Alexios

  The morning’s pale light filters through the curtains as I sit in front of the mirror while two servants work with practiced precision. One fastens the collar of my coat while the other smooths a velvet sleeve until there isn’t one wrinkle. My hair is drawn back with a few well placed strands left to frame my face.

  I tilt my chin slightly, catching my own red eyes in the mirror. I tranced well enough, but the memory of last night’s conversations lingers in my thoughts. His shy agreement to accompany me today feels like a victory worth savoring.

  Today, I want him to be more than just a companion in name though. I want the city to see him at my side and for him to look every bit the equal I know he can be.

  “See to him,” I tell another servant waiting discreetly near the door. “Wake him gently. No abruptness, do you understand? Have him dressed in something finer than his usual. Deep colors, perhaps. Something that… suits him.”

  The man bows and slips away.

  As the last clasp is secured at my throat, I rise and let the heavy fall of my coat settle around me. I picture him still asleep with his pretty hair resting loose and dark over the pillow, mouth slightly parted and that furrow between his brows that never seems to leave him even when he is resting.

  I wonder how he’ll look in the kind of attire I’ve chosen for him. I don’t want him in anything gaudy, of course. He would hate that. Perhaps something that will make people look twice and realize he is not just some quiet shadow at my side.

  I dismiss the servants with a flick of my fingers and cross to the window, parting the curtains enough to watch the first signs of movement in the street below. It will be a good day for business… and perhaps a better day for showing the city just what is mine.

  Somewhere down the hall, I hear the faint knock of the servant at Arun’s door. I walk out of my room and down the hall where I hear the servants before I ever see them. Their voices are low and careful, the way one might coax a shy and skittish animal to wake. The door is ajar and I step inside without introducing myself.

  The servants have done exactly as I asked. Arun stands near the bed, half-buttoned in a deep sapphire coat with silver threads glinting along the cuffs. His hair is still in gentle disarray from sleep though. One of the servants fastens a row of buttons at his small wrists and another takes the time to smooth the collar at his throat. The fabric frames him perfectly and draws out the warmth of his skin and the deliciously dark depths of his eyes.

  He catches sight of me and stills for a moment. Neither of us say anything, but I allow my gaze to travel from his bare feet on the rug, up the lines of his legs, to the find cut of the coat skimming over his frame, to the small tilt of his head as though he’s unsure if he should hide and continue to let me look.

  I hum and circle him slowly as I inspect the work.

  “Much better,” I say as I brush an imaginary speck of lint from his shoulders. My fingers linger longer than necessary. “You wear this well, love.”

  His eyes flick down and a faint color rises to his cheeks. I wonder if he realizes I can hear the slight shift in his breathing and the small change in his heartbeat.

  Your pet looks delicious. Sweet-blooded… delicate… I could taste him for days.

  The queen’s voice curls like smoke through my mind, but I don’t answer her. Not even in thought. My hand drops from Arun’s shoulder and my gaze fixes on him as if to block her out entirely.

  “Finish his hair,” I tell one of the servants even though my hand almost strays to do it myself. I want to see it smoothed and shining, but I also want to remember the way it looks now. It’s half-tamed as though it belongs to the quiet moments just after waking.

  I take a step back to allow the servants to work, but my gaze doesn’t leave him. Even with others in the room, it feels like there’s a thread between us. It’s a silent exchange that says this day is ours and I intend to make it one he’ll remember.

  --

  The carriage rocks gently as we leave the manor and the wheels crunch over gravel road. Arun sits across from me, hands folded neatly in his lap, the deep blue of his coat catching the dim light that filters in through the curtains. His hair has been smoothed to a sleek fall over his shoulders, but a single lock has slipped free, brushing against his cheek whenever the carriage sways.

  I should be reviewing the contracts in my satchel. I should be thinking about the day’s dealings. Instead, my gaze keeps drifting to him and to the coat fits across his shoulders. I can’t help but look at the line of his throat as he glances out the window and the faint rise and fall of his chest.

  The queen’s voice breaks my thoughts again.

