Garden of Poisoned Delights

2. From Your Tooth to your Claw

The tower roomin the eastern corner of the Abbey hadn’t been used in over a century. It had been a study once, with a heavy oak desk and sturdy chairs, and a bell pull that went nowhere and made no sound. In most other noble manors, it would have fallen into disrepair, but the Abbey was run by Clara, Sebastien d’Hiver’s no-nonsense housekeeper. The furniture was clean and the cushions refitted, and someone came by once a week to dust the shelves and check the books for mold. The oak desk gleamed with polish, and even though no one had used it in generations, it didn’t look abandoned.

Which was a shame, really. At that moment, Devon was rather sympathetic toward abandoned things.

He unfolded the letter he’d just received from his brother Marius, flipped it over in his hands, and folded it again. The sound of the paper crinkling was the only thing distracting him from his own labored breathing, and it was hardly enough. He was wedged on the floor between the desk and a bookshelf, having unthinkingly sought out the most protected part of the room, and he’d let the candle on the desk burn out some time ago. Duchess, the hellhound that Sariel had taken from a forest as a gift, refused to let him brood in peace, and had shoved herself into the small space with him so she could plop her enormous, blocky head on his knees. When he looked down at her, she sighed, fiery eyes wide and loving.

And here he’d been doing so well.

“You’re wasting your time,” he told her, but Duchess just sighed again with that doglike expression of just how exhausting it was to look after a human pack, and he half considered feeding her the letter. Instead, he slipped it into his pocket again.

Time folded and stretched, and Devon turned his face to the glass doors of the bookshelf just to feel something cool on his cheeks.

The part of him that hated Marius had died somewhere in the letter’s third apology, choking under the pressure of the fury that Devon reserved for Oscar Chastain. Of course the one person who should have regretted it was dead. Of course Devon couldn’t shake it out of him, claw even a half-hearted apology from his dying throat. Of course it fell to Devon and Marius to blame themselves in his absence.

And now Marius was, what? On a journey of self discovery? Where? How? With whom? His letter had been a rambling mess of apologies and self-reflection, but it hadn’t said anything about how Marius had gotten there. He’d given an address, but still it felt as though Marius had simply laid his feelings at Devon’s feet and run.

That was uncharitable, perhaps. Marius had spent his whole life running from the truth, and this letter was clearly his attempt to face it. The last time he’d been at d’Hiver, he’d been chased out by hellhounds, so it wasn’t as though he could walk up to the front door.

But he should have.

But he shouldn’t have. That would have been worse, because then Devon would have to look at him and see the emotion on his face, and he wouldn’t be able to hide away in a tower room like a coward while his heart burned with too many emotions at once.

Duchess whined, and Devon covered his face with both hands, inhaling hard. Her weight lifted off his knees, and he barely noticed the sound of her claws clacking on the wood floor as she left. There was a time when Devon would have done anything to be left alone. He had dreamt of silence, of locked doors and empty halls. But now, alone in the tower room with Marius’ letter in his pocket, Devon felt like he was drowning in the quiet. It had fallen out of favor with him during his short time in the Abbey, as the people who lived there enfolded him into their strange, haphazard family. Sebastien and his demon were always present, just at the edge of his sight if not at his side, as Sariel liked keeping his mortals close. They’d held his soul in their hands and returned it whole.

Sariel called his soul a light, at times, like a beacon calling Sebastien’s demon forward so he could drink of his emotions, and Devon sometimes found himself drawn out of sleep to the sound of Sariel’s voice in Sebastien’s mouth, can we touch you, Beloved, can we hold your heart?

Yes, he thought now, as he tried not to weep in the dark of the tower room with his hands in his hair and his breath coming ragged and harsh. Yes, please. Come take it.

* * *

Sebastien was helping Clara take inventory of a recently discovered cache of d’Hiver silver that Polly, the newest member of their strange little family, had found in the cellar. It was a painfully dull task, and Sebastien would rather be doing anything else, but Clara was determined. She was in the early stages of her pregnancy, her belly gently swelling to fill out the front of her dress, and Sariel had murmured there are two hearts, Host, beneath hers, which was how Sebastien knew she was having twins. She hadn’t told him yet, and he wondered if she herself even knew.

Then he saw she was holding two of the smallest spoons from the silverware set, which he assumed were meant for sugar or perhaps stirring some delicacy, and he raised his eyebrows at her. “You want those for the babies?”

She colored slightly, which she almost never did, and gave him a rueful smile. “I should have known you’d have figured out there were two.”

“Yes. Sariel knew. Do babies need spoons, then?” He frowned. “I can’t remember if I’ve ever even seen a baby.” He was the duke, but he’d been a second son with no younger siblings.

She gave a soft laugh. “No. But there’s an old superstition where I’m from, about placing a silver spoon in the baby’s mouth on the first full moon after they’re born. It’s supposed to keep them from wanting for anything. I suppose you shall likely think it’s silly of me to want to bother with it.”

Sebastien stared at her. “Clara, I harbor a demon that dwells in my spirit and there’s a portal to some otherworldly dimension in our home.”

That is not what it is, Host, Sariel clicked at him.

Sebastien waved a hand. “Also, I used to murder people because my demon asked it of me. You think I shall be bothered by some old ritual involving silverware I did not even know we had?”

“When you put it that way,” she said, and grabbed a third spoon, though this one was slightly larger. “One for Polly. Joaquin wants to adopt her, if that’s acceptable.”

Sariel made a rumbling sound, and not hearing any stringent protests, Sebastien just shrugged. “She lives here, and I care not for the silver service or who has it.”

Clara laughed, but Sebastien wasn’t sure why, as he hadn’t been joking. He was just about to tell her to take all of it when there was a soft sound, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled.

