laurent. “It seems the prince has already staked a claim on his prey for the evening.”

“Except I told you,” Adrien said, and there was a hint of fear in his voice, now, a wildness in his eyes that made Sabre think of his mother, kneeling over a sigil of blood in the throne room. “He isn’t prey.”

“Save us, he’s smitten with a whore,” Devon said, and Adrien turned on him, eyes bright. The fool.

“Here, now, Adrien,” Marius said, striding over to take Adrien by the shoulder. “Ignore my little brother, he was raised feral. I know you and Sab were old chums, once, but I have it on good faith that he’ll be a poor match for your tastes. Have you met the wolf in the corner? From Arktos, if you can imagine.”

Adrien cast Sabre one last, hard look from over his shoulder as he was led away, and Lord Chastain finally removed his hand from Sabre’s hair.

“I can take him, then,” Devon said, setting his wineglass on a table. “If he’s free.”

“Thank you for your concern, Lord Chastain,” Laurent said, and Sabre lowered his gaze again. He caught a glimpse of Yves, draped over a noble’s lap and pretending not to openly stare at Sabre. “But he is not. I thought entertainment was meant to take place after the hunt.”

“Except my son has already made it clear, Lord de Rue,” the king said, and Sabre stiffened. He hadn’t seen him come back, but he was already sauntering towards the drinks table. He held a glass to the light and set it back down. “Your newest acquisition came with me, so I suppose you can take him at your discretion.”

Sabre’s breath caught, and Laurent tugged at the leash, just hard enough to ease the familiar terror threatening to rise at Emile’s slow, bored drawl.

“Your Majesty,” Devon said. “I would love to—”

“I can’t imagine why you’re addressing me,” the king said, and Devon rocked back on his heels, a hot, furious blush rising to his cheeks. “He wears my collar, last I saw it. Do you not? Show them for me, de Valois.”

Sabre didn’t miss the way the room hushed at the sound of the king using Sabre’s last name. Laurent pulled at the leash, and Sabre tipped his head back, tugging at the neckline of his shirt to reveal the gold collar at his throat.

Emile didn’t even bother to look.

“And tell them what you did to earn my collar,” he said.

Sabre couldn’t think. He could feel Laurent at his back, see Charon watching him, Adrien with his hands fisted in his cloak, but he couldn’t push past the thought of Emile’s boot on his back, his mother and sister hanging behind him. The rough weight of a rope at his neck. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to be watching Adrien, watching Laurent, not being laid bare for a room full of courtesans and nobles alike.

“Have...have I, Your Majesty?”

“You don’t think you’ve earned it?” the king said, and, for the first time since the queen died in his arms, his eyes no longer looked cold and dead as cut glass. He crossed the room towards him, and Sabre didn’t realize he was squirming on his knees to get away until Laurent grabbed him by the back of the neck, squeezing hard.

Sabre only barely stopped himself from reaching for Laurent in return.

Emile grabbed Sabre by the chin. “It’s a shame you have your mother’s eyes,” he said, as Sabre trembled beneath him. “Oscar. Have one of your painted whores fetch me a blindfold.”

Sabre couldn’t breathe. Laurent kept a steadying hand on his neck, but Sabre gasped painfully when a servant handed a black cloth to the king.

“Your Majesty, please,” Sabre whispered. “Please, I need my eyes.”

Emile actually laughed. He leaned in close, and Sabre ground his teeth as he tied the cloth over his eyes.

“They’re hunters, little bee,” he whispered, and Sabre shuddered at the tone of the man he used to know, the man who would laugh while the queen herded Sabre and Adrien about like restless sheep. “There’s no sport in it until you’re on the saddle.” He drew away. “Well, de Rue? Show us what the boy has learned.”

“Please, Your Majesty,” Sabre said.

“Adrien.” Emile’s voice was hard again, ringing with natural dominance. “Stay where you are.”

