The Traitor’s Mercy by Iris Foxglove

Chapter 3

Sabre wasn’t exactly sure what he’d been expecting.

His family didn’t go in for hedonism. There were rooms for playing with their various partners, if they ever brought them home—which Sabre didn’t, not after his mother terrified the last one—but those rooms were generally kept locked up in favor of more practical ones, like their private sparring courts or the library, or the circular room with a map of the world painted on the floor, where Sabre taught Elise how to dance.

The Crescent Chamber was set next to the baths, which were currently in use by a pair of courtesans with long, honey-blond hair and a stack of books propped dangerously close to the edge. One of them Sabre recognized from his first night, or he thought so—The courtesans could have been twins, if not for the slightly more pronounced nose on the one reading from a book so worn the title had lost its gilding.

“Oh, I like this one,” he said, as Sabre was pushed firmly toward the connecting door. “Our hearts beat as one in a maelstrom of desire. Write that down.”

“Should be a hurricane,” the other said.

“What? No. Maelstrom’s romantic.”

Laurent closed the door to the Crescent Chamber after Sabre, leaving them in the dark. “That was Percival and Gwydion,” he said, and snapped his fingers, activating a ring of magelight globes fixed throughout the room. “Don’t let them drag you into one of their productions, and you’ll be fine.”

Sabre’s breath caught as his eyes adjusted to the light, and Laurent smiled.

The Crescent Chamber was a windowless room, with wooden paneling on the walls and a cold tile floor, scattered with cushions. Hooks hung from the ceiling and walls. A swing, a complicated mess of straps and cushion and little cuffs Sabre assumed were for feet, swayed slightly nearby. There were multiple flogging stations, a wall of canes, whips, floggers and other tools Sabre didn’t think could be used in play before that moment, a chair with—

“Oh,” Sabre said. “Those are stocks.”

“That’s the first thing you notice?” Laurent asked, and Sabre felt his cheeks burn. His gaze skittered over the cage next to the stocks, the worrying drain in a patch of empty floor, and settled on a bench padded with leather, with straps attached and a frame with phalluses on either side.

“This room is available to any of our courtesans during off hours,” Laurent said, as Sabre touched the edge of the bench. There was a lever there, with marks at different angles. He pulled it to the lowest mark, and jumped as the phallus started moving, thrusting into the empty air. “Not yet, precious.”

“Fuck.” Sabre pushed the lever back.

“Is there anything you haven’t seen before?” Laurent asked.

Sabre still felt dazed, and more than a little distant from his own body, after his talk with Laurent in his rooms. He’d come so close, so close to ending whatever plans the king had for him, and he could feel the pull of it low in his gut, a wrongness that told Sabre he was still on borrowed time. A few days ago, Sabre would have paid half his own wages from the family allowance to have Laurent use one of those flexible canes and possibly the stocks on him, but it wouldn’t be Laurent, when the time came. It would be one of his family’s enemies, striking him until he bled just to see him break.

To think that would be what it took to get someone to see to him properly. His mother used to complain that Sabre was too much of a slave to his desires, submissive to a fault. He wondered if she’d seen that in him, the yearning for pain that went beyond what others thought acceptable.

“I haven’t seen most of this,” Sabre said. A small part of him hated how dull he sounded. It was like he was already dead, dragging his body around after him. “What does that do? That saddle, in the corner?”

Laurent’s eyes flashed with heat. “Another machine. Tests your endurance.”

“My endurance is very good, I think,” Sabre said, and looked down as Laurent met his gaze. “Physically, I mean. I could have gone longer, last night.”

“That’s only half of it,” Laurent said. “And yes, I noticed.”

“Charon,” Sabre said. “He knows about the other half?”

Laurent’s shadow slid over Sabre’s feet, and he gripped Sabre by the chin, making him look him in the eyes. Sabre’s gaze kept dragging away. “He’s skilled at breaking nobles.”

Sabre took a shivery breath. “Why is it I think you are, as well, my lord?”