The sound turned into a woof, and a dog appeared, pushing through the stone of the cellar door as she bounded over toward them. She sat in front of Sebastien and started to whine, ears flat, head tilted.

Deep within, he felt his demon stir. Sariel hissed, clicked, and Sebastien heard himself making strange sounds as Sariel tried communicating with the hellhound. Duchess barked and whined again, turning in circles, and Sebastien was dimly aware of Clara murmuring, “Is everything all right, Your Grace?”

Duchess barked, and Sariel hissed one word, Beloved, in a tone that meant, no, things were not all right. Sebastien shook his head, and his voice was not his own as he answered her, overlaid with Sariel’s odd, bell-like tone. “No,” they said, as one. “But it will be.”

* * *

As Sebastien headed out to look for Devon, he ran into a nervous-looking Polly in the hallway.

Polly had come to the Abbey on the day Devon had been abducted by the king’s men, and had thrown a jar of jam in an attempt to save him. It hadn’t worked, but Sebastien had been inclined to let her stay when Clara asked it of him, simply for trying. She was more often than not found with Joaquin, a miniature version of him in overalls and dirt from the garden on her face. She must have been dragged off to bathe by Clara, though, as she was now racing about the hallway with her hair damp, barefoot and looking worried.

She gave a sloppy curtsy when she saw Sebastien, then said hurriedly, “I’m so sorry, m’lord, I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to!”

“Ah,” Sebastien said, while Duchess whined and pawed at the floor, though she stopped to let Polly pat her anxiously on the head. “I’m not quite sure what you are referring to. What did you not know you weren’t supposed to do?”

“I gave him the letter!” she wailed, sniffling. “Mister Jack said I should have asked first, but it was addressed to Devon! I didn’t know he might not want it!”

Sebastien blinked at her. “You gave a letter to Devon? From whom?”

“I don’t know,” she said, sounding miserable. “It came in the post so I took it to him. I was trying to be helpful.”

“Why on earth is that—” He stopped, remembering that Joaquin and Clara both had been quite protective of Devon when the prince and his friend had shown up on Sebastien’s birthday. “If the letter is for Devon, why would it be a problem that you gave it to him?”

“Joaquin said I was supposed to show you, first, on account of it might be something bad, like those brutes tried to take him away. I found Devon and I gave him the letter, but then his face went all funny, m’lord, and I think maybe I should’ve shown you first and I’m sorry!”

Sebastien didn’t know what to say. He was distracted by the idea of a letter coming for Devon, what it might mean—but Polly was crying, and he was too much of a gentleman to let that go without some sort of response. Unfortunately, his experience with people crying was limited to the dark room and the men he used to take there, for his demon to feed off their fear and pain. He’d never been trying to comfort them.

Sebastien patted Polly on the shoulder, very awkwardly. “It’s all right. Letters should, ah, go to whom they are addressed.”

She glanced up at him, pushing her dark, wet hair off her face. As odd as it seemed, given they weren’t related, she looked a bit like Clara. “But he had this look, like before, with those men who came to take him away!”

“I shall take care of it. You did nothing wrong,” Sebastien assured her, and that seemed to work like magic. She brightened, bobbed another curtsey, and patted Duchess one last time before racing off, half-slipping on the floor in her bare feet.

He glanced down at the dog, who woofed again and then headed toward the grand staircase. Sebastien followed her up the wide stairs, sure she must be leading him to Devon. He wondered if he should have told Polly to fetch Clara or Joaquin, in case men followed in the letter’s wake, men who wanted to try and take Devon away.

Beloved is ours, Sariel hissed, softly.

“Yes, he is,” Sebastien agreed. “Let us go and find him, then. Where is he?”

Sariel clicked at him and hissed slightly, but didn’t answer outright. Sebastien followed Duchess up past the black double doors, which were closed for the moment, and even further, up to the east tower, which Sebastien had almost forgotten existed. He glanced at the dog, who had chosen not to simply walk through the door, and said softly, “Are you quite certain he’s in here?”

The dog barked, going down on her haunches, tail wagging. Her hellfire eyes gleamed up at Sebastien.

“I shall take that as a yes,” Sebastien said, and turned the doorknob.

The room was clean, but had the faint air of disuse as he stepped in, and for a few long seconds, he wondered if Duchess was wrong. Then he heard something, a soft sound like a sob, and that’s when he saw Devon.

He was wedged between the bookshelf and a desk, and he was crying.

It wasn’t quite like watching Polly cry. For one, Sariel was immediately disconcerted, wings fluttering, clicking in Sebastien’s mind and demanding to know why is Beloved’s face wet like the girl in the hallway, who made him sad, will we flay them under the knife.

“Devon,” Sebastien said, going down on his haunches in front of his huddled, miserable submissive. Devon glanced at him, eyes glassy and tear-bright, and Sebastien ignored his demon’s restlessness because there was no one, presently, they could bring under the knife…at least until they knew what the letter said, and who had sent it. “My flame. Was it the letter you received that has upset you so?”

Devon laughed, a rough, raw sound. “Yes.”

Sebastien studied him, thinking. He reached a hand out, but he stopped before touching him. “I would like you to come out of there. Will you take my hand?”

“I’m not a child,” Devon snapped, anger rising, and would not take it. “I’m fine.”

He wasn’t. Sebastien stood, and put enough of his natural dominance into his voice to be effective. “You will be just as safe in our rooms as you are here, and I should think you’ll be far more comfortable.”

He didn’t often use his dominance—he didn’t often have to. Devon responded far more to Sariel’s influence in Sebastien’s voice than Sebastien’s natural alignment, but Sariel was a bit too unsettled still to do much beyond click in Sebastien’s mind like an anxious, demonic hen.

