5. Predicament

"You know,"Hektor said, as Baz struggled to untie the rope around his wrists with the tips of his fingers, "I think we both might've walked into this one."

Baz sighed. They were tied to a single chair in the middle of a dark, damp room in a smuggler's ship, which as far as Bazyli could tell, was still stuck just off the shore. The air smelled like rot and brine, and since Baz was the one sitting on the chair while Hektor had been tied to one of the chair legs, Baz was stuck trying to untie himself without Hektor's help.

"I'd rather speculate in the comfort of my own bedroom," Baz said, gasping as he managed to slip his thumb free. "Which I left, by the by, to save you."

"Yes, and that went well. Why didn't you come with anyone?" Baz kicked the chair, and Hektor yelped. "Hey!"

He had a point, not that Baz was going to admit it. The news had reached Baz that morning just as he was leaving the palace to get the oily, fried bread covered in sugar that Emile swore he didn't secretly like. A messenger had come rushing up to him before he'd even cleared the gates, panting heavily, and shoved a note in Bazyli's hands.

It had been written in a sharp, clear hand, and Baz had taken off the moment he read it, marching halfway across the city before he so much as called a carriage. Perhaps it was habit. He was used to protecting Hektor that it didn't even register that he might no longer have to do so on his own.

"The ransom note said to come alone," Baz said, wriggling the rest of his left hand free. Hektor snorted.

"It was a ransom note. Of course they wanted you to come alone."

"What business do you have getting yourself ransomed?" Baz snapped, picking at the ropes on his right hand.

"I thought they were fans!" Hektor grunted as the chair scooted a few inches across the floor. "You're going to hit my fingers. They were holding flowers. I thought they were, I don't know, Mislians who appreciated the theater."

"I'm going to assign a guard to follow you for the rest of your life," Baz said, and Hektor mumbled something inaudible. "What is it? Out with it, Hektor, we're already tied to a fucking chair with anti-fucking-magic runes on the fucking floor."

"I'm just saying maybe I have one," Hektor said, and Baz twisted round to stare at him. "A guard. He helps at the theater sometimes, and Rose and I—well, he comes to our dressing rooms and maybe Rose likes it if he?—"

"No. No, I don't need to know any more."

"But we're already tied to a fucking chair with anti-fucking magic runes on the fucking floor," Hektor said, a little too sweetly. Baz glared at him. "You know they're going to ransom you to the king now. That was apparently the whole goal. Kidnap me, ransom me to you, ransom you to the king…"

"Ransom the king to who, Isiodore?"

"No idea. I don't think they thought that far. They didn't even do the anti-magic runes right, see? The sun symbol is reversed. It's the only reason Flick isn't trapped in here with us."

Baz freed his right hand and got to work on his feet. "Wait, so why didn't Flick find me?"

Hektor shrugged. "I don't know. I just told him to get help. I figured he'd go to you first."

Baz turned to look at his brother. "But if he didn't find me, where did he go?"

* * *

GOOD AFTERNOON

I WOULD LIKE ONE OF YOUR CROISSANTS AND AN AUDIENCE WITH THE KING

Flick was, all in all, doing a marvelous job of not panicking. Of course, it helped that he had time. For one, Bazyli's Old One had already grown enough sea kelp to choke the rudder of the smuggler's ship for at least a year. For another, Hektor didn't even feel scared. Flick could sense his emotions through the link they shared, and Hektor only felt frustrated and slightly hungry. And the mages on the ship certainly weren't menacing. Their demons were all runts, little scraggly creatures Flick could have devoured in seconds, if he were still living in the dark.

Not that he would now, naturally. Now, he had better things to eat, like history books, and croissants.

The guard eating his lunch at the gate of the palace stared blankly at Flick. "This is mine, and I don't think talking foxes are supposed to…uh, you're not a hallucination or something?"

NO. Flick leapt onto the guard table and gently picked up the croissant in his teeth. It was soft and buttery, and it had a square of chocolate baked in the middle of it. BUT YOU MUST BE NEW. I WILL TAKE THIS CROISSANT AS TAXES.

Hektor had told him about taxes last year, when he'd had to pay them to the king. Apparently, they were things you paid to people just because those people existed, and they turned the taxes into things like roads and bathhouses. Flick was very interested in the concept of taxes, and demanded that Sabre feed him a tax of half an egg every morning.

"Hey!" The guard whistled as Flick raced off, but it wasn't as though he could catch him. Flick outran him into the palace, where he stopped in an alcove and hurriedly tore the croissant to pieces. It left bits of crumb and an oily spot on the floor, so Flick dug at the rug until the fibers came undone in a little pile around the mess. Satisfied, Flick pranced up the stairs.

HELLO, he said to a messenger-page, who was about ten years old and reading a chapter book in a corner. DO YOU KNOW WHERE THE KING IS.

"Oh, you're the fox who comes by sometimes." The girl smiled. "I don't know. I think his majesty is holding council. Can I pet your tail?"

Flick thought about it. Hektor was in trouble, something that would have normally sent Flick into a spiraling panic, but now seemed almost trifling. What was a pirate to an archmage? VERY WELL. YOU MAY PET ME SEVENTEEN TIMES.

