“Yes,” I said. “It is.”
I didn’t say anything else, only watched her. After a long moment, Sidonie began to disrobe, unlacing the bodice of her gown. Her fingers trembled a little and her breath was beginning to quicken. The air between us felt charged. “What . . . what do you want me to do with this?” she asked, the satin folds of her gown overflowing her arms.
“Put it there.” I nodded at the arm of the couch.
Sidonie obeyed. The candlelight gleamed on her bare skin as she returned to the center of the room, naked and vulnerable. I made myself breathe slowly, trying to rein in my desire.
“Kneel,” I said. She knelt, neat and composed, her hands folded in her lap. “Clasp your hands behind your neck.” She obeyed. The pose arched her back and thrust her breasts outward. I closed my eyes briefly. “Have you chosen a signale?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Think about it.” I picked up my book. “When I ask, you will tell me.”
The silence grew and stretched between us. I glanced up a few times to find her watching me, intent and wondering. Each time, I returned to my book. It was a treatise by a Hellene philosopher on the nature of love. I made myself read the words, but for all I grasped of their meaning, it might as well have been written in Ch’in. The candles burned steadily, wax dripping.
“Imriel.” Sidonie’s voice sounded small. “I’m bored and my arms are getting tired.”
I shot her a hard look. She returned it with a mixture of defiance and uncertainty. I closed my book, marking the page with one finger. “We can put a halt to this here and now.”
Her chin rose. “No.”
I smiled. “Good girl.”
I waited a long time. I could feel her watching me, the cord that bound us together drawn taut. But Sidonie didn’t speak again, not even when her arms began to quiver with the strain of keeping them raised, hands clasped as I’d ordered. At last I put down my book and crossed over to crouch before her.
“I love you,” I said to her. “You know that I would never harm you.”
Sidonie nodded, her eyes grave and unfathomable.
“Go into the bedroom,” I said. “There’s an item in the bedside cupboard that wasn’t there before. Bring it here.”
She lowered her arms and rose unsteadily. I caught her elbow. Desire flared at a single touch. I let her go. Sidonie gave me a quick, flickering smile, then went to obey. She returned with a short braided whip, kneeling without asking and laying it at my feet. The black leather shone dully. It was lambskin with a long, soft tassel at the tip. I stooped to pick up the whip, then circled her, letting the tassel trail over her bare skin and watching her shiver.
“What did Amarante tell you about seeking pleasure in haste?” I asked.
Her breasts rose and fell, breath quickening again. “If you rush too quickly through all the pleasures Naamah’s arts offer, they will lose their savor.”
“Even so.” I nodded. “If you’re good, once a month, I will add a new item to the cupboard. If you’re not . . .” I paused. “I’ll take one away.”
Sidonie made a sound that might have been acknowledgment or protest.
“I don’t want you growing jaded on me, Sun Princess.” I gave the whip the slightest flick, the soft tassels snapping against one rosy nipple. It didn’t hurt, but it provoked a startled gasp. “I want to keep you sated for a long, long time.” I thrust the braided haft of the whip through my belt and crouched in front of her again. “Out there, you belong to the realm and your duty. In here, you’re mine. Understand?”
Our gazes locked. “Yes.”
“Good.” One by one, I undid the pins that held her hair coiled atop her head. It fell in a honey-gold cascade over her shoulders. She looked younger and even more vulnerable. “Tell me your signale.”
Her voice was low, but steady. “Always.”
“Always.” I laughed softly. “Always and always.”
Sidonie nodded, the hint of a smile hovering at the corner of her mouth. There was nothing but trust in her eyes.
I put two fingers beneath her chin, raising it, and kissed her. Her lips parted for my tongue, her body straining toward mine. I wrenched my mouth away with an effort and stood, breathing hard.
“Stand over there,” I said roughly, pointing toward a low chair. “Bend over and grasp the arms.”