  You want to touch him, don’t you? To see what’s beneath that fine fabric you dressed him in… perhaps strip it away in this very carriage?

  I lean back into the seat and my fingers curl against my knee. My mind betrays me with images and she sees them too. I think about his lips parted in surprise and the quiet sound he’d make if I pulled him closer.

  Oh, I see it now. You’d have him trembling before we even reached the city and he would gladly let you, wouldn’t he? Such a sweet and soft little thing.

  I keep my face neutral and fix my eyes on the passing blur beyond the window. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of an answer, but she just loves to stir the thoughts deeper.

  Arun glances at me briefly as if sensing the weight of my stare, but thankfully says nothing. His lips curve faintly and it takes everything in me to not just reach for him right then and there.

  The carriage finally slows as the streets narrow and the sound of hoofbeats echo between the stone buildings. Arun leans slightly to glance out and his eyes follow the bustle of the morning market stall being set up and the bright swaths of cloth unfurling to catch a merchant’s attention.

  I step down first when the footman opens the door and the cooler air is sharp against my face. I turn and offer my hand to Arun, but I know he doesn’t necessarily need me to do that. I just can’t help but want to feel his fingers in mine. He hesitates for the briefest moment before accepting and his palm is warm in my grasp.

  The sapphire coat fits him perfectly in the daylight and it’s more than enough to catch eyes without screaming for them. People notice and I notice them noticing.

  We begin to walk and the noise of the street grows around us. I keep my stride measured so I can stay close enough that the brush of his sleeve can graze mine.

  I glance at Arun from the corner of my eye and he catches me looking. This time… he doesn’t look away.

  Eventually, the marketplace swells around us in a tide of beautiful colors and sharp noises. I see a basket of pomegranates stacked like jewels and bolts of silk catching the sunlight. The sharp scent of spices drifts through the air and invades my nose.

  Arun keeps close and I guide him with a soft touch at his back whenever the crowd presses a bit too tightly for his liking. His eyes roam everywhere, taking in the glitter of pretty jewelry on display and the flicker of a bard playing a lute.

  I watch his gaze more than I even watch the market.

  “After the work is done today,” I say, keeping my tone casual despite the undercurrent in my voice. “Is there anywhere you’d like to stop? Anything you want to see?”

  He glances at me and I can tell the question caught him off guard. His lips part slightly before he answers, almost as though he is weighing whether my words are true.

  “I… don’t know,” he admits, his gaze flicking back to the stalls. “Maybe just walk for a bit. Look around.”

  I nod, as though it’s nothing, but my mind is already considering where I could take him that wouldn’t just feel like business. Maybe a place that might make him smile again like he did for just a moment on the ride here.

  You’re courting him now? How… quaint. Shall I tell him what you were really thinking in the carriage?

  My only answer is the way my fingers tighten slightly against Arun’s back, steering him toward the first of my appointments.

  The man I’ve arranged to meet spots me first. He’s broad-shouldered, well-fed and has a shrewd gleam in his eyes that’s as much a habit as it is his personality. He raises a hand in greeting as Arun and I step free of the crowd.

  “Alexios,” he says warmly. Then his gaze slides to Arun, lingering just a beat too long. “And this is…?”

  “This is Arun,” I say smoothly, turning slightly so Arun stands at my side rather than behind me. “My companion. Arun, this is Laurent… he’s one of my contacts here in Richelor.”

  Laurent’s brows lift slightly, but he offers a polite nod.

  “A pleasure to meet you,” he says, bowing his head a bit. “We’ll walk together to the client’s shop. He runs one of the most reputable apothecaries here in the east quarter.”

  We fall into step and the noise of the market fades as we move into quieter streets where the air smells faintly of dried herbs and smoke. Arun keeps pace beside me, silent but observant, his gaze moving over the rows of narrow-fronted buildings with their painted signs and shuttered windows.

  The apothecary stands out with its dark green door and neat display window filled with glass jars, each labeled in careful script. Inside, the air is warmer, thick with the scents of rosemary and chamomile. Shelves line the walls, crowded with vials and neatly bound bundles of dried plants.