She ended up petting him seventy-three times instead, and cheerfully offered to carry him up the rest of the stairs to the council room. It reminded Flick of how Hektor used to carry him when he was young, and Flick felt a twinge of guilt. For all that the pirates were barely competent enough to be true criminals, they were still making Hektor uncomfortable. Flick had a responsibility to ensure his boy's safety, or else Hektor wouldn't be around to carry him, and Bazyli wouldn't feed him flowers under the table whenever Flick and Hektor visited the palace. He hopped down from the girl's arms and swished his tail.

I MUST FIND THE KING. THANK YOU, SMALL CHILD.

The girl waved as Flick bounded off, hopping from tile to tile along the corridor. He could sense people nearby, their thoughts and words like a twisted jumble in the back of his mind, and he pushed himself through the door to a crowded room where most of the words were coming from. Hektor's heart-brother was there, looking handsome in his uniform with his hair tied back, and so was Prince Adrien, the seer. Adrien turned to look at Flick in shock, and Flick rubbed against his legs in greeting before bounding onto the table. He tapped his claws on the polished wood and sat primly, staring at the king.

HELLO, he said, tail waving like a flag. YOUR FLOWER-SINGER AND MY BOY HAVE BEEN TAKEN TO A SHIP FULL OF MISLIANS. PLEASE FETCH THEM FOR ME. YOU MAY CONSIDER IT TAXES.

* * *

Emile stared at the demon fox on the table, who was looking up at him with those strange gold eyes, tail gently swishing on the table. It knocked aside a few pieces of paper, a resolution the council was debating about funding a vocational school and the appointment of Laurent de Rue to a committee to oversee the contract-debt system of the pleasure district.

The fox had also managed to knock Emile off his equilibrium, because the last thing he'd expected to hear was that his submissive was on a ship.

"And why, precisely, are they aboard a ship?" Emile asked, in a voice so full of dominance that a few of the council members inhaled sharply, and a guardsman at the door went to his knees.

WHY DOES ANYONE GO ON SHIPS

"What ship, and where, and who took them?" This from Sabre, who was one of the few submissives in the room who could ignore Emile's sudden flare of dominance.

IT IS IN THE WATER, the little fox said. AND THEY TOOK THEMSELVES

"Perhaps this conversation should be held somewhere private," Isiodore suggested, "as it is a family matter."

"It's a matter of war, if someone is seeking to abscond with my submissive and his brother," Emile snapped.

Several of the nobles around the table sat up straighter.

"War is good for the economy," one of them said.

"Better than a vocational school, surely," muttered another.

Love had made Emile a better man, not a different one. He narrowed his eyes, "Lord Farleigh, Lord Mayburn, surely I am not hearing that you hope my submissive is carried off to a hostile foreign power? If so, you may report to the quartermaster for the uniform you shall wear on the front lines of the war that."

Mislia wasn't really hostile—not to Staria, anyway. They were in the midst of some kind of revolution, which was all well and good as long as Emile didn't have to deal with it. That didn't mean he wanted Bazyli anywhere near it, or anywhere that wasn't with him, where he should be.

"His Majesty and I shall deal with this," Isiodore said, rising to his feet. "Sabre, Captain Ferrin, you're with us. The Queen's Salon, if you would."

Council was dismissed, and as they made their way to the Queen's Salon, Emile was slightly mollified at listening to Isiodore try and explain international security concerns to Flick, who swished his tail and said only, SOMEONE SEND FOR SNACKS.

Isiodore looked as if he were going to say something, but Emile gave a sharp shake of his head and, miracle of miracles, Isiodore kept quiet. The second they were in the Queen's Salon, Emile turned, fast as a whip, and grabbed at the fox by his scruff.

OH

NOW IS NOT A GOOD TIME FOR CUDDLING

"We're not cuddling. You'll tell me where Bazyli is."

AND MY BOY. Flick stared up at him.

Emile stared back. "You know where they are, not me. Talk."

EXCUSE ME, Flick said. SAbrE?

"Yes?" Sabre sounded like he was trying very hard to keep his voice even.

DO FOXES GET IN TROUBLE HERE FOR BITING KINGS

"No," said Sabre. He smiled.

"Yes," said Emile, glaring at his son's left hand. "Tell me where they are and you may bite the prince."

Isiodore sighed. "Emile."

IT IS FINE, the fox said, clearly trying to soothe. THEY CAN'T GO ANYWHERE. LADY AMbrOSIA MADE KELP GROW ON THE RUDDER.

"That does not change the fact they are still in the presence of someone who might want to take them to Mislia," Emile ground out. "Do you want your Hektor back there, fox?"

MY NAME IS FLICK. AND NO. THAT IS WHY I TOLD YOU TO FETCH THEM. Flick stuck his front paws straight out, like a cat who didn't want to be picked up. HERE IS BETTER. WE DID NOT HAVE TAXES OR CROISSANTS IN MISLIA.

Emile set the fox down, not wanting anyone to see how worried he was. He didn't think Baz was necessarily in danger, but he couldn't seem to shake the memory of Lianne covered in blood, bleeding to death in his arms. The slight edge of panic might be irrational, but it was there all the same, making his heart beat unpleasantly fast and his breathing catch.

"Flick, are they hurt?" Sabre asked, gently.

THEY ARE NOT HURT. BUT THEY ARE CRANKY.

LIKE YOU, the fox said, to Emile.

"Can you show us which ship they're on?" Isiodore asked sharply. "Sabre, Ferrin and I can handle this, Emile."

"I am sure you can, but no one drags my husband off onto a ship without his permission." Or with it, Emile didn't say, because he knew Bazyli would sooner drown in lukewarm weak tea than go back to Mislia. "Besides, I'd prefer not to send these miscreants scurrying off into the dark before I have a word with them."