Devon slowly uncurled himself, pushing out of his hunched position, and winced slightly as he straightened. Without a word, he reached into his pocket and shoved something at Sebastien. His fingers were shaking, and he stalked off like an angry wolf to go stare out of the window as Sebastien unfolded the letter. It was growing dark in the tower; a storm was rolling in from the sea, and the windows in the tower shook as Devon braced one hand on the glass, staring out at the sky.

Sebastien took his time with the letter. Marius chose his words carefully at first, but his emotions seemed to spiral the more he wrote, and his apologies were punctuated by vague mentions of the new life he was building. Sebastien read it twice, then folded it and tucked it into the pocket of his waistcoat. He cautiously made his way over to Devon, but didn’t touch him. “Sariel and I have a question, Devon. Do you want me to bring him here, your brother? Is the pain this letter caused you too much for you to bear?”

Devon didn’t look at him. “I don’t know.” He was still staring at the storm outside, and his breathing was too fast, his muscles tense.

“Let us help you,” Sebastien murmured, and there was Sariel’s voice, a soft, clarion echo beneath his own. “My flame, Devon. Let this be, for a while. Let us settle you.”

Devon turned, and the thunder rumbled as the sky opened and the rain drummed against the window. “I don’t know if you can,” he said, aching, honest, but he held out a hand, slowly, toward Sebastien. “But you’re welcome to try.”

* * *

The storm broke over the d’Hiver estate with a fury. Wind rattled the windows and shook the doors on the first floor. Rain lashed the glass and made rivers of the garden, pooling in the courtyard by the front doors. Something howled in the woods outside, where Sariel’s influence didn’t reach, before it was drowned by the rumble and crash of thunder.

And in the warmth of Sebastien’s bed, framed on all sides by thick bed curtains that muffled the storm, Devon couldn’t be still.

It usually helped when Sebastien bound him in soft rope and secured him to the bed, but even with his collar on a lead hooked to the headboard, Devon couldn’t settle. The comfort he felt in being held—restrained, even when he didn’t want to be touched, and Sebastien sat back, watching him go still and quiet—just wouldn’t come. He flexed his hands and tensed his muscles, and after a few minutes of carefully arranging him on the bed, Sebastien clicked his tongue and started undoing the ropes again.

“If I could just go under,” Devon snarled, and Sebastien slowed, looking at him curiously. He was bent over Devon, his long hair spilling over one shoulder.

“You don’t always seek subspace,” Sebastien said. “Perhaps that is why. You want it now only because you want to forget, but you’re too stubborn, beloved. Your own nature fights you.”

“So my submission is a contrary asshole, is what you’re saying.”

Sebastien tilted his head slightly, affirming without repeating Devon’s choice of words. For all that he was a man who had, without much remorse, taken people apart under the knife for Sariel countless times, he was too polite to be crude.

Devon had seen enough of the Starian nobility to know that was rare in noble circles. Oh, they liked to pretend they were genteel, but behind closed doors, it was all fucking and cursing and bribing each other to stay on top.

Marius had said in his letter that he had given Sabre names. What names? Of collaborators? But their collaborators were dead, weren’t they?

A small, hidden memory drifted from the mess in Devon’s mind: Marius, fourteen and already acting superior, dressing for one of their father’s events in a neighboring county. Their father used to go alone, leaving them to their own devices once a week, but ever since Marius had been thirteen or so, he’d been allowed to shadow Oscar Chastain to watch the adults smoke and drink and talk about what horse had won at what race that week.

“I don’t know why I can’t come with you,” Devon had said. He hadn’t yet had a reason to hate his father, but he was already starting to resent Marius, who had gone cold and quiet the past few years. “If you’re allowed, then surely I’m old enough.”

Marius had flinched. It was brief—just a momentary fumble with the button on his collar—but it was there, and Marius covered it quickly with an arch look. “You’re still a baby,” he said. “This is for men.”

“You’re not a man yet. You can’t even grow a beard.”

“Lord Havish says I’m—” Marius stopped, blinking at his reflection in the mirror. “He says I’m an old soul. That’s why I’m allowed.”

“Lord Havish is stupid,” Devon muttered, and Marius went pink.

“As if you know anything!”

And he hadn’t. Even when it had all gone wrong, Devon hadn’t gone to those weekly events with his father. He was too disruptive, too much trouble. But Marius wasn’t any trouble at all.

Marius had spent quite a lot of time with the Havishes. He stayed whole weeks there, coming back with new suits and riding clothes and books with embossed letters on the spine. He’d been invited to a few other estates, as well—Devon remembered the misery of those weeks alone with his father in their empty house while Marius ran about with other noble sons.

But he hadn’t, had he? Devon stared over Sebastien’s shoulder as he realized it too late. Marius hadn’t been visiting their sons at all.

He’d given Sabre a list of names.

“Beloved.” Sebastien’s voice was hollow, echoing with Sariel’s influence. “You are far away.”

“I think Marius might have had it worse,” Devon said, and Sebastien raised his brows.

“You can only know what you feel, beloved. It’s foolish to compare.”

Devon supposed Sebastien would know. He couldn’t imagine how it must have felt to be a boy, dying of his wounds after watching the brutal murder of his family, dragging himself toward the demon who would consume his soul—or for Sariel, trapped in the dark and knowing only pain and fear for centuries. It didn’t make sense to make a contest of it. Pain was pain, however it happened.

“It was easier when I hated him,” Devon said, and sighed as Sebastien unhooked the lead from his collar. “I wish I could just…I wish it could be quiet, just for a while.”

Sebastien paused, a hand hovering close to Devon’s cheek, before Devon nodded slightly. Sebastien cupped his cheek with a hand as he used the other to test the ties on his wrist, a wordless comfort that was worth far more than fumbling platitudes. Sebastien tugged at them and frowned.