  The shop owner greets Laurent first and then me. His eyes flick to Arun briefly, but he doesn’t say anything.

  We move to a side table where a hefty ledger waits with its pages spread open to show a list of goods and shipments. Laurent begins the opening pleasantries and I take my seat, already thinking through the terms of the deal.

  Arun remains just behind my chair, near enough that I catch the occasional shift of his weight on the wooden floorboards. I don’t have to look to know his eyes are moving over every jar and instrument, quietly absorbing this new place while I work.

  Laurent launches into his spiel of supply chains and marketing shortages and I match his practiced tone with equal precision as we haggle over costs of rare imports while the shop owner nods, adjusting numbers in the ledger.

  I begin to realize that my attention is not entirely here though.

  From the corner of my eye, I watch as Arun drifts toward a wall lined with low shelves. He crouches slightly to study a row of glass jars containing pale roots curled like little serpents. His fingers hover just above the wood, careful not to actually touch anything. The candlelight catches in his hair and turns the loose strands to dark silk.

  I want to run my hand through his hair so badly.

  The shop owner’s gaze follows him too. Not openly, of course, but it’s enough that I notice the flicker of eyes between us and the subtle pause in his quill’s scratching.

  “We can guarantee delivery within six days, provided your existing contract allows the adjustment,” Laurent is saying.

  “Even better… we can make it within five,” I counter without looking away from the numbers. “And at the same rate as the previous quarter.”

  I can feel the shop owner still glancing toward Arun. It’s not a look of hunger though. It’s more in the way a collector studies something rare and a bit… out of place.

  Arun moves on to a shelf of narrow vials filled with amber liquid and he tiltd his head to read the fine script on some of the labels. His expression is pretty much unreadable from here, but his focus is still intense as if the world has narrowed to that single corner of the shop.

  Laurent sighs before eventually speaking.

  “Let’s do five days then, but we’ll need the final payment on delivery.”

  “Agreed.”

  The shop owner offers a thin smile, but his eyes flick move to Arun once more before he gathers his papers. The legs of the chair scrap faintly on the floorboards as I stand and I extend my hand to the shop owner in parting.

  “Shall we?” I murmur to Arun as he turns from the shelf.

  The bell above the apothecary door chimes as we step back into the cold, the air outside brisk after the herbal warmth inside. As we walk back through the market, the noises wash over us again. We take in the sound of haggling voices, the clink of coin and the scent of roasted chestnuts drifting from a nearby shop.

  Arun lingers for a moment and his gaze catches on a shop just across the street. Brightly dyed scarves ripple in the wind with their colors spilling like paint against the blue sky.

  “May I… go look at those?”

  “You don’t have to ask,” I say, already slipping a hand into my coat. I press a few gold pieces into his palm and my fingers brush his just long enough for the touch to linger. “In case you see something you like.”

  He blinks down at the coins and hesitates as if about to protest, but then he closes his fingers around them. A small nod and he moves off toward the stall, the crowd folding around him until I can only see flashes of blue from his coat.

  When I turn back, Laurent is watching me. I don’t think his intention is to be rude. It’s just a measured look someone has when they think they’ve seen more than maybe they’re supposed to.

  “What?” I ask flatly.

  He smiles a bit, the expression edged with curiosity.

  “Nothing. Just… not used to seeing you so quick to part with coin for someone who isn’t on your payroll.”

  I don’t return the smile.

  “He’s with me. That’s reason enough.”

  Laurent hums and glances back toward the shop where Arun is running his fingers over a length of crimson silk.

  Laurent’s gaze lingers on Arun a moment longer before he speaks. His tone is light but edged with something that I know is meant to provoke.

  “Bold choice,” he says, “Bringing a consort to a business meeting. I don’t even bring my mistress to mine.”

  My eyes cut to him, my voice cool.

  “Arun is not my consort.”

  One brow lifts and the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth.

  “No? Then what is he?” His gaze shifts toward the stall again. “He’s awfully pretty.”

