Page 26

If a man wanted to create his own string of brothels far from the king’s control, he couldn’t simply abduct Yves.

People like Jesse, the boy who’d set the fire, didn’t have powerful friends to seek them out.

Olly was a Katoikos citizen far from home.

But if someone were to marry Yves, that would give him a way to spirit Yves away without causing a fuss.

People would think that they were retreating from the public eye for a time, and so long as Yves appeared in public now and then, his new husband could use his skills and submissive magnetism to gather new clients to the brothels.

It would be risky, but far more profitable than torturing scared young urchins into obedience.

A spark of rage burned in the core of Charon’s body, hotter than the sun that had beaten down on him in the desert.

Lord Theodore Marteau had family holdings by the sea.

He even played at being a pirate in his choice of dress, prancing about like the thieves who raided Staria’s shoreline.

If he’d taken Olly, then he wouldn’t hesitate to use Yves until he was like the boy who’d died in the cells, starving and hopeless, desperate for any comforting word.

“Charon.” Yves’ voice shook. “You’re scaring me.”

“What is it?” Johan asked, as Charon stood. “What’s happening?”

“Stay here,” Charon said, with as much dominance as he dared to use so close to Laurent’s office. “Tell Laurent and Sabre that they needn’t clean up after me.”

“No, I’m not doing that,” Yves said, scrambling after Charon as he strode for the door. “You don’t think it’s him? But he’s been so public about courting me. Wouldn’t he want to stay low? And I can’t imagine him killing anyone. Charon. Charon, maybe you should turn around.”

“Stay in the House of Onyx, Yves.” Charon found the tone he’d used on his way to Staria—cold and hard, strong enough to cut through the bite of hunger and grief. “Plan your wedding.”

Yves’ footsteps faded behind him. Charon kept walking, steady and resolute, his hands bare, a calm, quiet fury eating through every vein of his body. It was more powerful than dominance, as hot as love, as desire, as years of nights spent reading in his room with Yves drinking tea by the fire.

Then he heard footsteps again, faster this time, and Yves appeared beside him with his hands pressed flat to his ears and a scowl forming over his beautiful face.

“I’m not leaving you,” he said, with all the ferocity of a true brat. “And you can’t make me.”

“If I tell you to run, you will listen,” Charon said.

“I can’t hear you and I’m not running.”

“You will listen,” Charon said again, harder now, and Yves stared at him for a few steps before slowly nodding.

“You’re…” Yves’ pupils were blown wide, but there was fear there, and Charon wasn’t sure how much of it was because of him. “You’re talking like an Arkoudai, like you did after the fire.”

“Good.” Charon turned onto the street where the noble houses stretched out before the palace. Their glass windows glittered in the light of the sunset.

Yves fell silent.

Charon remembered the way to Lord Marteau’s house easily enough.

The colorful washing had been taken in for the night, and the window shutters were open to catch the breeze.

Charon tried the front door, and it opened under his touch.

Lord Marteau hadn’t expected anyone to break into his home, or he trusted his servants to turn away any unwanted visitors.

Yves crossed the threshold nervously after Charon, and Charon held an arm out to stop him as a servant appeared from a room down the hall.

He was a young man, his brown hair slightly tousled, and he blushed as he looked up at Charon.

“Um, sir,” he said. “Lord Marteau isn’t accepting visitors.”

“Be silent.” Charon’s voice held enough dominance that the man tried to fall to his knees there in the hall, but Charon caught him by the shirt collar before his knees hit the floor. “Did Lord Marteau bring a person home with him last night? They had dark hair, like mine. Nod or shake your head.”

The man nodded. His legs were limp, and his feet slid for purchase as he trembled under the weight of Charon’s dominance. Yves gasped behind him, and Charon heard a clatter as Yves must have reached for something to steady himself.

“Where are they?” Charon asked. “The person who came here last night. Where are they being held?” The man glanced down. “A basement? A cellar?” The man nodded, and Charon lowered him to the ground. “Good. And he plans to take them to the coast? Speak.”

“Yes, sir.” The man got to his knees rather than attempt to stand. “He’s been taking some of the maids lately, when they disobey. Jaz let two out, and we haven’t seen her or Prim since. We aren’t allowed down in the cellar anymore.”

Charon nodded to himself. It had been Lord Marteau then, his cheery demeanor barely hiding a simmering temper, a small, petty tyrant wielding his title like a truncheon. “How many servants remain here?”