“This will need the knife. You pulled too tight, and the knot twisted underneath.” He sounded disappointed in himself; Sebastien liked to be precise with his rope work, taking time to test every knot. He stepped away to fetch a knife, and lightning flashed, making the steel flicker with light from the window. Devon’s breath caught, and Sebastien looked at him oddly, head tilted.

“I will not cut you,” Sebastien said, and Devon nodded, holding his breath as Sebastien drew the knife closer.

“I know.” The flat of the knife touched Devon’s wrist, and for the first time all night, Devon went still.

Sebastien held the knife there for a breath, watching Devon intently, before he lifted it away and cut through the rope. He paused as though listening to another voice.

“Yes,” he said, after a while. “Perhaps it is the knife he wants.” Devon stiffened, and Sebastien smiled down at him. “Not in that way, beloved. No pain. But perhaps you want us to cut your thoughts away tonight, in the dark.” He carefully lay the knife over Devon’s throat, and Devon gasped as his cock stirred, heat coursing through his body. “There are many uses for a knife.”

“Do it,” Devon blurted out, before he could convince himself to stay up all night or get miserably drunk instead. “But take me—take me to the doors. I want to feel Sariel. I want him to…”

He wanted to feel Sariel hold his soul in his clawed grasp, feeding on the emotions that rolled off Devon in waves. He wanted to feel held, secure, wanted, in a way no other mortal was craved by their lovers.

“Yes,” Sebastien said, sheathing the knife. “I know.”

* * *

The black doors were open. That wasn’t unusual—Sebastien was long used to walking by and seeing them standing open, the darkness as solid as a painting on a flat wall, seemingly impenetrable.

What was unusual, however, was what he saw when he and Devon stepped into the waiting, welcoming dark, and the doors shut behind them, quiet as a sigh. There was a single light in the room, shining down on something Sebastien hadn’t seen in quite some time. It was in the shape of a cross, and looked similar to the post on which he’d once seen a duke whipped to the point of orgasm. But this one wasn’t meant for enjoyment. It was meant for what they used to do, he and Sariel.

“What is this?” Devon asked, blinking. “It’s never been in here before.”

“It has,” Sebastien said, putting a hand on the dark, slick wood of the cross. It was a strange thing, real and yet he knew it couldn’t be, and it made him think of the trees in the spectral forest where he’d found Duchess.

Sebastien shivered. Next to the cross was a small table, with a knife he knew very well indeed. He glanced at Devon, who joined him at the cross. He was quiet, but he didn’t look afraid.

“This is what I would have seen, isn’t it,” he said, after a moment, “if you’d brought me here to kill me?”

Sebastien saw no reason to lie. “Yes.”

Devon nodded, stroking the clean, smooth, dark wood. “It’s what he would have seen, if I’d said I’d wanted it. My brother. Marius.”

“Yes,” Sebastien said again.

Devon stepped back. “What do you want of me?”

Before Sebastien could answer, Sariel began to manifest, pushing out of him in a slide of heavy smoke. Sebastien lost himself in the odd sensation of it, and then Sariel was there between them, shaking his horns and flaring his wings as his red eyes fixed on Devon.

“Beloved,” Sariel said, tail swishing, as something skittered in the dark. “You are not like the others who came here. You will not bleed. You will leave this room with us, for you are ours.”

“Yes,” Devon whispered, and there was a longing in his voice, thick like the agony that once rang off the walls of this strange place. “Is that what you want, Sariel?”

Sariel’s talons clicked on the floor. “It is what you want, Beloved. We will let you have it.”

“Strip for us,” Sebastien said, as he saw what it was his demon wanted, the plan that would shake Devon loose from the tangle of his old life, the mess his brother’s letter had made of him. “My Devon. You are always safe here, even under our knife.”

Devon looked as if he wanted to kneel, and Sebastien felt a low, warm throb of desire as he imagined Devon strung up, shivering under the knife glinting on the table beside the cross. Devon would be afraid, but that wasn’t what Sariel—or Sebastien—wanted from this. Devon would be unraveled, but not undone.

That was what they wanted, all three of them.

When he was naked save his collar, Devon walked over and leaned back against the cross. Sebastien saw how fast he was breathing, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, but his voice was even when he asked, “Do I just stand here, then? Is this how you…did it, with the others?”

“No.” Sebastien shook his head. “There were restraints, before.” He peered at the cross, wondering if Devon would be expected to stand with his arms out. Perhaps Sariel didn’t quite understand that discomfort would render this plan useless.

Sariel hissed slightly. “I will hold Beloved close, Host.” He approached the cross and crawled up the back of it, wings a darker stain against the inky black of the room’s interior, and Devon gave a little yelp and was lifted bodily up off the floor.

Sariel was holding him, one taloned hand resting just above the leather of Devon’s collar, tipping his chin up to bare his throat.

“Dev-on,” Sariel said, another of his talon-tipped claws resting low on Devon’s bare stomach, with smokelike tendrils wrapping around Devon’s limbs to keep him secure. “You are warm for us. Take the knife, Host. Make him feel like before.”

“You are very bossy,” Sebastien said, picking up the knife.

“Yes,” Sariel said, preening, wings flaring and rustling.

Sebastien met Devon’s gaze, and in normal circumstances, they would have smiled at each other. But Devon was still unsettled, so Sebastien merely approached with the knife and let him see it, and he noticed that Devon’s cock was half-hard.

It felt strange, doing this, even if he were only playing at it.

“This is the knife I would use,” he said, showing it to Devon. “I never did understand where it came from, or where it would go when I was finished. I would have made your father scream for you, my flame. If I had him here, I could have made it last for hours. I think Sariel would have done it himself, without the knife.”