“That’s not what I’m known for,” Laurent said, which wasn’t an answer. He hooked his fingers in Sabre’s collar, running his thumb over the scales, and Sabre felt, for a moment, like he was being dragged back into his body, a kite on the end of a string, scraping over the rocks.

The door swung open, and Sabre startled like a deer before the bow. Laurent sighed and drew back, patting Sabre’s cheek as a giant of a man darkened the door.

“Oh, no,” Sabre said, softly, and Laurent laughed.

The man walking into the Crescent Chamber looked like he could feature on the cover of every one of the terrible Katoikos Illustrated Feature, which Sabre had hoarded as a young man and usually included drawings of muscular Arkoudes slinging pampered nobles over their shoulders and bending them in half. It was a popular publication with Starian nobles, who liked to see Katoikos nobles get fucked within an inch of their lives or wanted to have an Arkouda break them six ways without trying, and Sabre had an entire collection of them before his father found them.

“Sabre,” he’d said, slowly feeding the comics to the fire as Sabre wilted in front of his desk like a mortified violet. “I can assure you that there’s a very, very low chance that you’ll even meet one of these people, let alone be…” He’d read one of the pages, grinning to himself. “Goodness, where did his arm go?”

Years later, Sabre looked up at an Arkouda man with a gallery of tattoos on his bare skin, and grabbed the edge of the bench for support.

“Charon,” Laurent said, sounding far too amused. “Sleep well?”

“Ask me when I’ve slept,” Charon said. His voice carried a dominance as powerful as Sabre’s mother, if not more, and Sabre cursed under his breath. His dark hair was braided back out of his face, and when he looked at Sabre, he lowered his brows and started forward. It was like being glared down by a dragon.

“Why is this submissive clothed,” Charon said, in a dangerous tone. “And standing.”

“Sorry,” Sabre said. He dropped to his knees, banged his elbow on the machine, and cursed. Laurent covered his eyes with a hand. “I. Should I.”

“Did I give you permission to speak,” Charon said, in a voice like thunder, as Sabre started dragging off his borrowed robe.

“No. Should I not have? Was I supposed to answer just n—”

“Did your lord give you permission to speak,” Charon said.

Sabre looked at Laurent, desperately. Laurent just leaned against the wall and raised his brows.

“Is this part of the training?”

Charon sighed, tipped up Sabre’s chin with a finger, and backhanded him so hard he toppled to the tile. Sabre lay there for a second, breathing hard, pleasure jolting through him in a way he didn’t think possible, even when writhing under the lash the night before.

“Were you given permission to speak,” Charon said.

Carefully, still lying on his side, Sabre shook his head.

Charon rolled him onto his back, and Sabre’s pulse quickened, pounding in his ears. “You think this one’s a masochist. A proper one.”

“Possibly,” Laurent said.

Charon stood over Sabre, his face shadowed by the light at his back. “Mm. I don’t think this one knows, himself.” Sabre opened his mouth to protest, and Charon leaned down to gag him with his thick fingers, filling him, pressing down on his tongue. “We will see how far you will bend for me, little noble. First, you will apologize for making me come here when I could be on my balcony, having a good morning, not having to break Starian nobles who think they might be a masochist. And you will thank me for the privilege.”

* * *

Laurent settledback against the wall, watching as Sabre tried to catch his breath.

Charon was an asset to the House of Onyx, and one of Laurent’s top earners even if the masochists who so eagerly came to see him never lasted beyond half an hour at most before they broke. Still, there was no shortage of nobles who thought they could handle Charon’s attentions, even if it had yet to happen. Laurent suspected the true reason was that the man had a talent for aftercare that none in the house could rival—he gave amazing hugs, and seemed to know exactly how to bring a sobbing submissive gently back to himself or herself. There was a noblewoman who booked time with him simply to have him spank her until she cried over enough layers that it wouldn’t leave a mark, then the majority of her session had Charon hugging her, bathing her, and brushing her hair.