“Up, pet,” Laurent said. He couldn’t disobey the king any more than Sabre could, even with his title, and Sabre knew it. Still, Sabre relaxed just a little under his hand as Laurent took him by the hair. He pulled Sabre through the darkness, and guided him to what felt like a flogging post. He stripped Sabre coldly and efficiently, and Sabre could hear the voices rise around him, his name weaving through the crowd like a cold wind.

“You should whip him, my lord,” said Devon, and Sabre could almost feel Laurent rolling his eyes.

“I can provide a flogger, Lord de Rue,” Lord Chastain said.

“I have my own. Charon. The fur, then, and the chain flogger, thank you.”

Sabre would have wept, if he could. Charon probably would have had no use for the chain flogger there—Even Adrien, whose submission seemed to be etched in his bones, likely couldn’t handle it—but it was one of the few things that could bring Sabre out of the terror, the dread of being blindfolded with Adrien surrounded by enemies, the dark night and the hunt to come.

“He’s already panting for it,” Devon said. “It’s sick.”

“Devon,” Lord Chastain said, in a sharp tone.

“I don’t envy him, regardless,” said Marius. “Do you, Prince Adrien?”

“I’d rather not,” Adrien said. Sabre sighed.

“Lord de Rue?” The king’s voice, soft, smiling.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Make sure I can hear it. I’ll be outside when you’re done.”

Laurent lay a hand on Sabre’s lower back, and Sabre braced himself, still shaking slightly, the taste of copper on his tongue.

“Funny to see him on the other side of it,” someone said, and Sabre tilted his head, trying to make out the voice. “Do you remember Lady Hamish’s fête? He spent half the night between her thighs.”

Laurent’s hand pulled away, and Sabre arched back on the post. “My lord,” he said, before Laurent could answer. “My lord, please. Please, make me hurt, for you.”

There was another brief hush, expectant, eager.

“I can’t watch,” Devon snarled.

“Please, my lord,” Sabre said. He gasped at the heavy, soft fur of the flogger on his backside, and pressed his cheek to the post.

“Let us hear you, pet,” Laurent said, and Sabre moaned as his skin started to heat, as the pain built like a wave, slow and deceptive until it was almost enough to tip him over, his cock rising as the crowd watched. In the dark, it felt hotter, sharper, the pain rolling through him until the first moan shivered in the air.

“Please,” he begged, grabbing at the post. “Please, please, Laur—my lord, ah—” His moans went breathy, pushed out of him with every strike, and he had to stop himself from grinding against the post.

“Scream for me,” Laurent said, as Sabre panted into the wood. “You’ll do it, won’t you, my whore? Show them how badly you want it, how good it feels.”

“Yes, my lord,” Sabre said, and cried out as the chain flogger struck his sensitive skin for the first time. He knew it wouldn’t do more than mark him a little, but it felt like knives after the soft, heavy fur, and Sabre started to rut against the post, mindlessly, lost in pleasure.

He screamed at the fourth strike, and jerked against the post, thighs tensing. “My lord, I—I’m close, please.”

Laurent lashed him again. “You could come from this, couldn’t you? Show them. Show them what you are, Sabre. Come for me. Cry for me.”

“Lau—lord—“ Sabre sobbed as he brought himself off on the flogging post, his skin on fire, the terror pushed back by Laurent’s hand. Laurent ripped the blindfold off as Sabre came, and Sabre got only a glimpse of Lord Chastain in the back of the room, heat in his eyes, before Laurent turned him around by the shoulder and kissed him.

Sabre kissed him back, melting into it, the familiar press of his mouth, the slide of fingers under Sabre’s collar. Then Laurent tugged, sharply, and Sabre gratefully dropped to his knees a second time, breathing hard, forehead pressed to Laurent’s thigh.

“My lord,” Sabre whispered, looking into Laurent’s eyes for the first time since he’d been led in on the king’s leash. “Should I—”

“I think,” Lord Chastain said, as the room filled with scattered applause, “that as thrilling as this has been, we’ve kept the king waiting long enough. The sun is set—Gather at the gates, my lords, ladies, and esteemed guests, and we will have ourselves a hunt.”