  My jaw tightens.

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  “He’s with me. That’s all you need to know.”

  Laurent chuckles under his breath, but the sound carries more amusement than malice.

  “If you say so.”

  He lets it drop, but I can see the calculation in his eyes. It’s the same way people look when they’ve found something to be curious about.

  I keep my attention fixed on Arun as he leans slightly over the merchant’s table, a strand of curly hair slipping forward while he inspects a display of silver pendants. The thought of anyone else calling him pretty like that leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

  Arun turns from the stall and I spot something small and wrapped in cloth in his hand. He begins making his way back through the shifting press of bodies as the sunlight catches on the curve of his cheek, slightly flushed from the cold.

  He isn’t wrong, Alexios. Arun is awfully pretty. Pretty enough to tempt more than one set of hands. You’d love to kill him if he touched your pet, wouldn’t you?

  Arun steps up beside me and pulls a small trinket out from the wrapped cloth.

  “For you,” he says softly and when I glance down, I see a thin silver bookmark in the shape of a curling vine.

  Laurent’s brows lift at the gesture, but he says nothing.

  Oh, how sweet. A gift for his master.

  “Thank you,” I say aloud as I try to keep my tone even, but my fingers close over his a fraction longer than needed when I take it. “It’s very beautiful. Shall we continue?”

  Arun nods, falling into step beside me again as Laurent follows.

  Laurent is silent now, but I can still feel his curiosity at my back. The queen hums like a cat with cream as if she already knows the rest of this day will test me more than any business deal.

  We cut through the edge of the marketplace where the crowds thin and the air smells faintly of horse tack and wood smoke. Arun walks close enough that the edge of his sleeve brushes mine now and then as his gaze moves over the rows of shuttered townhouses and narrow alleys.

  Laurent strides ahead a few paces now, muttering to himself about the next meeting’s terms. I let him, preferring the quiet company of Arun next to me.

  We cross a narrow bridge over a canal and the wind lifts a strand of Arun’s hair against his cheek. I want to reach over and smooth it away, but I don’t.

  The street eventually opens up onto a quieter square where our next appointment waits. I take a few moments to admire the old stone building with its arched door and iron hinges shaped like curling leaves. Laurent throws us a glance over his shoulder to make sure we’re keeping pace before he pushes inside.

  I gesture for Arun to go ahead, my hand briefly touching the small of his back as he passes. The interior of the building is much warmer than the streets and pleasant smell of beeswax and old wood hits my nose. A long table dominates the center of the room with its surface worn smooth by years of contracts signed and coin exchanged. The elven man we’ve come to see rises from a seat at the far end, his dark green robes almost shimmering in the candlelight.

  Laurent greets him with an easy familiarity, already drawing him into talk of pricing, demand, and shipping delays. I glance at Arun, who’s looking toward a high shelf lined with ceramic jars and small brass scales.

  “Stay where I can see you,” I murmur quietly, not as a rebuke but as a precaution.

  He meets my gaze for a brief moment before nodding and taking a seat on a low bench by the wall, far enough to be out of the way but well within my line of sight.

  I join Laurent and the merchant at the table as documents are produced and numbers get pulled into the conversation. I can sense that the owner is cautious with his offers and is slightly unwilling to commit without assurance of steady supply. Laurent counters with delivery routes and reliability, I with pricing structures that make refusal seem costly.

  The conversation tightens then eases as an agreement begins to take shape. Still, every so often, my eyes shift to Arun.

  He sits quietly with his hands folded while he watches the slow spin of dust in the golden light from the tall windows.

  When the final signatures are made, I feel the tension ease from my shoulders. The owner smiles, clasping my hand in a grip meant to signal mutual gain.

  Laurent exhales with satisfaction, already talking about the next steps as we turn toward the door. My gaze finds Arun first and the small feeling of relief I feel at seeing him exactly where I left him is sharper than I expect.

  We step back into the street and the cold air is a sharp contrast to the still warmth of the shop.