Some came with visions of being the first true masochist to handle the full extent of Charon’s sadism, but it had yet to happen. For all that he made good coin, he seemed utterly disinterested in paying off his debt. Unlike the others, who put the majority of their tips and trinkets toward their debt, Charon used his to fill his rooms with historical artifacts, old maps, and books. He was particularly interested in the Lukoi, the Wolf People of the far northern island, and discovering the mystery of the kingdom that had exiled them there so long ago. Some mornings, Laurent would find him on his balcony sipping his one indulgence—the strong, distinctive Arktos tea he imported without a thought for its price against his debt—and reading books about the Lukoi, trying to learn the language. The only thing he’d ever mentioned wanting when he left Laurent’s employ was to have enough money to take an expedition there and see it for himself.

Laurent assumed Charon wouldn’t go back to Arktos—he didn’t know why Charon left and had never asked, but Arkoudai didn’t immigrate, ever. He assumed Charon must be a fugitive, but that wasn’t any of his business.

“Look at you,” Charon said, now, to Sabre. “I have many come to see me, wanting to feel the back of my hand. They pretend to fight, sometimes. They cry, always.” He stepped back. “Get up and we will see what you can take of my hand, my lash. Hurry, boy. I have better things to do than waste my time with you, today.”

Sabre looked as shocked as Laurent imagined he must have, when the king pulled him from the gallows—the story was already everywhere, of course, he probably had a stack of requests already for Sabre’s company on the desk in his office—as he scrambled to his feet and stood shaking before the implacable force of Charon’s quiet command. Charon moved him around like he was nothing, stripping the robe from him, shackling him to the hooks on the ceilings.

“If you come without my permission, rabbit, you’ll be very sorry.”

He used the old Senex word for rabbit, which was the insult the Arkoudai called the Katoikos.

Sabre didn’t say anything as Charon positioned him, checking the cuffs and ensuring he wasn’t up on his feet too much to cause a strain. He’d known all of this when he’d presented himself to Laurent for a position in the house, and Laurent had a feeling whatever Charon did before, in Arktos or perhaps elsewhere, it involved doing much the same thing, only very likely for people who weren’t supposed to like it.

“Hmm.” Charon studied Sabre with his usual calm disinterest, but he ran a hand down Sabre’s back, gentle as he planned out exactly how to wreck him. “I know there are obvious things that would work, my lord. But that isn’t what you want to see, is it?”

“No,” Laurent said. He knew what Charon meant. A man who’d nearly hanged to death would be easy to ruin with a belt around the neck, or Charon’s hand. And later, perhaps, they’d get to that. But that took no finesse, only brutality. And Charon was as careful a man as Laurent had ever met.

“Fear, for you, I think,” Charon said. He turned and left Sabre strung up there, rustling through some items that he kept specifically for a very sort of client—military veterans or Misthrotoi mercenaries with too much guilt over their kills, he’d told Laurent. And the only reason Sabre was hearing him at all, was because Charon was letting him. “If you had a choice, rabbit, which would you choose to make you suffer? To be beaten with bare hands, to be whipped until your spine showed through, or pierced with the sharp blade of a knife?”

“The—the lash.” Sabre’s voice was a quiet tremble, but he answered immediately, no thought given at all to what he’d choose.

Charon set a whip aside, the long single-tail kind, the one that could make a submissive weep just from the crack of the air and the sound of it. “And then?”

“Someone’s hands.”

“Yes. All right.” Charon picked up a knife, gleaming in the soft light of the room. “Then we will begin with the knife. That is what you fear. Sharp pain, pointed, that you cannot get lost in.”

Sabre pulled against the cuffs, shaking like a leaf.

“They put your hands behind your back, on the gallows,” Charon said. “If I wanted to terrify you, I would have done the same. Do you know the difference, between terror and fear? You will need to. That’s what they’ll want.”

“Please,” Sabre sobbed, but Laurent wasn’t sure if he knew what he was asking for.