“Yes,” Sariel hissed, behind Devon, his talons tracing gentle lines on Devon’s stomach and chest. “I have teeth. They are sharp.”

“Did Sariel ever hold them for the knife like this?” Devon asked, easily showing his throat when Sariel’s talon tapped at his chin again.

“No,” Sebastien answered. “Sariel only came forth at the, ah, end of things, to take the soul.”

“I would give you my soul,” Devon whispered, voice caught, “if you wanted it.”

Sebastien smiled, stepped forward, and gently drew the tip of the knife down Devon’s chest. “You have, Beloved. You are ours, body and soul, are you not? Sariel doesn’t need to swallow your soul, and I don’t need to flay you open and watch you bleed to know that.”

“That’s how I feel after reading that letter,” Devon said, “like one raw, bloody nerve with my heart exposed for the fucking world to see.” Tears fell unchecked, dripping down his chin.

“I imagine so. Do you want him here, then? Your brother,” Sebastien clarified, gently tracing over Devon’s pecs with the knife tip. “I’ll do it for you, if you’d like.”

“No,” Devon said, softly. “I don’t.” He shivered, unable to tilt his head down to watch the knife because of Sariel’s claw at his throat. “If it had been my father, I would have let you. I would have watched.”

Sebastien smiled, and Sariel’s wings flared, and he traced lazy circles on Devon’s chest and stomach with the tip of the knife. He wasn’t sure he believed that, but in the spirit of what they were doing, he could pretend. “We would have let you. And we would have made it last.” That, at least, was the truth. He traced lower, down toward Devon’s cock, which was continuing to thicken as the tip of the knife drew closer.

Devon was breathing too fast, and he twitched when Sebastien ran the flat of the blade over the shaft of his cock. “Be still,” Sebastien murmured, fascinated at the feeling of control it gave him to do this. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Fuck,” Devon whispered, and Sariel made the little clicking noise that meant he was amused.

“You’re doing very well,” Sebastien praised, teasing at the tip of Devon’s cock with the knife before moving to trace it up his inner thigh. Devon couldn’t quite stay perfectly still, but it was an admirable effort.

He looked up and saw Sariel peering at him from around the cross, wide red eyes intent and unblinking, glowing softly with hellfire and whatever immutable darkness created him. “It has been some time, my demon,” he said, voice full of affection, then raised the knife and pressed a gentle kiss to the cold, bright silver blade.

“Yes, Host,” Sariel agreed. “But this is better than the screams of those you once brought here.”

Sebastien had to agree. Watching Devon struggle to stay still for him, hearing his breathing, seeing how hard he was for this, for them…it was more delicious than the screams and thick scent of blood that used to fill this space before. He wasn’t hurting Devon, and despite Sariel mimicking what Sebastien was doing with the knife with his talons, the demon wasn’t hurting him, either. They were restraining him, settling him with slight fear and focus, and it was so satisfying that Sebastien found himself growing just as aroused as Devon.

“Ah,” Sariel clicked again. “You want to take him.”

“Yes,” Sebastien said, placing a warm hand on Devon’s chest, feeling the beat of his heart beneath his palm. For all that Devon was flushed and hard and maybe even a little afraid, his heartbeat was steady and strong, not racing too fast as it sometimes did when he was in the grip of too many emotions, or caught in dark memories of his past.

“Take him so that I may watch,” Sariel purred, talons tapping on Devon’s mouth until he opened it and let Sariel slip them inside.

Sebastien was so caught by the sight of his demon gently fucking Devon’s mouth that he was momentarily unable to speak. Devon, bound and beautiful, eyes wide while his demon made those contented little sounds…he nearly dropped the knife, he was so distracted. “That’s very inspired, Sariel,” he praised, and his demon’s wings flared.

“I know,” Sariel said, voice bell-like. “He grows warm for me, too, Host.”

“Yes. As do I.” Sebastien turned and put the knife on the little table, and went to his demon. He reached up, carefully, and waited for Sariel’s little nod to stroke a hand over the demon’s wing. It felt more substantial than usual, more like feathers than smoke poured over silk.

Sariel gently removed his talons from Devon’s mouth, shifted on the cross to keep him pinned, then reached down with the same claw and touched his talons to the side of Sebastien’s face. They were still damp, and Sebastien sucked in a breath as his own desire grew stronger. He couldn’t recall Sariel ever doing this to him before.

“I watch you from within, when you take Beloved,” Sariel said, slyly. “I see what he likes, what you do to make him kneel for you.”

Sebastien turned his head slightly and kissed the edge of Sariel’s closest talon. “Do you?”

“Yes,” the demon murmured, wings rustling, and Sebastien heard Devon give a low moan as Sariel gently caressed Sebastien’s face and neck with the sharp, pointed claws. He removed them, and Sebastien wished for a moment he could kiss Sariel as he kissed Devon. Sariel made a little noise and gave a shake of his head—he didn’t always like to have his head touched, only occasionally allowing Sebastien to stroke his horns before he returned to dwell within him.

Sebastien nodded to show he understood and went back to Devon. He laughed softly when he saw that Sariel had one taloned claw wrapped around Devon’s cock, and Devon was staring down at it, afraid and rapturous.

“Do be careful with that,” Sebastien said, amused. “I’m fond of Devon’s cock.”

“Yes,” Sariel agreed. “You are. I could make one,” his demon said.

Sebastien raised his eyebrows. “A cock?”

“Yes. I command the dark here, my shape.” His limbs grew slightly, the better to hold Devon to the cross. “I will make a cock and I will take Beloved, so that he may know he is mine.”

“Oh, I think he knows, but that is quite the interesting idea.” Sebastien stepped up to kiss Devon. “Would you like that? To be taken by Sariel, as I take you?” He traced his fingers over Devon’s collar, waiting.