“F-five, sir. Only five. We didn’t want to, sir, he made us, we were too afraid to tell anyone. He can send us to the brothels or bury us, and no one’ll raise a finger. We didn’t have a choice.”

“Find them,” Charon said. “Tell them to run. They will not have to carry out your lord’s wishes again. However, if you summon your lord, you will discover that there are people far more fearsome than a Starian noble. Do you believe me? Yes or no.”

“Yes,” the man said.

“Good. Find them.”

Charon let go, and the man half-crawled, half-ran down the hall.

“You shouldn’t do this,” Yves said. “If Olly is down there, we need to get Sabre, the king…the guards, even.”

“Then get them,” Charon said, and made for the stairs.

“I thought Olly was in the cellar,” Yves said.

“I will retrieve them when I am done.”

Yves jumped up a few steps to press himself to Charon as the servant returned, dragging a young woman with him.

Two more young women and a man about Yves’ age followed, holding candlesticks and a poker as makeshift weapons.

They stared up at Charon and Yves as the young man tried to tug them toward the door.

“Go,” Charon said, and as one, they fled into the night.

Of course Lord Marteau only employed submissives.

He likely thought it would be easier to give them orders—or like some nobles, he enjoyed domming a person who could lose their livelihood if they dared to say no.

Charon quietly noted this as the rage drew him further up the stairs, toward the well-furnished second floor.

“Stay here,” Charon said, and Yves dropped to the rug, looking dazed.

Charon reached down to touch Yves’ hair, and the part of him that wasn’t roiling with fury ached at the fear in Yves’ eyes.

“It will be better with Raul. He would not do what I will do now, but it is necessary. No one should think they can enslave you. An example must be made.”

“Charon.” Tears streamed down Yves’ cheeks and into the corners of his full mouth. “Please. Let’s find Olly and go.”

“It isn’t Charon,” he said. “Not right now.”

He turned away.

He found Lord Theodore Marteau asleep in a gaudily decorated bedroom at the end of the hall. When Lord Marteau woke to the sound of the door opening and saw him standing in the doorway, he tried to scramble to the dresser.

“Stop.” Charon’s dominance, unfettered at last, rang through the room. Lord Marteau may have been a dominant, but Charon’s power pressed down on Lord Marteau like a hammer on an anvil. “On the floor. Hands and knees.”

“You can’t?—”

“Now,” Charon said, and Lord Marteau slipped off the bed with a thump that shook the walls. Charon strode forward and placed his boot on Lord Marteau’s left hand, waited for the man to meet his gaze, and pressed down until he heard the crack of bone.

Lord Marteau’s scream echoed in the small room.

“The boy Jesse,” Charon said. “He had four broken fingers. Let us see how many you have.”

“You’re insane,” Lord Marteau gasped. “You—you whore, you filthy fucking slut, you think I—” He shrieked again as Charon raised his foot, removing the pressure from his fingers.

“Only two,” Charon said. He got to one knee in front of Lord Marteau and grabbed his right hand. Lord Marteau tried to scramble away, but Charon held him there, his grip as firm as iron. He pulled back a forefinger. “Two more.”

Lord Marteau didn’t scream on the fourth. He whined, high and keening, as he writhed beneath Charon. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“The boy,” Charon said. “Did you kill him yourself? Did you pay the guards to look away?”

Lord Marteau gaped at him, panting, sweat streaking his handsome face. “He was just a whore. There are hundreds others like them. They’d die otherwise, on the streets.”

“Laurent said he was strangled,” Charon said. He squeezed Lord Marteau’s broken fingers. “Did you enjoy it?”

Lord Marteau whined again. Charon hauled him up onto the bed by the throat, then started to tear strips off his nightshirt. “Usually, this requires a few tools. Particular ones. But I believe I can make do with what I have.”

“Why are you doing this?” Lord Marteau asked. “For the boy? Did you want him? I have others. Younger ones, if you desire them. Eager. Obedient. I’ll even let you mark them.”

“Yves,” Charon said, as he tied Lord Marteau’s hands to the bedposts. “Give me Yves.”

“Yes. He’s yours.”

“Will you let me take him?” Charon asked. He tightened the ties around Lord Marteau’s wrists, cutting off the flow of blood there. Lord Marteau wouldn’t need to use his hands for long. “Even if he struggles? Even if he hates it? If he weeps, if he bleeds?”

“Just let me live,” Lord Marteau said. “I’ll let you use him however you like. He’s pretty, isn’t he? Pleasing?”