“Terror, that is of little use to anyone. It makes the body shut down. Impossible to do anything, react.” Charon moved to press the tip of the knife against Sabre’s back, and smiled when Sabre jumped at the press of it. “Fear, little rabbit. That’s different. The heart races, the breath comes too fast. You flinch at the slightest sound.”

Laurent did love watching Charon work over someone.

“You are not terrified, not of me, now, I would imagine. You know you are not here to be slaughtered, cut down to bone. But there’s a fear there, even if you know that. Fear, and for you, it is something else, too, eh?” He looked over at Laurent, dark brows raised.

Laurent, who could see what this was doing to Sabre, said, “Yes, his body is certainly reacting.”

Charon walked in front of Sabre, traced the tip of the knife over his face, the corner of his eye. When Sabre jerked reflexively, Charon dropped his hand and smacked him, hard, with the other. “Be still. You don’t need both of your eyes to serve these nobles who will want you. Just one, so you can see the pleasure they take in frightening you.” He placed the tip of the knife against the corner of Sabre’s eye, and this time, Sabre did not move. Charon nodded. “Good.” He dropped the knife down, over the curve of Sabre’s throat—Sabre moved his head back, just a bit, to allow Charon to trace the knife above the collar.

“You don’t fear this, enough,” Charon said. He reached out and caught Sabre with his free hand, squeezed his fingers.

Sabre began twisting, legs kicking.

“That is fear,” Charon said. He tightened his hand and lifted Sabre, bodily, and Sabre made a terrified sound that turned in a gasping, choking noise. Then he froze up. Charon nodded. “That is terror.” He put Sabre back down, smacked him hard on his cock, and said, “We’ll try something else. You are a pretty man, little noble, I would like, I think, to see you cry. If my lord will allow it.”

“He certainly will,” Laurent said, warmly.

“The lash, because you took that well, I think.” Charon picked up a strip of black cloth. Every other dominant in the house, including Laurent, used a blindfold for this. Only Charon did the strip of black cloth. “Where I am from, Arkoudai only cover the eyes for those we care nothing about. You are exiled for crimes against the state, but for treason, it is death. Arkoudai believe that to watch the light fade from someone’s eyes as they die, this is sacred. The light must be seen to leave. A myth, perhaps. But it is why we cover the eyes of those we condemn.”

The strip in his hands was one of the few things Charon brought with him. Laurent watched as Charon tied it with something like reverence around Sabre’s head. “I could do anything I wanted to you, like this. That’s it, writhe for me, pull on your chains. The nobles won’t have my deft hand with it, but we’ll teach you to like it. There’s no better way to ruin their plans, rabbit, than to turn your throat to the knife. Shudder in ecstasy from the pain. They’ll like it enough, and you won’t lose yourself.”

Charon patted him on the shoulder. He must like Sabre, Laurent thought, to be so solicitous of him. “I will hurt you now, as you should be hurt. Scream if you want, pretty rabbit. It won’t stop until I’m ready to let you down.”

Charon looked at Laurent, who was insanely curious but who knew enough not to bother his prize sadist at work. He nodded, and Charon took up the single-tail. The noise and the crack of air was enough to make Sabre jerk in his chains, body thrashing, but nothing drew a sound from him. Charon looked pleased, but his voice was even when he said, “Do you know Senex, the old tongue?”

“I, yes, Lessons, not for—please,” Sabre babbled, twisting.

“I asked one thing, you answer one thing. This one, he’ll need lessons I cannot give. Protocol, for your submissives, here. Arkoudai submissives are, ah. They fight you. Make you earn it. The proper way to kneel, they’ll tell you, is how they look on their knees when you earn the right to put them there.”

“Mm,” Laurent said. “I think we need to revisit Yves’ thought about a themed Arkoudai and Katoikos ball. Sonnerie, from the House of Gold. He’s part Katoikos, he must be, or he looks it well enough. You can toss him over your shoulder and carry him around.”

Charon snorted, quietly, and turned back to Sabre. “The point remains, my lord. You will need him to learn the pretty lessons—maybe Yves. He could use a task. Always bothering me, asking for my tea. He charms those men who like obedience.”