Devon nodded, squirming a bit against the cross. “I—yes. Yes, please.”

“Sariel,” Sebastien asked, stepping back and regarding his demon once more. “This cross, can you make it something else? A bed, like the one where we sleep?”

Sariel disentangled himself from the cross, and Devon slipped down until his bare feet hit the floor and he stumbled a bit. Sebastien caught him with an arm around his waist, and they watched Sariel turn and stalk off into the dark. There was a sound of something swishing, and Sebastien shuddered as Sariel started consuming whatever was in the room with them. Something squealed, and he could hear a wet ripping sound before pleasure had him nearly coming when Sariel ate what he’d caught. Sebastien needed to brace himself against Devon’s sturdy frame as the intensity nearly sent him to his knees.

“Sariel,” he gasped. “I shan’t be able to take Beloved if you keep—ah.”

“I eat the things so that I command the dark,” Sariel said, from the shadow, and Sebastien heard Devon chuckle softly next to him.

“He’s backtalking you,” Devon murmured.

Sebastien sighed. “Yes, he is.”

Sariel didn’t respond, but he returned after a moment, his form still strongly visible, his talons clicking as he approached them. Standing on two legs, he was slightly shorter than Devon, his wings neatly folded at his back. “Turn around, Host. See what I have made.”

Sebastien turned, and where the cross, the table and knife once were, there was a bed. It was similar to the one in his room, with black, heavy curtains, the same slick, dark wood as the cross. “Where does this come from?”

“The dark,” Sariel said, unhelpfully. “I do not know the words if you do not know them, Host.”

“You are sure you want this?” Sebastien asked, a hand on Devon’s jaw. “I do not know the, hmm—the mechanics of a demon cock, and how it will feel to have one inside you.”

Devon’s gold eyes were blurry and warm. He nodded. “I want you both. I always have.”

“Yes, be that as it may, my flame, I won’t cause you pain. Not in this.” He pressed his fingers gently to Devon’s mouth, “even if you say you want it to hurt.”

“I know.” Devon drew in a shaky breath and kissed his fingertips. “You’ll stop if I say so.” He sounded so sure, so trusting, and Sebastien kissed him again to show that yes, he would.

He took Devon’s hand and drew him to the bed, where Sariel perched on the headboard on all fours, like a large winged cat or a gargoyle. Devon lay on the bed, and Sebastien stripped, taking the oil from his pocket and placing it on the bed.

He drew Devon toward him and kissed him, deeply, sliding his hand down to curve over Devon’s ass. Devon kissed him back, and Sebastien pressed him down on the bed as Sariel climbed off the headboard and joined them. He sat like a cat beside them, watching with his head tilted, and Sebastien felt a bit silly, as if he were performing for an audience. Knowing Sariel watched them from within was somewhat different than having him there, staring.

“This is like fucking with Duchess in the corner,” Devon murmured, and Sebastien snorted a soft laugh. Devon shifted so he was on his side, and looked over his shoulder at Sariel. “You can touch me.”

Sariel moved easily, graceful as smoke, and became a shadowy figure at Devon’s back. Sebastien pressed against his front, and together, they set about taking Devon apart.

* * *

Devon had never felt anything quite like this before.

Sebastien’s touch was firm and hot and present above him, hands sliding down his waist to his hip bones, blunt nails dragging over his skin, warm breath on Devon’s neck when he leaned down to kiss Devon’s throat. Devon ghosted his fingers over the evil, jagged scar marking the place Sebastien had been gutted as a child—a wound that still ached sometimes, making him lean on his cane or quietly stretch his legs in discomfort when he thought he wasn’t being observed. He brushed the head of Sebastien’s cock with his thumb, and Sebastien grabbed his wrist, moving his arms back—where Sariel caught him.

Sariel’s touch was not as firm and real as Sebastien’s, for all that he was as present as he could be in this dark place beyond the world. His body was almost pliant behind Devon, as though Devon could fall back into Sariel and see out through his eyes, and the thought made Devon shiver even as Sariel squeezed his wrists and let go to drag his talons over Devon’s chest. He didn’t break the skin, but the sensation made Devon gasp, and he felt feathers brushing his shoulders as Sariel’s wings fluttered and threatened to engulf Devon and Sebastien together.

“Host,” Sariel said, and Devon felt his voice rather than heard it, a ripple of sound running through his body, “make him make the sounds for us.”

“Bossy,” Devon mouthed, and Sebastien flashed him a soft smile before kissing him again, pressing down on Devon’s hips. The movement drove him back into Sariel, and his sound of surprise was swallowed by Sebastien as he felt something form beneath him. It was almost as unreal as the rest of Sariel, but shaped like a cock, hard and strangely familiar.

“I think it’s like yours,” he said as Sebastien drew back, and grabbed his shoulders as Sariel thrust against him.

“Yes,” Sariel said, gripping Devon tight. “Host makes you cry and beg, and so will I.”

“I suppose I should be flattered,” Sebastien murmured, and Devon, despite himself, almost laughed. It was odd how distant he felt from where he’d been in the tower room, but even that thought was driven out of him as Sebastien adjusted his hips, nearly bending Devon in half between him and Sariel. Sebastien gave him a questioning look, just a flicker, and Devon nodded.

“Yes, please,” he said. “Please.”

Sebastien was careful with the oil—so gentle, this man who had once cut people open for his demon to consume—but Devon was impatient and on edge already, and he struggled not to fuck himself on Sebastien’s fingers. Sebastien stopped once or twice to watch him, that thoughtful look on his face, but then Sariel would click and chitter in frustration and rock against Devon, making him gasp and whimper.