  Thank you for joining us today,” I say to Laurent as we pause at the corner where the road forks.

  He gives me a satisfied smile as he adjusts his gloves, but then I see him glance toward Arun who stands just a pace behind me.

  “It was a pleasure, Alexios. Always is when the numbers work in our favor. Will I see him again?”

  I meet Laurent’s eyes, my expression unreadable.

  “Perhaps.”

  His mouth tilts in a knowing half-smile.

  “I hope so. The city doesn’t often see someone quite like him.”

  My gaze hardens, though I keep my tone polite.

  “Safe travels, Laurent.”

  He tips his head in farewell before turning down the opposite street, disappearing into the flow of people.

  Arun shifts slightly beside me as if sensing the weight of the exchange though not its details. I glance down at him.

  “We still have time before heading back. You said you wanted to walk?”

  His eyes brighten a fraction.

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’ll walk,” I say, offering my arm.

  We drift back toward the market’s livelier quarter where the press of people thickens and the air hums with the rhythm of barter and chatter. Arun slows when something catches his eye and I follow his line of sight to see a jeweler’s table scattered with silver rings, each set with beautifully polished stones in shades of pale green and deep garnet.

  I keep a half-step back, letting him look. He picks one up delicately, the light flashing over the stone, then sets it down without asking the price.

  “Do you like it?” I ask. I’d buy it for him without question. He doesn’t even have to ask.

  He hesitates a moment before eventually shaking his head, his tail shifting nervously as he turns away from the table. I realize I’m slightly disappointed that he said no.

  We move on to a spice merchant and the air fills with the rich scent of cinnamon and clove. Arun leans slightly over a wooden crate filled with dried citrus peel, brushing his fingers across the rough surface of the rind before withdrawing.

  I keep my attention on the way Arun moves from table to table. He never rushes, just scans the goods as if he’s memorizing them for later.

  At a weaver’s display, he pauses over a bolt of soft charcoal wool. He glances at me, almost questioning, and I nod once. He exchanges a few coins with the weaver and accepts a neatly wrapped length of fabric, tucking it under his arm with quiet satisfaction.

  We turn down a narrower street, the cobblestones uneven underfoot, the noise of the market trailing behind us. Arun walks at my side, the wrapped fabric still tucked under his arm, his gaze moving over the faded signs and shuttered windows of old shops.

  “You didn’t have to buy me this,” he says quietly, almost as if to himself.

  I glance at him.

  “If you like something, Arun… all you have to do is tell me you want it.”

  He blinks as though uncertain he’s heard me right and I can see a small bit of tension in his shoulders at the directness of my words.

  “I mean it,” I add, my voice low but certain. “Don’t wait for me to guess. Don’t pretend you don’t want something when you do. If it’s in my power to give it to you, you’ll have it.”

  For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His fingers shift on the package in his arms and he looks away toward the tall buildings where the sunlight catches on old glass.

  “Thank you. I’ll try to remember that.”

  We round another corner into a sunlit street and it’s much quieter here. The street is lined with a few more small shops and the smell of wood smoke curling from narrow chimneys. Arun glances around as we walk, his attention caught by a painted sign shaped like a loaf of bread hanging from a post above a doorway.

  “Are there any bakeries nearby?” he asks, his voice light but hopeful.

  I look at him and smile.

  “Are you hungry, love?”

  “Yes,” he admits, shifting the package of fabric under his arm.

  “Then we’ll do a late lunch,” I say, already turning the thought over in my mind. “After that, we’ll stop at a bakery and find something sweet for you.”

  A small and almost shy smile curves his mouth.

  We head toward my favorite café in town and I see its arched windows visible at the end of the street. The faint murmur of the crowd behind us becomes sharper as two men pass on the opposite side of the lane, their voices pitched low enough they must think no one can hear.

  “Drow and a tiefling,” one mutters, his tone edged with disdain. “The filth you see walking free these days…”

  The second man chuckles under his breath and his gaze shifts toward Arun.

  “Filth maybe, but that one’s got a face I wouldn’t mind seeing on his knees.”

