Chapter 8: His World

Nico

Amber candlelight clings to the gilded moldings of Le Cercle, warming the bare shoulders of the women and the dark velvet coats of the men who finance them. The salon runs on the quiet transaction of gold and reputation. Le Cercle serves men who slide their chips forward without a count, and tonight, the salon belongs to me. The heavy wool of my dark evening coat presses against my shoulders, the gold embroidery on the collar catching the light. My stack of gold solari sits at my elbow, a pile of minted suns. I slide them toward the center of the green cloth. Sandro Ferrara laughs at my left. His Italian vowels roll over the rattle of the ivory dice. I win the hand without looking at the cards. I look elsewhere, tracking the velvet drapes of the terrace door.

Le Cercle has a strict geography. The wives sit in the velvet chairs near the hearth, their pearls heavy and their conversation polite. The companions occupy the chaise lounges by the terrace, their silk dresses cut two inches lower, their laughter louder and far more expensive. It is a neat, ordered world. I have spent my entire life moving through these rooms, paying the bills and ignoring the rules.

Kahina stands by the stone balustrade, outside the salon's boundary. The deep teal silk of her gown catches the harbor breeze. The fabric molds to her ribs in a tight, unforgiving squeeze. She argued with the dressmaker yesterday, accusing me of trying to turn her into a lifeless European doll with his stitches. I told her she was breathing with unnecessary aggression. The dress fits exactly as I intended. It shows the slope of her shoulders and the curve of her waist, marking her as mine to anyone who cares to look. She refuses to play the companion. Avoiding the chaise lounges, she ignores the men who offer her champagne. Her position remains at the rail, her gaze on the water as if she owns the harbor and the ships anchored in the bay. That pride is a beautiful, sharp thing. It is the most expensive thing in the room, and I paid for every inch of it.

Théo Beaumont leans against the stone next to her. As the son of a Duke, he wears his title like a loose coat, always ready to drop it for a laugh. His Valderran accent carries through the hum of the salon. A gesture with his glass makes Kahina laugh. Her dark curls spill over her shoulder. The laugh is a genuine, ringing sound, one she has kept hidden from me on the deck of the Sans Souci.

A hot needle slips under my ribs. The ease of the evening vanishes. I have spent three days trying to coax that laugh from her, and Théo manages it with a glass of wine and a Valderran story. My fingers tighten around my glass. I leave the pile of solari on the green cloth. Sandro calls after me, but I ignore the shout. I cross the polished floor in four strides.

"Monsieur Beaumont," I say, stepping between them. "The gaming table requires your lack of attention. Sandro is losing his family's salt monopoly."

Théo grins, raising his glass. "Signor Ferrara. I was simply explaining the correct way to eat a Valderran peach. Mademoiselle Kahina was unconvinced."

"She is rarely convinced by Valderra," I say.

I reach for Kahina's elbow. The silk is cool under my thumb. The skin beneath it burns. She looks at me. Her dark eyes are sharp under the terrace lanterns.

"Win this hand, Duke's son," she says, her voice low. "Then we will negotiate the recovery of your passenger."

"I am taking the deposit now," I say.

I pull her past the heavy velvet drapes. The drapes fall behind us, cutting the light to a thin yellow line at our feet. The harbor of Seravalle is a black floor below the cliffs. Swaying lights of anchorages dot the water. Farther down the terrace, the salon music is a muted hum, the violins scraping out a tune ignored by the crowd. Cold salt air rushes into my throat, meeting the heat under my collar.

I press her back against the cool stone balustrade. The rough edge catches the teal silk of her skirt. Her breath is quick, lifting her breasts against the tight bodice.

"You are jealous," she says, her lips parting.

"Jealousy is too cheap a word," I say. "I am furious."

"And what is this?" She tilts her chin up, her gaze steady, challenging. "A reclamation?"

"A collection," I say.

My hand goes to the front of her gown. The silk is tight across her breasts. I run my thumb over the peak of her nipple. The small, hard bud rises instantly against the fabric. She gasps, her fingers locking onto the stone rail behind her.

"Nico," she mutters.

"You laugh for Théo," I say, dropping my voice low against her ear. "You look at him as if he has something you want."

"He is funny," she says, her voice uneven.

"I am far more entertaining," I say.

I slide my other hand down the tight drape of her skirt. My palm gathers the silk. The heavy, expensive fabric bunches in my fingers. My hand climbs her thigh. Her bare skin is warm and smooth. I reach the thin silk of her panties. The fabric is already damp where her sex rests against the seam, the moisture soaking through to my palm. Under the narrow lace of her underwear, my fingers find the swollen cleft. She gasps again, her head pressing back against the balustrade. Her eyes are wide in the dark.

"Someone will come," she says.

"Let them," I say.

I press my thumb against her clitoris, rubbing in slow, heavy circles while my fingers slide inside her. She is tight. Her muscles clamp around my hand, welcoming the intrusion. A soft, high sound escapes her throat. I press my mouth to her neck to taste the salt of her skin and the faint almond oil of Eclaire's soap.

