Page 27

“Yes,” Charon said. He opened the dresser that Lord Marteau had been reaching for and found a thin, sharp knife.

He brought it to one side of Lord Marteau’s eye and pressed a thumb to the other corner.

“Very pleasing, when he looks at you with his wide, trusting eyes. His golden hair. The freckles over his nose and shoulders. A beautiful sight.”

“Very,” Lord Marteau whispered. “He’ll be yours as soon as I’ve brought him into my household.”

“Mm.” Charon pressed the knife down, then to the side, like digging an oyster from the shell. The body beneath him thrashed and screamed, then started to sob, wet and miserable.

“No,” it cried. “No, please. Please.”

“Once more,” Charon told it. “Look into my eyes. What do you see, my lord? Do you see mercy?”

“I beg you,” the body said. “Don’t do this. He was just a whore. No one. The boy was no one. Even Yves—there will be others, his beauty will fade…”

“Do you see mercy?” Charon asked it again. “Tell me.”

“No,” it said, in a tremulous voice.

“Good,” Charon said, and pressed the knife to the corner of its other eye. “It will be over soon.”

The body cried out, and Charon stuffed a strip of cloth in its mouth with bloody fingers.

“No, no,” Charon said, as its mouthed garbled words into the wadded cloth. “You won’t die from this, not yet. First, we’ll do something about the pain. Then you’ll tell me where your brothels are. Then I’ll let you choose what I take from you next.”

The door creaked open behind him, but Charon didn’t turn to look.

“Go back to the House of Onyx, Yves,” he said.

“Charon.” Yves’ voice came from lower than Charon would have expected. He must have crawled to the door, too overcome by Charon’s dominance to stand. His voice came closer, and the body on the bed thrashed again. Charon lay a hand on its chest to steady it. “Charon. You need to let him go.”

“You’re disobeying a direct order from a dominant,” Charon said.

“I know. I do that.” Yves was so close now that Charon could feel his breath on his thigh. “Charon, can you look at me?”

He kept his gaze fixed on the body.

“Please, Charon. I need you to look at me.”

The body howled softly. It—Lord Marteau kept flexing his hands, which were starting to turn purple. “Return to Sabre. Tell him what you saw here. Get Oleander out.”

“I’m getting you out, first,” Yves said. Charon felt a hand on his thigh. “Nikos?”

Charon turned.

Yves had been crying, but there were no tears in his eyes now. He was staring up at Charon steadily, boldly, in a way that few submissives allowed themselves to do for long. He sat up on his knees and turned Charon’s face further from the sobbing noble on the bed.

“I’m sorry,” Yves said. “I’m sorry that someone taught you how to do this. But you need to stop now.”

Charon thought of Aster lying in his arms, his gaze distant, apologizing for what Nikos had become.

“I was a monster long before you met me,” Charon said. “This is what I’ve always been.”

“I know what you are,” Yves said. “And you’re coming home with me.”

“Even Sabre can’t excuse what I’ve done tonight.” Charon stood. He carefully loosened the ties around Lord Marteau’s wrists, and another sob shuddered in the air. “There will be consequences. I will leave Staria tonight.”

“No.” Yves grabbed his arm. He kept avoiding having to look at Lord Marteau, even as the man started howling for his attention.

Charon guided Yves out of the room and shut the door.

“No, you can’t. Sabre and Laurent will find a way around it.

King Adrien will understand. Lord Marteau killed that boy, I heard him.

He’s enslaving people. There are laws against that. People were hanged for that, once.”

“I’m sorry, Yves.” Charon descended the stairs.

He didn’t tell Yves that there was only a slim chance that Lord Marteau would survive in time for help to come—or that even if Laurent were summoned to heal him, he would not hurry for a man who tortured children.

Murdering a noble who enslaved the poor was an act that incited rebellion in Charon’s history books, and if King Adrien were wise, he would sweep it under the rug before others realized that the nobles who owned their lands and farms were only made of flesh.

They found Oleander in the cellar, alongside a boy of eleven and one of Lord Marteau’s maids who Charon had seen on his first visit.

Oleander was oddly quiet as Charon broke the shackles binding them to the floor, and the maid had the same expression as those who’d been terrified into numb silence by the interrogators.

She flinched away when Charon extended a hand, but Yves spoke to her softly and urged her to her feet.

The boy sobbed and clung to Charon, but Oleander just stood, their gaze distant and cold.

“What happened to him?” the maid asked, in a toneless voice.

“He’s upstairs,” Charon said. There was a familiar glint in her eye, and Charon lowered his voice. “I will confess to what has been done to him.”

The maid nodded and picked up the chain that had run through her shackles. She wrapped one end around her hand, climbing up the stairs and out of the cellar.

“Wait,” Yves said, but Charon shook his head and glanced down at the boy.

Yves grimaced as the maid left, but he didn’t call for her.

Instead, he helped Oleander while Charon half-carried the boy.

When they reached the door, a hoarse cry rang out from the lord’s room upstairs, and the maid descended empty-handed.

She gave Charon a curt nod, smoothed down her unkempt hair, and strode into the night without a backward glance.

“Did she…” Yves’ voice trailed off into an uneasy silence.

“It was more mercy than he deserved,” Charon said. “Come. We have more work to do before the night is done.”