  My stride slows for the briefest heartbeat and my jaw tightens. I don’t turn my head, but I feel the weight of the words settle in my chest like a stone.

  Arun doesn’t seem to have heard or perhaps he’s chosen not to react.

  I keep walking and try to keep my voice steady when I speak.

  “Come. Lunch is just ahead.”

  The café is warm when we step inside and the air is scented with roasting meat and fresh bread. A fire crackles in the hearth as its glow washes over the polished wood of the tables. I guide Arun toward a booth near the back, away from the draft of the door, my hand at his elbow just long enough to be sure he sits first.

  He sets the bundle of fabric beside him and glances over the menu the server places on the table. I already know what I’ll order, but I want him to take his time.

  All the while, the words from the street still echo at the edge of my mind, their filth sticking like tree sap. I keep my gaze on Arun as he studies the menu, the flicker of candlelight catching in his eyes.

  “Do you see something you like?” I ask, my tone even.

  “Yes,” he says, his voice quiet. “The lamb stew.”

  I nod and signal the server over.

  They’re still somewhere in these streets.

  Breathing.

  Laughing about what they said.

  And you’re here… pretending you don’t want to carve the laughter from their throats.

  My fingers tighten slightly around the stem of my wine glass when it’s set before me.

  “We’ll stop at the bakery after,” I say to Arun keeping my voice calm and measured.

  He smiles faintly, unaware of the storm threading through my thoughts. Thankfully, the queen goes quiet and her presence recedes back into the shadows of the far corners of my mind.

  I let the noise of the café fill the space instead. The soft clink of cutlery, the low murmur of nearby conversations and the occasional burst of laughter from a table closer to the fire.

  Our food arrives quickly. Arun takes the first spoonful of his stew as the steam curls up around his face. He closes his eyes briefly as he swallows and I can tell without asking that he’s pleased.

  “How do you like it?” I ask, breaking a piece of bread to dip into my own dish.

  “It’s good,” he says, glancing at me with a warm smile. “Very good.”

  I watch him for a moment, admiring how the warm lamplight playd over the lines of his face.

  “You look very beautiful today,” I say, the words slipping out low and certain.

  He blinks, caught off guard.

  “… Thank you.”

  I lean back slightly, letting my gaze linger just enough for him to feel it.

  “If you keep looking at me like that,” I murmur, my tone threaded with quiet amusement. “We may not make it to the bakery before I decide to take you somewhere more private.”

  The spoon pauses halfway to his lips and he stutters over a half-formed reply, his cheeks coloring.

  “Oh… I…”

  I take a slow sip of wine as though I’ve said nothing out of the ordinary and gesture for him to continue eating.

  By the time we finish, Arun has regained some of his composure, but every so often I catch the faintest flicker in his eyes when our gazes meet as if he’s remembering my earlier words. I settle the bill without letting him see the total and we step back into the crisp afternoon air.

  The bakery is only a short walk away and the warmth spills out as soon as the door opens.

  Inside, the air is rich with the scent of sugar, butter, and fresh bread. Glass cases display neat rows of fruit tarts, iced buns, and flaky pastries dusted with powdered sugar.

  Arun hesitates near the counter, scanning the selection with a quiet sort of focus.

  “Choose whatever you like,” I say as I stand just behind him. “Or… more than one.”

  He glances over his shoulder at me, probably checking if I’m serious. I raise a brow in answer.

  His eyes drift back to the display and he points to a small custard tart. The baker’s assistant wraps it carefully in waxed paper before handing it over. Arun accepts it with both hands, almost like it’s something delicate.

  I can still see the faint color in his cheeks as we step outside again as he keeps the paper parcel tucked against his chest. He doesn’t meet my eyes right away and I let the silence stretch, content to watch the way he keeps his attention fixed on the street ahead.

  There’s a small table outside tucked beneath the bakery’s awning. Its surface has been warmed faintly by the low afternoon sun. I pull out one of the chairs for Arun before taking the seat across from him. The street here is calmer with just the occasional passerby and the soft clatter of hooves on cobblestone.