He and Baz had married quietly a few months ago, with only Hektor and Isiodore as witnesses. It was mostly for legal reasons, as if something happened to him, Emile wanted Bazyli to have a claim to financial security and a home. Emile wouldn't be the king when he abdicated, but he'd still be a noble. Baz would be too, and that should keep him safe if something unforeseen happened to Emile.

Leave it to Bazyli, then, to have the unforeseen thing happen to him. Emile focused on his anger, how dare you make me worry about you, because it was easier to be angry than afraid. It was also familiar, though, in a way he didn't much like.

Isiodore inclined his head, not quite enough of a bow to settle the dominance rattling about in Emile like a living creature. "Emile, be sensible for once. This was an attempt to get to you, most likely, so perhaps it's best not to deliver yourself to them without some protection. Covert protection, but all the same…."

"If you're referring to whatever cadre of spies you have overseeing the harbor, perhaps you should find better ones who know when the king's submissive and his brother have been kidnapped," Emile snapped. Isiodore liked to pretend his reach wasn't as far as the borders of Staria, but Emile knew better. It must have rankled for something like this to slip past Isiodore's watch. "See that they're discreet, Izzy." He'd apologize for the temper tantrum later. Emile turned to Flick, who was staring up at him, gold eyes sparkling. "Do you understand what discretion means, fox?"

YES, BUT I CHOOSE TO IGNORE IT BECAUSE IT IS NOT FUN, the fox replied, and then climbed up Emile's trouser leg like an overgrown cat. Emile felt a slight chill—this creature was a demon, an unnatural thing of magic and shadow—but he didn't trust the little fox not to go gallivanting into danger, so he didn't put him down. Flick rolled over in his arms, paws in the air.

MY BOY HOLDS ME LIKE THIS, Flick said, as their small group headed down the palace hallways at a brisk march. SOMETIMES HE SINGS TO ME.

"You won't get any singing this time," Emile said, and Flick sighed heavily, tail lashing the air as Emile strode for the palace entrance.

* * *

It was possibly the most embarrassing kidnapping Baz had ever seen.

For one, none of their captors had considered that they were dealing with two submissives who had been trained—professionally, in Baz's case—to slip out of bindings just in case a dominant had made a mistake with their knots. For another, they didn't think about the fact that all Hektor had to do was step outside the magical symbols in the floor to harness his magic again, and none of them were prepared for Hektor's unique brand of magic.

"Dragon!" someone shouted outside, as Hektor whistled a spell through the keyhole. Baz gave him a curious look, and Hektor grinned.

"I'd be strung up for mimicking an Old One in Mislia," he said, "but maybe I sent an illusion out there to stir up trouble."

"So long as the navy doesn't get involved." Baz stepped over the markings and immediately felt his demon rush back into his mind. She was dizzy with panic, and Baz pushed Hektor aside as the door to their makeshift cell burst into flowering vines. Light poured through the opening, and Baz took Hektor's hand as he stepped over the mass of vines on the floor.

The ship was in a state of chaos. There were vines and flowering plants creeping up both sides of the hull and binding unfortunate sailors to the railings, and the few who remained were too busy trying to run from a gleeful dragon to pay much attention. Hektor whistled, and the dragon burst into illusory flame, which landed on the deck and spread like a real fire.

"One day I'll figure out how to add heat to it," Hektor said, like an artist examining an unsatisfactory painting. Baz sighed and tugged on his hand.

"Perfect your spells later. Can you make a bridge to the dock for us?"

"A real bridge, or a fake one?"

"A real bridge!"

Hektor rolled his eyes as someone screamed behind him. A figure leapt into the water to avoid the flames crawling up the masts. Eventually, someone had to notice they weren't burning anything.

"I mean, I can make it look like a real bridge," Hektor said, and Baz leaned over the railing. He called on his girl, who was clearly exhausted, and he could almost feel her sigh as heavy vines started growing from the hull. They latched onto the dock across the water, and Baz helped Hektor down as yet another sailor flung himself off the edge.

"You know, you could probably overthrow a country with that kind of talent," Baz said, climbing down after him. The vines were sturdy enough, but soft, so he had to get on his hands and knees to climb across.

"Maybe," Hektor said, "but what would I do with one, anyway? That was the trouble when I thought I might be Archmage for about half a month. I don't know how Emile does it."

"Begrudgingly," Baz said, grabbing Hektor by the back of the collar before he could slip off the vines. "Careful, Hex."

"I'm not a kid, Baz. Besides, I've climbed plenty of rickety sets at the theater." Hektor dragged himself onto the dock, and Baz staggered after him. The vines withered and sank into the dark water, and Hektor stared at the sails that burned merrily without actually producing smoke.

"Should I keep it going, do you think? It just seems cruel. Look, that one fellow is trying to put out the fire with his shirt."

"They kidnapped you," Baz reminded him, "so yes, keep it going."

"Flick would love this," Hektor said fondly, and Baz shook his head, taking Hektor by the shoulders.

That's when he saw them. Isiodore and Sabre were difficult to miss—they walked like soldiers, and Isiodore's dominance was hard to ignore even from a distance—but Emile was at their back, holding something in both arms. It took a second for him to realize it was Flick, who wriggled out of Emile's hold as soon as he saw Hektor and went bouncing over.