Laurent chuckled. “He does indeed. Sabre, answer only what is asked of you.”

“Count in Senex,” said Charon, and raised the whip.

Laurent enjoyed the way Sabre thrashed beneath the whip, but it still took him until five to make a sound, and Charon was putting increasing strength behind the blows. At eight, he bloodied Sabre’s back, and Sabre moaned.

“Hmm,” said Charon, and went back to work. He caned Sabre’s upper thighs, which got only a gasp, and then lower, where there was more muscle and where it was traditionally used as a punishment. That got him another moan, and Charon switched again. He left the blindfold on as he attached the weighted clamps to Sabre’s nipples and his balls, and one to his tongue, then flogged him until he got more of those gasps that seemed torn from him, while Sabre finally started to grow louder and louder and his cock, Laurent noticed, harder between his legs.

For the last, Charon took the clamps away and unhooked him, dragged Sabre by the hair to his knees and fastened him unceremoniously to the clips on the floor. He kicked him in the ribs, once, watched carefully as Sabre curled into himself. For all his moans and gasps, he still didn’t cry. Charon was silent as he removed the strip of black fabric, placing it reverently back in the small chest that contained all of his personal implements. He took out a pistol, one favored by the Starian nobility for their duels, nothing like the rifles carried by the ranks of dark-eyed, impassive Arkoudai soldiers.

Charon went and stood above Sabre, who was shackled to the floor with his wrists on either side of him and his ankles behind him while he knelt. He blinked up at Charon, who pressed the tip of the barrel to Sabre’s mouth. “Open, take it.”

His dominance was so strong that Laurent felt it, too. His own mouth was a little dry as he watched Charon start to fuck Sabre’s mouth with the gun. And he couldn’t deny his cock was growing hard watching Charon work Sabre over so well. It took all of his trust in Charon, however, not to object when Charon very deliberately cocked the hammer back.

He knew it wasn’t loaded—Charon fucked nobles with the gun, sometimes. Maybe a different one. But it was still something, to see it.

“In Arkoudai we execute our traitors by firing squad. Eyes covered, so no one sees the light leave. Are you afraid, little rabbit?”

Sabre nodded, or tried. His eyes were wide, and when Charon slid the gun in deeper, he started to choke.

“Maybe, eh, maybe I am here because I am a traitor, too.” He slid the gun in and out, starting to fuck his mouth. “Maybe I’ve been bribed by the king’s men, to make you feel safe, to make you moan in pleasure before I shot you.”

Before Laurent could blink, Charon pulled the trigger.

Sabre’s entire body shook and he cried out around the gun, eyes reflexively squeezing shut but of course there was no bullet in the gun. When Charon pulled the barrel free, Sabre was sobbing, softly.

“There, that’s fear, little rabbit. Not knowing when it is coming for you.” He stroked the side of Sabre’s face with the tip of the muzzle, which was wet. “Kiss it. Thank me for instructing you.”

Sabre turned his head, pressed his mouth to the barrel, and hiccupped something vaguely thank you sounding out.

Charon cleaned the gun and let Sabre kneel, crying, then came to stand before Laurent. “That is, as surprised as I am, the only true masochist I have ever met in the noble court of Staria.”

There wasn’t really much about it that was noble, but Laurent kept that to himself. “It would seem so. Thank you for that. It was, ah. I see why you make me so much money.”

Charon gave him a small, rare smile. “It isn’t often I get to show off for you, my lord.”

“Why don’t you do it for me some more, and take his mouth,” Laurent offered. “Then you can find Yves, and later, if you wouldn’t mind...show our Sabre what else you’re known for, in our house.”

“As you wish.” It was obvious Charon was aroused; He was a big man, and his cock pressed against the loose-fitting trousers he wore. He crossed the floor and took Sabre by the hair, pulling his head back. “You will choke on my cock like you choked on the gun, cry for me, make it wet and messy. Make me come.”