  He unwraps the tart carefully and takes a slow bite. The pastry flakes under his teeth, the custard bright with lemon.

  “How is it?” I ask, leaning back in my chair to watch him.

  His eyes lift to mine and there’s no hesitation in his answer.

  “I love it.”

  A small smudge of custard clings to the corner of his mouth and catches the light. Without thinking, I lean forward and my thumb brushes gently along his chin to wipe it away.

  Before I realize what I’m doing, I bring my thumb to my lips, tasting the sweet lemon and cream.

  Arun freezes for a heartbeat, his eyes widening slightly and a small gasp leaves his lips. I let my hand fall back to the table as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

  “Enjoy the rest,” I murmur, my gaze holding his a fraction longer than necessary.

  He drops his eyes to the tart, taking another bite with deliberate focus. The color in his cheeks doesn’t fade.

  Eventually, we leave the little table behind and start back toward the carriage. The late afternoon light is mellow and I watch as it glides along the rooftops. Arun walks close to my side, still holding the small parcel of what’s left of his dessert.

  Suddenly… I see one of the men from earlier. Just across the street.

  It’s the same one who made the disgusting comment about wanting to see Arun on his knees. He’s leaning against the wall as he speaks with another man and his eyes scan the street idly until they land on us.

  My stride doesn’t falter, but unfortunately for this man, my mind sharpens. I glance at a shop selling polished trinkets and leather goods.

  “Arun,” I say, keeping my tone smooth. “Why don’t you go in here? See if anything catches your eye. Take your time, okay?”

  I slip a few more gold pieces into his hand and let my fingers close briefly over his. He blinks up at me, likely a little surprised at my sudden generosity.

  “Alright,” he says softly, stepping toward the shop door.

  I wait until he disappears inside before turning my gaze back toward the alley. The man is still there… just watching.

  Ah… I was wondering when you’d give me something interesting today.

  I linger near the shop until the other man peels away, leaving my quarry alone. He starts down a narrower side street, the last stretch of daylight casting long shadows along the stone walls. I follow, my steps measured and silent, letting the crowd thin behind us until it’s just the two of us and the low hum of the city in the distance.

  He turns into an alley, stopping halfway to lean against the wall. He pulls a cigar from his coat pocket, bites the end, and lights it with a quick flare of matchlight. The sharp scent of smoke curls into the cool air.

  He doesn’t notice me until I’m only a few paces away.

  I stop in the mouth of the alley, my voice quiet but carrying.

  “You have a habit of letting your mouth run ahead of your sense.”

  He freezes mid-drag, the ember at the tip of the cigar glowing like a watchful eye. Slowly, he lowers it and turns his head toward me.

  “And you’ve got a habit of listening to conversations that aren’t yours,” he says, his tone meant to be defiant, but it lands somewhere closer to wary.

  I take a step forward, allowing the light from the street to catch the red in my eyes.

  “When those conversations concern him… they become mine.”

  The wind shifts and it carries the cigar smoke between us. The man swallows and I catch that false bravado in his stance flicker for just a moment.

  “I don’t want trouble,” he mutters.

  “Unfortunately for you,” I murmur. “I love trouble.”

  I raise my hand slightly, just enough for my fingers to curl in a subtle gesture. Power stirs at my command, silent and invisible. His breath catches before turning ragged as the shadowy magic tightens around him and his throat. The cigar drops from his hand, rolling in a faint ember trail along the cobblestones.

  My fingers tighten and the shadows constrict further. He tries to speak, but the sound comes out as a choking rasp. His knees buckle.

  I spot a small shard of metal on the ground and crouch to pick it up. As the magic squeezes the last of his strength away, I catch his wrist and draw the shard in a clean line along the vein.

  The blood wells up immediately, hot and dark.

  I call another spell into my palm and the arcane threads pull the crimson in a steady stream from the cut, lifting it from his skin as if gravity has forgotten it. The ribbon of blood coils in the air, spiraling into my mouth with a warmth that spreads down my throat.