MY BOY

I brOUGHT FRIENDS

CONSIDER YOURSELF RESCUED

"Oh, sorry, Flick." Hektor laughed as Flick pranced around him. "I think Baz and I handled that already."

THEN GO BACK IN SO THEY CAN RESCUE YOU PROPERLY

Hektor laughed and picked Flick up, nuzzling his nose. Baz wasn't overly concerned about their reunion just yet—he was more worried about the forbidding look on Emile's face as he approached. Baz got to his knees before Emile could reach him, and Hektor looked down at Baz, bewildered, before getting to his knees as well.

"We don't have to," he whispered to Baz. "He's just Emile."

Baz gave Hektor a warning look—when had the king become just Emile—and turned his gaze downward as Emile reached him. Emile's boots came into view, and Baz closed his eyes briefly as Emile gathered his hair in one hand, the most affection he could show with half the docks watching the chaos behind them.

"I see you've taken to burning ships in your spare time." The words were right, but Emile's voice sounded flat, deadened with too much emotion. Baz clenched his hands on his thighs.

"That's me, your majesty," Hektor said. "It isn't real fire." He whistled, and the gathering crowd gasped as the illusions disappeared. "Most of our captors jumped ship."

"Then we'll have to fish them out," Isiodore said, and Baz heard boots moving around him on the dock. Emile tugged his hair lightly, and Baz glanced up at him. There was pain behind Emile's eyes, but only Baz would know how to look for it.

"I should have told you," Baz said. "I wasn't thinking."

"We'll discuss this later, my hawk." Emile tugged again, and Baz got to his feet, "at home."

* * *

Emile was very quiet as they made their way back to the palace.

Logically, he knew that there was no reason for him to be angry. Bazyli hadn't thrown himself on a ship to flee home to Mislia—Bazyli had no desire to ever see Mislia again, unless he was allowed to burn the pleasure houses down to cinder. He'd been lured to the ship. Bazyli wasn't even hurt, and the people who'd attempted to kidnap him were already in official custody. Emile wanted them all hung up on the palace gates, and was having to remind himself that he wasn't that sort of man anymore.

If Bazyli had been killed, perhaps he might have become that man again, which wasn't entirely a welcome thought, that his mental clarity relied so much on someone else's safety. Emile knew the power of grief and how deeply it stung, and losing Bazyli would break him in a way that he didn't think would ever be fixed.

Baz was quiet in the carriage, kneeling though Emile hadn't told him to. His dominance was at a height, enough that a servant and one of the hostlers had knelt just from Emile walking past them to the carriage. He suspected Baz would prefer not to kneel at the moment, but Emile was not entirely interested in what Bazyli preferred.

"I'm fine, Emile," Baz said, his deep, lovely voice filling the quiet of the carriage. "I wasn't hurt."

"Yet," Emile said, not looking at him, twitching the curtain back to stare out of the window. "You won't be unless you speak to me again without permission."

Baz drew in a soft breath, but he said nothing else as they made the trip back. It was a short one—people tended to defer the right of way to the royal carriage—but it felt as if it took an age, and Emile brushed off both Baz and the footmen who tried to help him out of the carriage, only just managing not to snap that he might not be able to keep his consorts safe but he could at the very least descend a carriage on his own.

He was being a beast and he knew it, but the anger was the only thing keeping the panic at bay for the moment, and Emile was still the king. Adrien's succession was assured, but that didn't mean he was necessarily safe. A show of weakness could rile up nobles who were content to mutter instead of plot seditious acts, and that was the last thing he wanted.

Emile took the back hallway to the royal residence, which was mostly used by servants. The only sound was the click of his boots on the tile, echoing in the empty hall, with Baz smart enough to know Emile wanted him to crawl without having to tell him. When they entered the residence, Emile breezed past the door to his bedroom and went instead to the Star Chamber, which had become Baz's space entirely. There were plants of all kinds in little pots throughout the room—climbing, flowering vines with bright blooms adorning the bathing pool and its waterfall, lilies floating serenely in the water itself. There was a table with jars for tinctures and clean, cut cloth for poultices near the bed, and little, white Mislian nightflowers bloomed even as Emile stood there, tense and wary, feeling the slight hum of the goddess that lived in Baz's mind.

"She will not wish to be here tonight," Emile said, staring at the flowers growing almost frantically at his feet. Ambrosia did not always understand their play, especially when Baz was in need of more pain than usual…or when Emile was in need of giving it. "I will take care of him, Lady Ambrosia."

There was a strange breeze that came from nowhere, and a shiver danced up Emile's neck, but he was used to this by now. He finally turned and saw Baz, kneeling near the bath with flowers in his dark hair, and if he were in a less dark mood, he might have smiled. Baz claimed to have been terrible at being a whore, but he certainly knew how to make himself look appealing, kneeling next to a waterfall of tropical flowers with his hair unbound and slightly tousled, looking just nervous enough to make the sadist in Emile take notice. Emile's collar was around Baz's neck, but the only other jewelry he wore were the piercings on his nipples and a ring they'd exchanged at their very private wedding ceremony. With Ambrosia having decided it was all right to leave them to it, Baz's eyes were a beautiful, deep shade of dark blue.

He was breathtaking, and while Emile couldn't see the tattoo on his chest, he knew that in place of the Archmage's old dragon were vines featuring a few intricately rendered, meaningful flowers—the little, white Mislian night flowers, a red carnation, a red rose, even the clover he'd forced down Emile's throat the night they met in the garden. There was a sunburst design added as well, which wasn't so much to declare Bazyli belonged to Emile as it was a private reminder of their conversation about love, how you had to turn back toward the sun if you didn't wish to wither on the vine.