“Yes, my lord,” Sabre mumbled.

“Ah, rabbit. I am no lord.” He ran a thumb over Sabre’s bottom lip as he freed his cock with his other hand; Laurent remembered how he’d told him, once, that all Arkoudai learned to use both hands in case they lost one in battle. They were as dramatic as their Katoikos cousins, in their own way. “You are under, and if you must, you can call me sir, as they did once, where I am from.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sabre, and opened his mouth, eyes sliding shut as Charon fed him his cock.

Laurent let himself rub a hand over his own cock as he watched, enjoying the simple pleasure of seeing two attractive people in the midst of natural power exchange. And then he made himself focus instead on Sabre’s technique, which was sloppy but in a way that Charon clearly liked, given how hard he started to fuck Sabre’s mouth.

It was enough that Sabre was making ugly choking sounds and Charon was on edge, moaning, holding Sabre close as he fucked his throat. Laurent had learned to suck cock like it was a dance done before the court, but the sorts of clients who came to Sabre would like this rough, unpolished desperation he showed, his lack of trained technique. But he could use some lessons on how to tilt his head, hold his tears until the client earned them.

“Come on his face,” Laurent said, his dominance roused, unable to help himself.

Charon did so, holding Sabre by the hair and coming all over his tear-streaked face with a quiet little moan.

“Spit in his mouth,” Laurent said.

Charon didn’t even have to tell Sabre to open his mouth or hold it open, Sabre just did it and let him, swaying on his knees, limp and looking just as satisfied even though his cock was still achingly hard and he hadn’t come.

It was obvious that he wanted to do something, caretake like he always did, but he acquiesced to Laurent’s wishes and went to find Yves.

Laurent went to where Sabre was kneeling, and went to his knees in front of him so he could get him out of the cuffs. “I will clean your face, let Yves give you some lessons in protocol. But for now, I want to know how you feel. If you’re under. What put you there. And if you do that, I’ll make you come for me, let you beg for it, and give your body what it wants.”

* * *

Sabre stayed on his knees,holding himself up with his hands on his thighs, and stared down at the tile beneath him. He wasn’t shaking. He had felt the pull of the trigger in his throat, in his stomach, in every piece of him, like swallowing thunder. Now he was silent, the way a storm made the city silent, rain obscuring the lower circles as Sabre leaned against his bedroom window to watch it all disappear.

“I have an instructor,” Sabre said. “My father’s old friend, who served with him in the army. Isiodore. He taught me how to fight, with fists, and the sword. My father approved of the latter. Not so much the former.”

He almost smiled, just for a moment, thinking of the day he’d come home after his first bout, twelve years old with his eye swollen shut. He says he’s sorry you didn’t teach me how to duck. His father had groaned, pushed away from his chair, and stormed off to have a word with Isiodore himself. He came back only to clear out the drawing room so he could teach Sabre a few tips of his own. It became a tradition, a friendly competition with Sabre caught in the middle, and it ended with Sabre knowing far more about how to win a fight than was reasonably proper.

Laurent crouched before him, his pretty face unreadable.

“He taught me how to be still.” Sabre’s voice sounded…more like himself, like this. Like who he was. His accent was richer, less dull and short. “I didn’t like being still before. I’d stand there and he’d lunge, bring the sword just here.” He touched his ear. He could still feel the silky rush of air against his face. “Closed my eyes. I learned to like it, being still. This is like that. There’s a blade somewhere, in the dark, but I’m here, too.”

“And what brought you here?” Laurent asked. He stroked the side of Sabre’s head, and Sabre leaned into it like a pleased cat.

“Fear,” Sabre said, and this time, he actually laughed. It startled him, foreign and strange, and Laurent pulled at his hair until Sabre was back in that place again, the stillness. “I was under, I think, when he took out the gun. I went deeper, after.”

“The threat was part of it, wasn’t it,” Laurent said. “That he might be here to hurt you, beyond what you need. To make you suffer.”