  He’s already gone by the time the last drop reaches me.

  I let the body slump against the wall, the faint trickle of his blood smearing the cobblestone beneath him. The shard of metal is still warm in my hand, slick along one edge. I turn it once between my fingers before slipping it into my coat pocket.

  Mmm… now that is more like you.

  I spit at the ground near the body before turning away and walking back toward the street where Arun waits.

  By the time I step back onto the main street, my coat is smooth and my expression composed. Sunlight brushes the rooftops, covering the crowd in orange and shadow.

  Arun is just outside the shop, scanning the street with a faint crease between his brows. His eyes catch on me instantly and relief softens his face.

  Before he can speak, I close the distance and lean in to press a brief kiss to his forehead.

  “I’m here,” I say quietly. “I had to step away for a moment. An old client recognized me. My apologies for worrying you. I should have told you.”

  His shoulders ease a bit, but the furrow in his brow doesn’t entirely vanish.

  “I… was looking for you.”

  “I know,” I murmur as I glance toward the shop door. “Did you find anything pretty?”

  He shakes his head.

  “No. I… felt bad about spending your money.”

  I study him for a moment then say, “It’s your money too, Arun.”

  My tone leaves no room for argument.

  He blinks as though he’s unsure about whether I genuinely mean it. I don’t clarify. Instead, I offer my arm as I feel the weight of that little hidden shard in my pocket. It serves as a silent reminder of the pathetic excuse of a man who will never speak of Arun again.

  We walk back toward the carriage as Arun’s arm rests lightly in mine. His steps are quiet, but every so often I feel the gentle press of his side against me when the crowd forces us closer. The contact is fleeting, but it’s enough to stir those thoughts that I definitely shouldn’t indulge here.

  When we finally reach the carriage, I help him inside first and my hand lingers at his waist. The warmth of him seeps through the fabric of his coat and I feel a small hitch in his breath right before he sits. I follow him in, shutting the hoor behind us as the driver sets the horses in motion.

  The muffled clatter of wheels on cobblestone fills the enclosed space and the lamps outside send shifting stripes of gold and shadow across his face. It draws my eyes back to the curve of his mouth and the delicate shape of his soft mouth. He fidgets slightly, fingertips brushing over the folded paper from his dessert, but his gaze keeps making its way to mine as though drawn against his will.

  “Still thinking about what I said over lunch?” I ask. My voice is almost a purr beneath the creak of the carriage.

  He stills a bit and color blooms high in his cheeks.

  “… Maybe.”

  I lean forward as I rest an elbow on my knee, letting my gaze wander over him longer. His parted lips and the gentle rise of his chest beneath that fine coat have me in shambles right now and I can’t help but smile when his knees angle slightly toward mine.

  “You’re so beautiful when you blush,” I murmur.

  He shifts under my stare and his fingers tightening on the parcel until it crinkles. I let the silence draw out and the air between us grow heavier, my eyes holding his until he drops them, but not before I see the flicker of something unsteady there.

  I keep my knee pressed against his and the faint rock of the carriage makes the contact slow, steady and unignorable.

  I don’t touch him again for the rest of the ride home, but my gaze remains fixed on him. It’s a quiet promise of what I could do if we weren’t separated by the width of this carriage seat.

  The carriage rolls to a stop in the courtyard and the iron gates close behind us with a low groan. A pair of servants step forward, one opening the door and the other taking Arun’s purchases from him as he steps down. I follow and the air is cool against the warmth I’ve carried from the ride.

  The windows of the manor glow with candlelight and Arun glances up at it, then back to me. He’s likely wondering if the moment between us will dissolve the instant we cross the threshold.

  Well done, Alexios. You handled business, protected your pet…

  I think you deserve a little treat of your own.

  My gaze lingers on Arun as we step inside, his cheeks still a bit flushed from the ride.

  Arun hands his coat to a waiting servant and his eyes shift to mine as though expecting some instruction.

  I let my stare hold him a moment longer before finally saying...

  “Come with me.”