"Why is my submissive still dressed in my presence?" Emile snapped, aware his mood was making him an intolerable dominant and that his submissive could refuse to pretend otherwise.

"My dominant did not tell me to strip," Baz said, and his voice was even, but he looked…unsettled, perhaps, and Emile had a horrible feeling that Baz was worried about him, about his feelings. "Is that what you want?"

Emile wasn't in the mood for banter. "Yes."

Sensing his anger, Baz rose to his feet and stripped, elegant and graceful as he always was. His skin was pale as snow, and the bruises from the caning Emile had administered last week at Baz's request on his birthday were just beginning to fade.

"They took my brother," Bazyli said, folding his clothes in a way he wouldn't have if he were trying to vex Emile or play brat in the way Emile appreciated. "I rushed off without thinking. I'm sorry."

"Yes, you should be. I am the king, Bazyli. Do you think that if you needed to find someone, perhaps asking the most powerful man in the country might have been more useful than rushing like a fool off to the docks?"

"I didn't. You don't know how many times I had to do this, in Mislia," Baz said, sitting on the raised edge of the bathing pool to take off his sandals. "I reacted, Emile. I didn't think."

"Yes, and you shouldn't do that. I would advise you stop talking if you do not want me to leave you here with your plants and your excuses."

Baz's eyes narrowed. He was certainly no doormat, and the energy in the room tilted dangerously toward an argument. He rose to his feet, tilted his chin…and then he bowed his head, hands going behind his back. He wasn't kneeling, but the averted gaze and the posture did manage to ease the tension into something less volatile.

Bazyli knew him well. Emile drew in an unsteady breath, taking in Baz's tattoo, hoping the sight would calm him, settle his dominance. Instead, it just drove home what he might have lost, and how much he didn't want to go back to the person he'd been, the man who'd lost sight of himself so easily when grief fogged up his heart.

"I may be a vine that has flowered once more, my hawk, but I still have my thorns," Emile said softly.

"I know," Baz said, just as quietly. "I have mine, too."

The only sound in the room was the waterfall, but that combined with the sweet scent of flowers did ease Emile's ire somewhat. "It is not only that I am the king, Bazyli. I'm also your husband and more than that, I am your dominant. You wear my collar. It isn't an act or a pretense, and I thought you understood what it meant."

"I do," Bazyli insisted, glancing up at him, holding his gaze and refusing to look away, which many dominant, wealthy, powerful nobles couldn't even manage when Emile was in a dangerous mood. "It has nothing to do with not trusting you could have helped me. I panicked. I was used to protecting Hektor all on my own for years." His mouth twisted. "Except twice, once in Mislia with the hunt, and once from Iason, perhaps the only two times it really mattered. I couldn't fail again."

"Those were not your fault or Hektor's, Bazyli. I would imagine Hektor would agree with me were he here and not, one assumes, being turned over his own dominant's knee."

Bazyli lowered his gaze again. "I know."

"You helped him as much as you could, given you had very little power in Mislia and were in hiding when you first came here. I understand you love your brother. I wanted to do the same thing, when Adrien took himself to Mislia on a thrice-damned cursed magical rowboat. But these kidnappers were not there for your brother, they were there for you, Bazyli."

"Yes Hektor filled me in on that." Baz sighed. "I didn't think I would be a target for ransom. I'm an apothecary."

"You are not an apothecary, you are the king's collared submissive," Emile bit out, anger flaring hot again. "I think it's time you remember that. You're going to bathe off the filth of that ship, and thenI'll see to it that you apologize to me."

Bazyli slipped into the bath, and Emile turned on his heel before the sight of his handsome, naked, wet submissive made him forget why he was so angry. Because he wouldn't forget, he would just push it down, somewhere, and that was a habit he was actively trying to break. It had nearly cost him his relationship with his son, who still looked surprised when Emile hugged him. He could never fix that, but he could stop letting his own emotions hide away where they would eventually return to overwhelm him.

"I wasn't trying to leave you," Bazyli said, from the bath. "You must know that, at least."

For a long moment, the only sound was the water splashing behind him as Bazyli washed up. Emile realized his hands were fisted, and he needed a moment before he could turn around to face Baz. "Did I say that I thought you were?"

"No, but I want to make it clear. It was fear for my brother, and I know it upset you. But I wouldn't do that. Leave, of my own accord." His voice was soft. "No ship could carry me anywhere I'd rather be, unless you were on it."

Emile inclined his head. "I believe you, my hawk. I also know that won't matter much, if someone tries to take you away from me, and if you make it so fucking easy for them to do it." Emile closed his eyes, tried to pull his temper together. "Don't bother dressing when you're done. Braid your hair and come into the bedroom. We'll take care of this there, and then we'll be done with it."

Emile went back into his bedroom, dragging his fingers through his messy hair. He felt wild and restless, still simmering with possessiveness and anger, and he knew the only thing that would help was having Baz submit to him, to being his.

As Bazyli finished up in the bath, Emile got to work looking for exactly what he needed, to make sure that when Bazyli apologized, he meant it.

* * *

It was an odd thing, being cherished.