When Sebastien finally entered Devon, fucking him shallowly over Sariel, Sariel’s wings briefly covered them, leaving them in darkness. For a second, Devon could only hear Sebastien’s breath and the pathetic, needy sounds he was making, and when the wings retreated like a silk curtain drawing back, Sebastien thrust harder, with purpose. Devon did cry out at that, and Sariel wrapped a taloned hand around his throat, holding him still.

“He is ready, Host,” Sariel asked, and Devon held his arms tight around Sebastien’s neck as he felt Sariel’s cock thrust up ever so lightly against him.

Sebastien gave Devon a considering look, and somehow, that was what made desire burn hot inside him—that Sebastien and Sariel were both watching him, taking care of him, settling him between the two of them even though Devon had spent the afternoon being a stubborn, emotional mess. He wasn’t a troublesome issue that needed to be fixed and filed away—he was someone they loved.

“I need this,” Devon whispered. He didn’t think he could speak any louder without his voice breaking. “I need you.”

Sebastien kissed him, slow and deep, and Devon groaned into his mouth as Sariel raked sharp claws down his back. When Sebastien started stretching Devon further, Devon pressed his face to Sebastien’s shoulder, trying not to breathe too hard. It was still gentle, still cautious, but Devon felt like his body was burning with desire from the inside out, sweat prickling along his back.

Finally, Sariel’s cock pressed against Devon’s hole, and Devon struggled not to tense as Sariel rocked into him. He was so full, impossibly so, overwhelmed to the point that he wasn’t even aware of the sounds he was making until Sebastien started to move. He cried out against Sebastien’s shoulder, and Sebastien stroked his hair as he and Sariel fucked into Devon, their cocks sliding against each other, moving just out of tandem so that Devon was always just on the verge of too full.

“He is breaking for us,” Sariel said, and his wings enclosed them again, soft feathers brushing Devon’s cheeks as tears pricked his eyes and he panted harshly, nails digging into Sebastien’s back. Sebastien reached between them to take Devon’s cock, and Devon wailed something embarrassing and desperate—babbling pleas of yes, Sebastien, yes, please, I’m being good, aren’t I being good, Sebastien, aren’t I, please, please.

It was the sort of thing he rarely admitted to wanting, to please people, to be good when all his life he’d been nothing but trouble. But in the dark, there was no need for artifice, and Devon sobbed as Sebastien stroked his cock and Sariel slammed into him harder, faster, feathers sliding over his shoulders and nestling in his hair.

“Yes, Beloved is very good,” Sariel said, “because he is ours. Mine. You are both mine.”

“Come for us, Devon,” Sebastien said, and Devon shook as he fell apart between them, pleasure crashing over him like a storm breaking. Sebastien and Sariel kept fucking him through it, until the pleasure was a warm sensation that tugged at him sharply, punching out involuntary moans.

When Sariel pulled out, it was all at once—suddenly, his cock was gone, and Devon was clenching down on Sebastien, still overwhelmed but not quite full enough.

“Keep going,” he said, sweaty and wrecked and somehow insatiable. “I can handle it.”

* * *

Devon was so beautiful when he broke.

Sebastien pressed him down into the bed, fucking into him with increasing fervor, enraptured by the way Devon was still clinging to him, clearly overstimulated and still begging for Sebastien to fuck him more, harder, deeper–

And Sariel, whose form was beginning to soften into the edges of the darkness that surrounded them, but whose hell-bright eyes were still fixed on them both, watching, wings flared as if sheltering them from a storm. Feeling his demon’s cock against his own…even the thought of it pushed Sebastien closer to his peak.

Devon’s body was hot as a furnace as Sebastien fucked him deeper, his own breathing ragged and sweat stinging his eyes, hair sticking to his face as he drove mindlessly toward his own release. He felt a scratch of a talon on his arm, Sariel trying to touch him, and when Sebastien came, his vision went white and the world trembled around them. For just a moment, he thought he saw what was really in the room, like a flash of lightning brightening a dark sky, an endless, vast void, but it wasn’t a room, not really, it was—a tunnel?—

The image faded as his pleasure ebbed, and when Sebastien blinked his eyes open, he was on top of Devon, panting harshly into his shoulder while his body shook through the last of his orgasm. Devon was still clinging to his shoulders, nails digging into the muscles there. Sebastien didn’t mind.

Devon’s face looked relaxed, the tight muscles of his jaw loosened and the furrow in his brow completely gone. He looked younger like this, and when Sebastien kissed his damp forehead, Devon slowly opened his eyes. They were soft, unfocused, and the way Devon drew him closer, not seeming to mind the mess or that Sebastien was still inside of him, told Sebastien that Devon had finally gone under.

He gently withdrew and sat up, glancing around. The room looked the same as it had before, endless and dark, but he noticed the bedding beneath them was no longer soft, and the shape of the bed itself was beginning to tremble at the edges as if it were trying to dissolve. Sariel, who was more a shape in the dark now than a corporeal figure, said in a soft hiss, “I would return, Host. My power dims. It takes much, to make myself a cock and use it. This is why you sleep when it is done.”

Sebastien gave a soft laugh and stood, stretching, and found his clothes were folded neatly at the end of the bed. He pulled them on, and reached out a hand to help Devon up. Devon swayed but didn’t try to dress, clearly wanting to kneel, and while Sebastien wanted that, he knew they’d have to leave this room first.

Sebastien readied himself and opened his mouth, and Sariel drew back inside of him to rest.

“What does that feel like?” Devon asked, drowsily, when Sariel once again dwelled within. The doors were open now, the light of the hallway softly beckoning, and Sebastien took Devon’s hand to lead him forth.

“Like swallowing smoke, I’d say,” Sebastien said, as the doors shut behind them. “Scented smoke, perhaps from a clove. It used to hurt, but as of late, it only feels…” He thought carefully how to phrase it, “full.”