"Quiet," I say. I increase the pressure of my thumb. "The salon is thirty feet away, Kahina. If you cry out, Théo will come to see what you need."

She bites her inner cheek to keep the noise inside. Her hips twitch. She rolls against my hand, hunting the friction. I work her with a steady, relentless pace. My fingers drive deep into the slick clutch of her while my thumb circles the sensitive peak. Her body rises. She curls her toes inside her slippers, lifting her heels off the floor. Shudders rack her frame in a long, silent release. Her inner muscles contract around my fingers, and her head falls forward onto my shoulder. The heat of her breath hits my neck.

I hold her against the stone until the trembling stops. My own length is hard, throbbing against my trousers. The sharp ache demands to be answered, but I keep my own desire locked away. The risk belongs to her, and the pleasure is hers to receive. I keep my hand steady and let her come down on my time.

I withdraw my hand. The cool air hits my wet fingers. The silk slides down as I smooth the fabric over her hips. After adjusting my cuffs, I wipe my fingers on a silk handkerchief from my pocket.

I offer her my best, easiest grin in the shadows.

"A down payment accepted," I say.

I step back through the velvet drapes. The bright amber light of the salon hits my eyes. The hum of voices and the click of the dice resume their place. Kahina follows a moment later. Her spine is straight, her face cool and composed. She smooths the front of her teal skirt with steady fingers. The guests ignore our return, too occupied with their gold and their companions. The hierarchy remains undisturbed.

Felix Hartmann is at my elbow before I reach the table. He holds a glass of white wine. His fair hair is neat, and his expression is dry.

"Monsieur Hartmann," I say, picking up my glass.

"Your game is in ruins, Signor Ferrara," Felix says, his voice low, private. "But I have the name from the Isabella's manifests."

My eyes go to him. "Captain Moret?"

"Moret," Felix says. "He has run the southern routes for Armand for ten years. The manifests list saffron and textiles, but the weights are wrong. They carry lead, or they carry people."

A cold draft moves through the warm room.

"Lead is heavy," I say, keeping my voice conversational.

"People are heavier," Felix says.

I look across the salon. Armand Vellier leans against a marble pillar, his silver hair catching the candlelight. A smile plays on his lips, the expression of a man who holds the punchline of a joke I am still learning. He pushes off his pillar and crosses the floor.

Kahina

The stays of the teal silk bodice pinch my lower ribs with every slow breath. Nico’s French dressmaker followed his instructions too closely, constructing a garment for one of the pale, stiff dolls who sit near the hearth. My ribs ache under the tight stitches, a constant reminder of the price he paid to display me here. Around us, the gilded scrollwork of Le Cercle catches the amber candlelight, casting long shadows across the green wool of the gaming tables. Stacked gold solari click as the players slide them forward. These young men gamble with coins they never earned, throwing their fortunes onto the felt without a second thought. My family's saffron was sold by the pound to pay for my sisters' capture, yet here, gold is treated like worthless sand.

The wives keep to the hearth, their heavy pearls resting against modest collarbones while they talk in polite, quiet murmurs. Closer to the terrace, the companions occupy the chaise lounges, their silk gowns cut low to show the slope of their breasts, their laughter louder and far more expensive. Then there are the daughters and wives of standing who orbit Nico. Two of them stand at his shoulder, their laughter light and possessive. They possess the easy entitlement of women who have never had to be bought. One of them slides a silver cuff up her arm and laughs, placing her hand on the dark velvet of Nico's sleeve.

A small, hot sting rises in my throat, unwelcome. I despise the warmth of it. Jealousy has no place in my plans, yet the sight of her fingers on his coat remains. These women belong to the world he belongs to, and I am the line item he is renting. I turn my back on them, converting the sharp sting into a smile for Théo Beaumont. Théo stands beside me at the marble rail, gesturing with his glass as he tells a story of his family's Valderran vineyards. His voice is loud and cheerful. I laugh at his description of a Valderran peach, letting the sound carry back into the warm salon. Across the floor, Nico's mouth hardens. He sets down his glass too hard, the sound cutting through the rattle of the dice. I want him to taste the same sharp bite I swallowed.

He crosses the polished floor in four strides, stepping between us.

"Monsieur Beaumont," Nico says. "The gaming table requires your lack of attention. Sandro is losing his family's salt monopoly."

Théo grins, raising his glass. "Signor Ferrara. I was simply explaining the correct way to eat a Valderran peach. Mademoiselle Kahina was unconvinced."

"She is rarely convinced by Valderra," Nico says.

His fingers lock onto my elbow. The silk of my sleeve is cool, but his thumb burns through the fabric.

I look at him. "Win this hand, Duke's son," I say, my voice low. "Then we will negotiate the recovery of your passenger."