Baz knew he was luckier than some. He had Ambrosia, who treated him like a mother cat would treat a hapless kitten, and Hektor, who very much was a hapless kitten. He genuinely couldn't remember not being loved. But it was one thing for Hektor and Ambrosia to love him, and another to step into the heart of someone new, with their own long history. Loving took effort, for Baz and Emile. It wasn't some flighty, delicate thing that poets like Emile's mother's submissive liked to drone about. It scared Baz sometimes, to know that Emile cared enough to actually put in the effort.

He was struggling now, Baz knew that. In another circumstance, Baz could simply serve him tea very poorly and pretend the flogger was a punishment, then wait until they were both quiet and sated to talk. But when he stepped into the bedroom, there was tension in Emile's shoulders that made Baz's hands itch to smooth it away, and his jaw was clenched too tight.

Baz knelt, and watched in silence as Emile slowly gathered himself. The tension didn't entirely disappear, but he worked his jaw as he ran his fingers along the bed, where he'd laid out a number of instruments Baz could just see from his position.

When Emile lifted a pair of clamps, Baz almost smiled and asked, are you certain you're displeased with me, after all? Then he caught a glimpse of Emile's expression and straightened slightly, hands behind his back.

"Ah." Emile let the clamps dangle from his fingers as he walked. They caught the light as they swayed, and while Emile's voice had a familiar, mocking edge, he wasn't smiling. "Now you begin to understand."

Baz met his gaze once more before looking down—a challenge, perhaps, to another dominant, but he knew Emile took his meaning when Emile sighed and lifted Baz's chin with a finger.

"Don't attempt to comfort me, my hawk," he said. He leaned over Baz, reddish hair falling in his face. It looked brighter in the firelight, and the lines of his face were harsher, caught in relief. "I certainly won't be comforting you." Baz opened his mouth to say, Oh no, how terrible, and Emile tapped him on the cheek. "None of that."

He didn't linger on Baz's nipples as he normally would, fitting on the clamps with an almost perfunctory manner. Baz suppressed a hiss of pleasure anyway, and caught Emile glancing at him before he took out another clamp. This one was weighted with a silver chain and a jewel that matched Bazyli's eyes—frivolous, Baz had called it, when Emile had given it to him, but he'd been secretly pleased all the same, so Emile had commissioned a set. Baz looked for the others, but Emile grabbed him by the jaw instead, holding his mouth open.

"There's a time and place to be an eager slut," Emile said, his voice dangerously low. "Open your mouth. Show me your tongue. If you can't apologize properly yet, we'll simply have to occupy you."

Baz would have argued, but there was still pain in Emile's eyes, under the dominance bleeding off him in waves. Baz opened his mouth, and made a soft sound of pain as Emile fixed the clamp to his tongue. The weight was a small thing, really, but it already felt on the verge of too much, and Baz's cock was growing hard as he struggled to keep his breathing even. Saliva was already pooling in his mouth, but he couldn't swallow properly, so he held his chin up despite the weight of the clamp on his tongue.

Emile took out the matching clamps, and Baz squirmed slightly when Emile brushed his hand over his cock and cupped Baz's balls. He braced himself for the pain, but couldn't help it—when Emile fixed the clamps to his balls, Baz leaned forward, hands fisting, heat coiling tight in his belly.

"If you can't hold position like a proper submissive," Emile murmured, like he didn't know the pain was exquisite, and got up to take the posture collar off the bed. Baz struggled not to move, breathing hard, and didn't bother looking down as Emile locked on the posture collar. It forced him to straighten his back, slightly bowed from the pain, and raise his chin, unable to look away even as his cock swelled and his face flushed hot. Emile nudged his legs apart slightly with his boot, and Baz tried to focus on his breathing as he attached cuffs to his ankles, connecting them to a spreader bar. That enough would have had Bazyli begging, but he couldn't do more than make weak, suppressed sounds with his tongue weighed down by the clamp.

He wondered how long Emile would have him kneel like this, but Emile was not done. He went to the bedside table, and Baz heard the sound of a match striking. Emile returned with a tea candle in his hands.

"Palms up," he said. Baz took a shaky breath and obeyed. Emile placed the candle in his hands, and Baz could barely tilt his chin enough to look down at it. It was already warm on his palms, the small flame flickering. "Hold your position."

Emile turned away and walked to the end of the room, leaving Bazyli kneeling there with pain coursing through his body in delicious currents while the flame cast light over his hands He leaned against the wall, his face in shadow, as Baz started to feel his limbs tremble slightly. It was becoming increasingly harder to focus, and Baz could feel himself slipping, the haze of subspace starting to creep over his senses.

Then Emile spoke again, and Baz was thrown into alertness, his gaze snapping to Emile's face.

"Come to me, if you're truly penitent," Emile said, his expression unreadable. Baz took a breath, unsure, and Emile's voice went so low he could barely hear it, but so heavy with dominance that it seemed to leave the air charged and hot. "Crawl."

* * *

Emile saw it the second Bazyli realized why this was going to be difficult.

Crawling meant not only would the clamps pull at tender skin, but the wax from the candle would spill on Bazyli's hands, and likely elsewhere. It was a dare, in a way—if you're really sorry, suffer for me and then maybe I'll forgive you. It satisfied Emile's desire to watch Bazyli struggle, to have to work for what Emile wanted to give him. It satisfied Bazyli's desire to have all control taken away, to submit utterly in a way he never would for anyone else.