And, ah, gods and goddesses! She did. I stood behind her, my heart hammering in my breast. My mouth was dry with desire, my palms sweating as I clutched the whip. Her loose hair hung about her face in tumbled locks of gold. The tips of her breasts brushed the chair’s cushion. I flicked the whip, lightly, lightly. Once, twice, three times. The soft tasseled end kissed her buttocks, light and teasing. Sidonie caught her breath.
The air between us crackled.
“You like that.” I drew near and trailed the tassel down the length of her spine, the cleft of her buttocks. I slid one hand between her thighs, fingering her. Gods, she was wet! “Spread your legs. Wider.”
She did.
I shuddered, struggling for control. “That’s how much you want this.” I withdrew my hand, found her mouth, slid my fingers over her lips. She turned her head, sucking obediently. “Isn’t it?”
She made a muffled sound of agreement.
It nearly sent me over the edge.
I pulled away. “I’m going to whip you in earnest now,” I said, my voice sounding hoarse and strange to my ears. “Until you beg me to stop. And when you do, I’m going to take you where you stand, hard. Understand?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
I did.
Elua have mercy, there are no words for such a thing. Sidonie bore it for a long time, longer than I would have expected, legs spread and arms braced, head lowered, shuddering in the throes of violent pleasure. I took it slowly, plying the whip gently, taking it to the edge of pain and backing away, over and over. A flush spread over her creamy skin. I pushed her harder, farther. Over the threshold, into the realm of pain. The whip cracked, laying harsh kisses on her vulnerable flesh. Red welts rose on her flushed skin. I wanted to lave them with my tongue, easing her pain. I wanted to skewer her and split her open.
She began to cry.
She begged.
And I took her as I’d promised—hard. I was hard; ah, gods! I’d never been harder in my life. I could barely get my breeches down. Wet, so wet. I pushed into her; I slammed into her. I buried myself in her. Her cheek scraped the chair’s cushion. Her nails dug into its wooden arms. I felt her flesh convulse around me, over and over. I didn’t care. I drove into her, groaning aloud, until I spent myself in one long, excruciating spasm of pleasure, filling her with my seed.
I barely caught her as she sagged, easing her to the carpeted floor. There I held her, panting, waiting for my hammering heart to slow.
“Are you all right?” I asked when I could talk.
“Yes.” Sidonie lifted her face toward mine, slowly returning from a faraway place. “I’m fine.” She wound a lock of my hair around her fingers and gave it a sharp yank. “A little sore. Very sated. Are you?”
“Yes.” I laughed. “Gods, yes.”
“Good.” She drew a long, shuddering breath, brushing absently at the tear stains on her face. “How odd. I didn’t expect to cry. It didn’t hurt that much.”
“It’s not about the pain,” I said.
“No.” She was quiet a moment. “No, it’s not, is it?”
“No,” I agreed.
Sidonie glanced down at our entangled limbs. “Imriel, are you still wearing your boots?”
I pried them off, kicking off my breeches. “I was in a hurry.”
Her quick smile came and went. “So I noticed.”
“I love you.” I tightened my arms around her. “Elua help me, I love you so much it hurts.”
“I know.” Sidonie kissed my throat. “I do, too.” She shuddered again, a latent tremor of pleasure running through her. “Gods! That’s a sharp spice. I’m not sure I’m ready for a steady diet of it.”
“Occasional cravings?” I suggested.
“Oh, yes.” She gave me a look that set my heart to hammering again. “Definitely.”
I slid one arm under her knees and scooped her into my arms, rising and heading for the bedchamber. Sidonie laughed softly, kissing my face, her fingers working at the buttons of my shirt. I hadn’t bothered to take that off, either. Her body was naked and warm in my arms, nestled contently against mine. I could have carried her forever, except for the urgent, rising need to be inside her again.
“I thought you were sated,” she said.
I tossed her onto the bed. “So did I.”
Six
Summer gave way to autumn.
Drustan returned to Alba, where matters were still unsettled in the wake of Dorelei’s death. It was uncertain whether or not Sidonie’s younger sister, Alais, would wed Talorcan, Drustan’s heir.
A lot of things were uncertain.