“Yes. The blade in the dark.”

“Well.” Laurent tugged at his hair again. “Now you know it can be done. And do you want to come, now that you’ve earned it, pretty thing?”

“Ah. Yes. I think so. Yes, my lord.” Sabre slowly met his gaze. It was difficult—he wanted to look down—but he thought Laurent might like it, to be seen. Admired. “If you want me to.”

“That’s how you beg, is it?” Laurent’s tone was hard, but there was amusement there, in his unnatural violet eyes.

“How would you like me to beg?” Sabre turned his head to kiss Laurent’s fingers, and Laurent’s eyes widened, just a fraction. “Make me come? Too demanding. You should do what you want with me.”

“He’s too submissive to ask to come,” Laurent said to the air. “Yves will teach you that, as well. You’re desperate, I can feel it.” He ran his fingers over Sabre’s hard, flushed cock, and Sabre shivered. “Show me that desperation. Clean that mess off your face, show me your throat.”

Sabre responded instinctively to the dominance in Laurent’s voice, raising a hand to his face. He ran his fingers through the mess there, tasted it, gasped as Laurent wrapped his fingers around Sabre’s cock.

“You won’t come until you beg me for it,” Laurent said, and oh, but Sabre was too close already, and he had to tense, his breath short, eyelids fluttering closed.

“Please,” Sabre said. “Please, my lord, if you, if you wish it, please may I.” He moaned, felt a tremor roll through him. “May I come, my lord?”

“Yes,” Laurent said, and Sabre shuddered as he came, head thrown back, hands grasping. He could feel Laurent’s gaze on him as he panted for breath, and he leaned forward, reaching for him.

Laurent waited only a moment before he rose to his feet.

“Ah.” Sabre raised a hand as he stepped away.

“I’m not leaving you,” Laurent said, in a bemused voice. He went to a tap in the corner and pulled down a pair of clean cloths hanging above it. He wet them and took down a vial as well, which he set down next to Sabre before he knelt in front of him again. Sabre was quiet as he cleaned his face, but frowned slightly when Laurent dotted the second cloth with something from the vial and made him turn around.

“The skin broke,” Laurent said, pressing the cloth to Sabre’s back. “I know you masochists love to keep your bruises as souvenirs, but an infection is another matter. It’s shallow, at least.”

“Oh.” Sabre tried not to sound disappointed, but Laurent snorted inelegantly behind him.

“Yes, tragic.”

There was a sound of splashing in the other room, and a pattering of feet on tile. Sabre looked up as Yves entered, dressed in a black shirt that glittered faintly and. Well.

“You don’t have to wear what your clients give you, Yves,” Laurent said.

Yves snapped the band of his…shorts…which clung to his thighs like they were painted on. “At least it doesn’t have his name embroidered on it, this time.”

“Small favors,” Laurent drawled. He patted Sabre on the back. “You’re done. Yves, Sabre is recovering from Charon at the moment. If you could show him how to kneel properly, what to say to a dominant when they give him orders, I can go make sure no one is setting the house on fire.”

“Yes, my lord, of course,” Yves said. His gaze flicked over Laurent. “You said Charon? How far did he get?”

“He fired a gun in my mouth,” Sabre said, pleasantly, and Yves stared.

“Huh. That’s nice.”

“And you can show him how to clean the toys, as well,” Laurent said, smiling down at Yves as he passed. “Sabre, report to Charon again when you’re done.”

Yves waited until he was out the door before he let his face fall.

“Sorry,” Sabre said.

Yves shrugged. “It’s fine. I was in your shoes a few months ago, anyways. I mean, not really, but I was still new, you know? You’re gonna do so much laundry, you have no idea. Your life is gonna be laundry.”

Yves sat down in front of Sabre. He had a mass of freckles under his olive skin, and he was wearing a silver necklace with an elaborate pendant, which swung heavily when he moved.

“Okay,” he said. “Show me how you kneel.”

Sabre blinked at him. “I am.”

There was a long, heavy silence.