It was why Ambrosia couldn't be here—she would see this as torture, an impossible task that required pain to complete. Bazyli's eyes were already going soft and hazy, and Emile could see his cock rising as he struggled to find a way to do as bidden. It was not the graceful, lovely crawling that he could do when he was of a mind to show off. This was desperate, determined, and the flash of pain that went across his angular features every time the clamps pulled or the wax spilled made Emile's mouth go dry.

Emile could see the dark red staining Bazyli's pale skin. The wax was made for this sort of play, and they'd used it before—the contrast was lovely, and Emile liked to let it cool so he could carefully scrape it off with a knife. It was the sort of thing that took patience, focus and control, and that helped soothe some of the rising tide of volatile emotions he couldn't quite seem to quell.

"That's what I want from you," Emile said, his voice very quiet, gaze moving over Bazyli's lovely, suffering form. "It would please me if you cried."

Bazyli couldn't speak with the clamp on his tongue, but the look in his dark blue eyes was still challenging, make me, and I will. He shuffled a bit more, slow and careful, and the wax dripped down, splashing red over his thigh. He inhaled, pain blossoming over his features, and Emile smiled.

"Do you want to know what I would have done to them, those cretins who tried to take you away? Hanging at dawn would be too good for them. Drawn-and-quartered, perhaps."

Baz rolled his eyes, which Emile could see since Baz's eyes weren't blackened. "Oh, does that disgust you? As I said, my hawk, I still have my thorns. If anyone is foolish enough to try and hurt you, they deserve what they get."

The kidnappers wanted money, not Bazyli, but as Emile watched Bazyli crawl toward him, he doubted any amount of gold or riches would compare. It made his dark mood threaten again, the thought, you have something so perfect, of course it cannot last.

Bazyli made his careful way across the hard floor on his knees, wax dripping on his hands and stomach, his thighs, on the hard rise of his cock. He was covered in sweat, and his chin was wet with spit from the clamp, his breathing audible in the room. By the time he came to a stop in front of Emile, he was close to tears, eyes bright with them, making small, pained sounds that were as beautiful to Emile's ears as any note Baz pulled from his lyre.

He went down his haunches so they were level, then reached out, transfixed at the exquisite suffering on Baz's face, and cruelly pinched the upper part of Bazyli's left arm. Baz made a sound, and the candle wavered dangerously, wax spilling as he tried to stay still. It would leave a bruise, and Emile was so pleased at the thought, he did it again. He kept an eye on the candle as he tormented Baz–no sense burning the palace down, not now, when Baz was safe and on his knees in their bedroom, as he should be.

"No one hurts you but me," Emile said. "Isn't that right."

It wasn't a question, but Baz nodded anyway.

"Good." Emile took the candle from him. "Go to the bed. I don't care that you can't stand. Figure it out."

The tea candle was hot his palm, but Emile was too focused on Baz to care. Baz moved toward the bed, still crawling slowly, and Emile watched as he wriggled there, trying to shift his weight to get his feet under him. Baz was a limber man and Emile had seen him get to his feet with his ankles cuffed more than once, but with the clamps aching on his tongue, nipples and his balls, it would require a bit more effort. The struggling was attractive, and Emile was aware his breathing was evening out, his ire slowly fading as Bazyli finally managed to get into a position to stand. When he did, the clamps moved with him, and his sound of pain was so loud, it shivered over Emile like a physical caress.

"You don't know how beautiful you are when you suffer for me," Emile said.

Baz didn't answer, and only remained upright for a second before losing his balance and falling forward. He landed on the bed, and made another, louder sound of pain into the bedding.

Emile took his time walking over, the candle burned down to nothing but hot wax and a flicker of a flame. He unceremoniously flicked Baz's braid to one side, baring his back, lightly touching the faded scars from the Archmage's whip. "Cry for me or you'll be sorry." He tipped the candle, slowly, using the wax to form the letter E on Baz's skin.

Baz did cry, then, sobbing into the bedding, feet kicking. He turned his face to the side so Emile could see the tears, mouth still open with the clamp on his tongue.

"That's it," Emile murmured, sliding two fingers into Baz's mouth. He knew he needed to take the clamps off, but not quite yet. He fucked Baz's mouth with his fingers, deep, sliding them in so that Baz gagged. "What would you do, Bazyli, if I said I was going to leave you in those clamps and fuck your throat?"

Baz moaned around his fingers, and Emile pulled them free, dragging them across Baz's cheek. "That's what I thought." He took the clamp delicately between his fingers and swiftly removed it, kissing Baz. He sucked on Baz's sore tongue, tasting the exquisite sound he made, finally feeling settled enough to get the knife. As much as he liked seeing that E on his back, he wanted to fuck Baz and play with his sore nipples as he did.

"I should think you will remember this lesson in the future," Emile said, as he carefully scraped the wax with the blade. At one point, he had to give Baz's ass a smack. "Stop trying to fuck the bed, you insatiable creature. No pleasure for you until you've taken all the pain I care to give you."

As if they both didn't know Baz relished the pain just as much as the pleasure.

Baz was too under to speak, simply staring up at Emile with his tear-streaked, flushed face, panting softly, his tongue slightly swollen from the clamp. Emile finished with the wax and turned him over, setting the knife aside on the bedside table and not giving Baz any time to prepare before he removed the clamps from his nipples. Baz cried out after the first one came off, arching up, reaching toward Emile but not touching.

"Hold onto me," Emile ordered, fingers hovering over the second clamp, his own hair disheveled and hanging in his face. "Keep your eyes open. I want you to see who is hurting you."