Aragonia was uncertain, fraught with rumors of a Carthaginian invasion. Euskerria was uncertain, fraught with rumors that the House of Aragon meant to press the Euskerri into battle to defend against a possible Carthaginian incursion, struggling to establish their territory as a sovereign state. Queen Ysandre, trying to negotiate between the two, worried about the succession in Alba, worried about her own recalcitrant heir, was uncertain.
I, on the other hand, had never been more certain in my life.
Ah, Elua! Those were good days and better nights.
Some were gentle and sweet and tender. Others . . . weren’t. Together, Sidonie and I embarked on an exploration of the full spectrum of all of the pleasures of Naamah’s arts. Neither of us tired of the other. Neither of us could get our fill. For two years, for too long, we’d been parted. Again and again, we made up for lost time.
And again and again, I was filled with amazement and wonder. I’d spent so long fearing my own nature. Now I could scarce remember why. The nightmare of Daršanga was a long, long way away.
Sidonie was fearless, but she wasn’t reckless. She didn’t hesitate to use her signale. The first time it happened, the first time she gasped, “Always!” I found myself responding instantly. I didn’t even need to think—the word penetrated the madness of desire, halting me like a brake thrown on a runaway wagon. I soothed her until she caught her breath and told me to continue. Before it happened, I’d been apprehensive. Afterward, it was easier. The threshold had been crossed. Nothing terrible lay on the other side.
I learned to trust myself, even as Sidonie trusted me.
It was such a strange and unlikely thing, this trust between us. We had spent so many childhood years disliking one another. Sidonie had been cool and dismissive, filled with mistrust. It had always galled me.
Things had changed slowly . . . and then all at once. We’d bickered at a fête and I’d pledged loyalty to her on a perverse impulse. She hadn’t believed me, but she hadn’t entirely disbelieved me, either. Then came the day of the hunting party, when we startled a wild boar and Sidonie’s horse had bolted. I’d gone after her, found her thrown. There had been a rustling in the wood. Thinking it was the boar returning, I’d flung myself atop her, seeking to bear the brunt of its tusks.
And everything had changed.
In hindsight, it was a wonderment that I hadn’t ravished her then and there, with her willing encouragement. But it was only the beginning of my realization that my infuriatingly composed cousin wasn’t at all what she seemed. And I hadn’t been anywhere near ready to embrace my own nature. I’d run away from it, reckoning myself damaged goods.
Not anymore.
The scars of the damage were still there. They would always be there. I bore scars, figurative and literal. The faint tracks of old weals, administered by a whip that was never intended to bring pleasure. The puckered scar of a Tatar branding iron that had gotten me thrown in gaol in Vralia, mistaken for a horse-thief.
They were nothing to the scars Berlik’s claws had left on me, but they were emblems of a wound that had cut as deep as Dorelei’s death. In Tiberium, a Priest of Asclepius had told me to learn to bear them with pride. Even a stunted tree reaches for sunlight, he’d said.
I’d found mine.
And I didn’t want to leave her.
Word came from the Master of the Straits. He had completed a search of Alba and found no trace of my mother. He pledged to spend the winter searching every inch of Terre d’Ange for her, gazing into his sea-mirror, and promised a report in the spring. It was a slow process, he wrote, easy to locate someone when one knew where to look, but tedious and exacting when one didn’t. We made certain this bit of gossip was disseminated.
I discussed the matter at length with Phèdre, who knew Melisande Shahrizai better than anyone else. When spring came, unless by some miracle Hyacinthe actually found my mother, I would be bound to act.
“You know,” Phèdre said with some asperity, “I wanted to go after her when she first vanished.” She gave Joscelin a sidelong glance. “You refused to allow it. Now her trail’s seven years’ cold.”
“If you’d found her then, how would Imriel prove himself now?” he asked reasonably. “Mayhap this happened for a reason.”
“I refused, too,” I reminded her. “I didn’t want her past dictating our lives anymore. And I certainly wasn’t planning on falling in love with Sidonie.”
“That still puzzles me a little,” Joscelin mused.
I laughed. “You’re one to talk.”
