Page 28 of Shadows and Roses

"That angers you," she said, her eyes softening. She tilted her head. "Do you not serve in the Night Courts?"

He wished she would be more direct. "My skillset is specialized. If you wish for my House's particular offerings, may I ask your cease phrase?" A word or phrase that stopped all activities immediately. It was usually written into the contract, but he hadn't seen it, and the nobles only laughed when he asked. He could read people well enough, and had learned after a single whip’s strike, but it would not do to make assumptions with the Queen.

Her smile gained a dark yet somehow playful edge. "Umbra."

His name was a poor choice for a phrase, but he didn’t correct her. Instead, he was caught by the way her lips formed the word, her darkness brushing against something inside him. There was a spark of recognition, almost as though… but no, his instincts must be wrong. This was the Queen. Still, that she had given a word at all settled the ground beneath his feet.

"Very well. And what do you desire?" A low, husky tone in answer to her darkness. Establish another stone in his foundation and perhaps he could play with this dangerous creature.

The amusement in her eyes brightened, then faded. She leaned back, her smile leaving her face.

"I had a conversation with Master Iberius," she said.

The unstable stones vanished. Off balance, he held his breath. The heads of the Houses weren't exactly kind, but compared to her? Benevolence embodied.

"He and I came to an arrangement. You will serve the Night Courts for another five years."

The words made no sense at first.

Five years?!He should have gained his freedom in fivemoons. A thin breath hissed out of him.

"You have no right." The words slipped out of his mouth, but they were the truth. Once freed of his bond, it should be his choice to offer services to the Houses, or walk away and live his life as he pleased.

Ice slid into her eyes. Her clawtips rapped a cascade on the table. The threat wasn't enough to stop his glare.

"Tell me," she began, her cold disdain shoving his anger into a corner. "How does Iberius punish your insolence? Nothing so crass as to harm that soft skin, I imagine."

That cleansed his remaining anger, even his fear chilled. No, painwasn't the usual punishment.

"The Houses use various methods," he said casually. "Menial labor. A night in the cold. And for the more extreme discipline, we are forced to serve." It sounded simple and not so terrible. A bonded courtesan serves anyway. But everything in the House of Shadows was about choice. Every courtesan voluntarily walked into the bedroom, and pleasure was mutual if not equal. The Houses trained them for years—it wouldn't be a sensible investment to break them. An occasional harsh reminder that the Houses were in control was enough to instill restraint, to remind them that willing service was preferable.

Her expression closed entirely, no ice or warmth, just an unreadable blank wall. "You mean rape."

He paused. The House never referred to their punishment as anything so crude.

"A reminder." He shrugged slightly, attempting to match her indifference, but no doubt she could see him seethe under his thin layer of calm. Against her depraved court, how dare she judge his House’s methods?

She stared at him a minute longer, until he realized fire had crept into her blank wall. It was but a single flickering flame that vanished when she blinked. Was that what her anger looked like? Not ice, but fire?

Her anger couldn't be for his House's chosen punishment.You can't rape a whore. He'd heard that enough in his life, and in the palace, it was commonplace. Servants often protested. The Queen never spared them a glance.

Perhaps that fire wasn't anger, but desire.

Her fingers settled on his hand, stroking lightly up and down his wrist. Fascinating. Her claws scratched at his skin, yet beneath the dread filling his mind, the part of him that liked to play with his clients purred at the sharp touch. The Houses insisted on gloves for all noble ladies. He liked to oblige thewomen’s preferences, who in turn invited his taunting, pleasurable punishments for the fabricated misbehavior.

But this was the Queen. He dared not punish her, even in play. Would he?

She paused. "You’re not afraid of me. Angry, wary, but not afraid. Curious."

"I know my worth," he drawled out of habit. Perhaps his worth was diminished, but if she procured him to break him, he’d rather she show her hand sooner than later. A little provocation was in order.

He flipped his hand, ignoring the slight scratch across the back as he gripped her claws and fingers in his palm. Bending over the table, he kissed her knuckles, warmed her skin with his breath, all the while holding her eyes.

There it was again. He knew—he always knew—how far to push his clients, when cries of pleasure became pain, when that pain was intolerable. That fine line he could draw around each and every one of his bedmates. Often it was a fluctuating thing, changing by the season, the day, the person’s mood, but he could begin to sketch anyone’s desires with a simple conversation.

The Queen’s outline was a frustrating mix of power, danger, and, if she were anyone else, vulnerability. It called to him, that hint of warmth beneath the ice. He wanted to touch her, to feel her curves beneath him.

What game was she playing? How had she manipulated the instincts he’d developed over a lifetime of experience?

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