Baz moaned again, fingers immediately going to Emile's shoulders as he dug in tight to the muscles there. Emile removed the second clamp and Baz arched up, trying to press his face into Emile's shoulder.

"Please, please," he begged in Morrey—that word, Emile knew.

Emile shoved him down again. "Move up on the bed, Bazyli, we're not done yet."

Bazyli did, moving up so Emile could get to the clamps on his balls. "You'll take this for me. If it hurts, I want to hear it, Bazyli."

It definitely hurt—Baz wasn't the type to exaggerate, if Emile didn't earn a scream, he didn't get one—but he was thrashing after Emile removed the first clamp, sobbing after the second. Emile watched him, edging into topspace as Baz grabbed at the bedding and said over and over, in Morrey and in their shared tongue, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Not quite yet, I don't think." Emile stood and tossed the clamps aside, reaching for the oil. "But you will be, very soon."

Baz didn't sound sorry when Emile finally slicked up his cock and pressed inside, but that was all right. Emile grabbed him by the throat as he fucked him, squeezing slightly as he set a punishing pace, driving Baz up the bed with every thrust.

There were times Emile could make it last, fucking Baz to the edge for both of them, then pulling back and watching him writhe about and curse, swearing at Emile, desperate and aching. This wasn't one of those times. The buzz of topspace and the desire to make sure Baz knew he was Emile's was too much, and he was on the edge of orgasm in what felt like seconds. He pulled out and knelt over Baz, and he didn't even have to say a word for Baz to tip his head back, showing his throat as Emile stroked himself off and came all over him.

Emile dragged his fingers through the mess he'd made, letting his breathing go back to normal as Baz licked them clean. They were both quiet as Emile pinned his wrists to the bed, shifting so his thigh was pressed up against Baz's hard cock. "Go on, get yourself off."

Baz moved beneath him, wanton and eager, making soft little sounds of pleasure and pain as he ground his erection against Emile's thigh.

Emile watched him, no less intense even though his dominance was much quieter now, and his emotions no longer so volatile. "The clamps still hurt, don't they?"

Baz managed a nod, shivering, hair in his face as he rutted against Emile's thigh. His wrists were warm in Emile's grasp, and he was alive and lovely there, seeking his pleasure with the marks of Emile's dominance worn proudly on his body, like a crown.

When Baz asked to come, he did so in Morrey, and Emile made him ask again in their shared language. It was halting and heavily accented, but understandable, and Emile said, "Yes, go on, you may," and then kissed him a bit gentler this time, as Baz bucked hard and came against his thigh.

He was pliant, messy and thoroughly debauched when Emile pulled away. He was a mess too, more than usual, with his hair completely out of its queue and his pants unbuttoned, shirt sticking to his sweat-dampened skin. He stripped, then took the cuffs from Baz's ankles and snapped his fingers, pointing to the floor.

Baz slid off the bed without a word, and he knelt. He pressed his forehead to the floor, which he almost never did, and was clearly a sign of how thoroughly Emile had put him in his place. He smiled, reached out, and gently tugged on Baz's braid. "Good boy. Let's have another bath, shall we?"

He didn't even need to tell Baz to crawl. Baz did it, following him once more to the bathing room, silent as he made his way into the bathwater and, without prompting, into Emile's lap.

Emile held him there, stroking a hand over his back, finally settled. "Now, you may apologize," he murmured after a moment, turning to kiss Baz on the neck.

* * *

Baz almost laughed. He did smile, though, leaning into the kiss almost lazily. It was nice, to be allowed idleness, the excess of pleasure that came on the heels of pain. He'd never been truly under before Emile, and it still felt like an indulgence to let himself be so open.

"I'm sorry," he said at last, wrapping his arms around Emile's neck. "I wasn't thinking. I'll do that, next time."

"Next time, you'll tell me first." Emile had that slight crease between his brows, like he wasn't quite certain Baz had learned his lesson after all.

"Yes. That requires thinking." Baz kissed the furrow in Emile's brow, and Emile made that amusing sound he always did when Baz was, as Adrien liked to put it, so sentimental I might be sick. That was all right. The gods knew they both needed it, in their own ways, despite the fact that Emile liked to pretend he wasn't disgustingly sentimental even when he was drawing his initials on Baz's back in wax. "You aren't allowed that level of excitement again," Emile said, working his fingers through Baz's hair. He tugged every now and then, in a slow rhythm, and Baz draped himself over Emile like a contented housecat. "No abductions. No ransoms."

"The next time someone tries, I'll tell them," Baz said. "But you were almost dashing, running to my rescue."

"Almost?" Emile pulled Baz's hair, tilting his head back so Baz had to meet his gaze. "Almost?"

"Well, Hex and I had already saved ourselves, so it ruined your dramatic entrance somewhat."

"You're right," Emile said. "It did. Apologize for that, too, while we're at it."

Baz smiled. "I'm terribly sorry."

"You're smug," Emile said, but he sounded as pleased as Baz, content in the warmth of the baths with Bazyli under in his lap. "Only you would treat a punishment like dessert."

"Get a more agreeable submissive, then," Baz said. "One who cries before you cut the wax off, and serves you tea just as you like it, and knows how to dance."

"Stop," Emile said, and Baz laughed. "You know I'd toss them out the door within a minute."

"Then I guess you're stuck with me," Baz said. "Lucky you."

"Yes." Emile kissed him again, warm and possessive, and stroked Baz's jaw. "Lucky me."