“Ah. Like I was.” Devon smiled, which was always easier for him when he was under.

“Yes. Did you like that?” Sebastien glanced around the corner, making certain no one would see Devon. since he was naked. When he was certain the hallway was empty, he led Devon back to their rooms and straight into the bath.

“I did,” Devon said. “It was…a lot. I needed it, though. Thank you. Both of you,” he added.

“Of course. We will always take care of you, Beloved.” Sariel’s voice was weak, but the echo of it was there.

“I know you will.” Devon leaned on him heavily, then watched as Sebastien stripped once more and turned the taps on to fill the large, sunken bath with hot, steaming water. He sat on the edge, wincing only slightly when the water swirled around his feet, and Sebastien joined him there.

Together, they were quiet as the bath filled, the water just hot enough that it burned a little. The room filled with thick steam, so by the time Sebastien turned off the taps, it was warm enough to make them both sweat. The hot water was still a little uncomfortable, but after a few moments soaking in it, Sebastien found himself used to the temperature enough to go underwater and wet his hair.

Host, Sariel complained quietly, abandoning words for a series of hisses and clicks that Sebastien assumed meant don’t do that, I don’t like it.

The moment he resurfaced and sat on the bench, he found himself with a lapful of Devon. He smiled more when he was under and he was more affectionate, and Sebastien ran his hands up and down Devon’s back as he clung to Sebastien, face buried between his neck and shoulder.

“So that’s what it was like,” he said after a moment, pulling back to look at Sebastien. He was still relaxed, but his gaze was beginning to sharpen again. “When you took people to the room, for the knife.”

“No,” Sebastien said softly. “It was nothing like that.”

Devon shivered on top of him. “Do you miss it?”

“Do I miss what?” Sebastien blinked, breathing in the thick steam, enjoying the way Devon felt on his lap, naked and wet. “The knife? No. For as much as Sariel used to enjoy it, it was quite the…production. All the screaming, the useless begging. And no matter how much I bathed or how meticulously I cleaned up, blood is the very devil to get out from under your fingernails.”

Devon stared at him. “I don’t know why I just found all of that attractive.”

Sebastien gave him a sidelong smile. “Because you’re a mess, Devon.”

Devon huffed, but he kissed Sebastien and moved off his lap to grab the soap. “I don’t think I mean that. Or I do, but I don’t think I could have watched you. Even with him, my—Lord Chastain.”

“No, probably not. But it doesn’t matter, beloved. Your father is dead, though not by my hand and certainly he didn’t suffer enough, or for the right crime. I have far more enjoyable things to do in the dark room now than flay a man alive.”

“It’s hard to imagine you that way,” Devon said, and he was washing Sebastien with the soap instead of himself, so he must have been relaxed. Devon wasn’t much inclined toward service, even under. “Hurting someone and enjoying it, when you’re so careful not to do it to me.”

Sebastien didn’t know what to say. “I enjoyed that it sustained Sariel, my flame. Contrary to my blood-soaked, murderous past, I’m no sadist. I wouldn’t have hurt anyone, outside of the dark room, or for anyone but Sariel.” And now you.

“No, you’re not,” Devon agreed, gently moving his hands over the scar on Sebastien’s stomach. “You’re the opposite of a service submissive—a caretaker dominant, maybe. That’s why you took people there, and…killed them, for Sariel. That’s why you don’t mind that what you do for him is different, now.”

“Perhaps. It could also be that love lasts longer than even the sharpest memory of pain, or the loudest scream of terror. I left all of that behind when I would leave the room, when it was over. Love, it seems, is always with me.”

Devon snorted. “What was it you said? Like blood under your fingernails?”

Sebastien felt his cheeks go hot. “A poet I am not, my flame. You are the artistic one in our family.”

“Maybe not just me,” Devon said, glancing away. “My brother used to write stories. Maybe he will again, like I’m writing music.”

“Maybe he will.” Sebastien thought of the letter tucked in his waistcoat pocket. “Would you like me to get rid of his letter for you?”

“No.” Devon shook his head, then found a bottle of scented shampoo and tipped some into his palms to wash Sebastien’s hair. It felt nice, Devon’s strong fingers gently rubbing the shampoo into his scalp, combing through the wet strands. “I’ll keep it with my music books.”

“If you wish.” Sebastien ducked under the water again to wash the shampoo from his hair. This time, when he resurfaced, Devon was washing himself with the bar of soap, which was an enjoyable sight even if Sebastien would need a bit longer to appreciate it properly. “Will you write him back, then?”

“I don’t know,” Devon said. “I need to sit with it. I know you call me a flame, but maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to burn everything to cinders. It’ll take some time before I’m ready.”

“Of course.” Sebastien smiled at him. “Take all the time you need.”

Devon was quiet again, and Sebastien was content to let him be, drifting on the edges of submission and sex, the hot steam, the simple luxury of the water.

It wasn’t until later, after supper, when Devon was tinkering at the piano and Sebastien was reading, that Sariel stirred awake, whispering in his mind.

Host. Ask Beloved if my cock made him smile.

“Sariel would like to know if his cock made you happy, Devon.”

Devon’s fingers hit a discordant note on the piano, clearly startled by the question. He cleared his throat, and Sebastien could see the tips of his ears were red. “Ah. Yes, Sariel. Yes, it did.”

Good, the demon murmured. Next time I will have two cocks. Then you will both smile.

Sebastien choked. “I—ah, yes, perhaps.”

I am very clever, Host, Sariel said, curling up again inside of him. Am I not?

“Very clever, my demon,” Sebastien said, smiling, relaxing with his book as Devon’s piano filled the quiet room with music. “Very clever indeed.”