“Well, you’re on your knees,” Yves said, in the way Isiodore would say, You’re still standing, after Sabre failed to dodge a blow. “Wow. You’re actually noble? Don’t they know these things?”

“I’m the only submissive left in my house,” Sabre said, and frowned. “And Cousin Adrien, I suppose.”

“Cousin—” Yves dragged a hand down his face. “You call the crown prince Cousin Adrien.”

“Yes, he’s a little shy, maybe, but…” Sabre grimaced. “Oh. I suppose I shouldn’t, anymore.”

“You didn’t sound so posh before, either,” Yves said. “What did Charon—No, don’t say it. I know. A gun.Masochists. So how about we start small, okay?”

Yves spent a short time teaching Sabre, with varying levels of success, how to kneel, how to look up at someone from under his lids, how to say yes my lord, and please, my lord, almost like he meant it.

The fake moaning, though, that was a little harder to manage.

“Look, you never faked it before?” Yves asked, after a minute of it. “You’ve been with people before. Some of them had to suck.”

“All of them,” Sabre said. “Except, ah, here, they’re very…” He waved a hand, vaguely.

“Yeah, Charon had me sobbing in half a second on my first demo,” Yves said. “Have you ever seen a gorgeous, twenty foot sadist and just burst into tears? Thank goodness I left the country.” He kissed his fingers and raised them to the sky. “Anyways. So you had to pretend to like it, right, to make the shitty ones think they did okay and leave happy?”

Sabre stared at him.

Yves sputtered out a laugh. “You just. You didn’t even. You just left them there.”

“I couldn’t lie,” Sabre said, blushing hot.

“You’re kind of precious,” Yves said. “Wow. Wow. I am speechless. You’ve actually rendered me speechless.”

“You’re still talking, though.”

Yves scoffed. “Details. Right. We’ll just have to keep working on it, yeah? Give it time, and you’ll be moaning and fake crying with the rest of us. No problem.”

Sabre was still drifting by the time they were done cleaning off the toys, but Yves was almost comforting to have around, with his slight country burr and his endless stream of gossip about the various clients who wanted to hire him as their personal, private sugar baby.

“Two of them almost dueled over who got my first night,” Yves said, as he led Sabre downstairs. “That’s, you know, your first client. They pretend they deflowered you, and you act all timid and shy like a noble at their first—oh.”

“It’s fine,” Sabre said.

“That’s never not gonna be weird, though.” Yves knocked on a door at the end of a narrow hall, which opened to reveal Charon, still massive, still covered in tattoos, but not nearly as...chilling, as he was with his hand on Sabre’s neck. He gave Sabre a considering look.

“One weird-ass masochist, just for you,” Yves said, and patted Sabre on the back. “How’re you stocked on tea, by the way? I have some in my room if you want to—”

“Thank you, Yves,” Charon said. Yves smiled brightly.

“Any time.”

Charon gestured for Sabre to come in and closed the door on Yves. Sabre only got a glimpse of a high bookshelf, a tea service, maps stretched out across the walls, before Charon took his face in both hands.

“Let me see you, rabbit,” he said, and Sabre made a soft sound as Charon pulled him down into a frankly enormous couch, settling him over his lap. He ran his hand over Sabre’s back, pressing lightly on the marks he’d left, stopping over the healed cut on his shoulder.

“Ah, he removed it,” he said.

“Yes, he insisted,” Sabre said. He wasn’t whining, not really, but Charon patted him sympathetically on his sore shoulder all the same. He moved so Sabre could sit up, but wrapped an arm around Sabre’s middle, keeping his back pressed to Charon’s chest. The marks of the whip and cane stung, but it was light, pleasant, a comforting reminder.

“Next time, you will keep it longer, eh,” Charon said. His voice was warm, still threaded with dominance, but the sort that made Sabre want to sink into his hold and lay there for the rest of the day. “A reward.”

“Ah, yes,” Sabre said. He was starting to understand what Laurent had meant, before. “Yes, please.”