"I am taking the deposit now," he says.

He pulls me past the heavy velvet drapes.

The drapes fall behind us, cutting the light to a thin yellow line at our feet. The harbor of Seravalle is a black floor below the cliffs, the swaying lights of anchorages dotting the water. Farther down the terrace, the salon music is a muted hum. He presses me back against the cool balustrade.

"You are jealous," I say, my lips parting.

"Jealousy is too cheap a word," he says. "I am furious."

"And what is this?" I tilt my chin up. "A reclamation?"

"A collection," he says.

He pins me to the cold marble. His hand moves to the front of my gown, his thumb brushing my nipple through the tight bodice. The peak rises under his thumb. I grip the rough edge of the rail behind me to keep my balance.

"Nico," I say.

"You laugh for Théo," he says against my ear. "You look at him as if he has something you want."

"He is funny," I say, my breath uneven.

"I am far more entertaining," he says.

Gathering the silk in his fingers, he slides his other hand down the drape of my skirt. The heavy fabric bunches in his palm. Warm bare skin brushes my leg as his hand climbs my thigh. At the thin silk of my panties, his fingers find the wetness already soaking the seam.

I let him. This is the game we play, the rules I allow. He presses his fingers inside me, his thumb circling the sensitive flesh. I bite my inner cheek to contain the sound. A high, soft noise escapes my throat despite my grip.

"Quiet," he says. "The salon is thirty feet away, Kahina. If you cry out, Théo will come to see what you need."

I roll my hips against his hand, chasing the hard friction. My toes curl inside my slippers. The release comes in a long, silent shudder that shakes my legs. I lean my head against his shoulder, my skin hot against his collar.

He withdraws his hand, the cool sea air hitting the wetness between my thighs. With a brief tug, he smooths the silk of my skirt. After adjusting his cuffs, he wipes his fingers on a clean handkerchief.

"A down payment accepted," he says, his easy grin returning in the shadows.

I smooth the front of my dress, my fingers steady. Nico thinks this release is a surrender. He is mistaken. I allow his game because it keeps him close, choosing to take the pleasure he offers. My spine remains straight as we step back through the velvet drapes.

Felix Hartmann stands at Nico’s elbow when we return, his fair hair neat and his expression dry. He holds a glass of white wine.

"Monsieur Hartmann," Nico says, picking up his glass.

"Your game is in ruins, Signor Ferrara," Felix says, his voice low and private. "But I have the name from the Isabella's manifests."

Nico looks at him. "Captain Moret?"

"Moret," Felix says. "He has run the southern routes for Armand for ten years. The manifests list saffron and textiles, but the weights are wrong. They carry lead, or they carry people."

A draft slides off the terrace, cold against the back of my neck.

"Lead is heavy," Nico says, keeping his voice conversational.

"People are heavier," Felix says.

I stand close enough to catch the name of Captain Moret and the details of the Isabella's wrong weights. This information joins the scrap of paper tucked into the hem of my dress, where the names Sanctuaire and Armand Vellier are written. It matches the anchor mark on Armand's cuffs. The map in my head is taking shape, a coastline appearing through the fog.

Nico's hand hovers over his gold solari, his fingers hesitating. The color drains from under his tan, and his jaw sets against something he has not yet let himself finish. His father's ledger has just acquired a price. I hate the sight of it. I need him careless and useful. A heavy conscience will only make him slow.

Armand Vellier crosses the floor, his silver hair catching the candlelight. A smile plays on his lips, the expression of a man who holds the punchline of a joke Nico has yet to learn. He bows to me, his head tilting in a shallow, mocking greeting.

"You have done wonders with her, Nico," Armand says, his voice smooth. His eyes scan my gown, lingering on the tight bodice. "A masterpiece. Though I have always found that boys grow bored of their toys, no matter how beautifully painted."

Nico steps forward, his shoulder blocking me from Armand’s view. The easy charm strips off his face, leaving a raw edge.

"She isn't a project, Armand," Nico says.

I step sideways, breaking Nico's protective guard and placing myself directly in Armand's line of sight. A polite smile lifts the corners of my mouth as I summon the warm, polished charm of my father's court.

"Monsieur Vellier," I say, my French smooth. "Your concern is touching, but you underestimate your nephew's capacity for appreciation."

Armand's smile remains steady. His invitation is addressed to us both.

"I am hosting a small gathering at Le Sanctuaire tomorrow night. Only the inner circle. I would be delighted if you joined us, Nico. Both of you."

Nico's shoulders tighten as he prepares to refuse.

I reach out, my fingers touching the expensive wool of Armand's sleeve. The fabric is thick and soft, the work of a master tailor, paid for with the lives of my people.

"We would be honored, Monsieur Vellier," I say, my voice light. "Nico speaks so highly of your hospitality. We will see you tomorrow."

Armand's eyes sharpen at the unexpected warmth of my touch. A quiet look passes over his face as he studies my fingers on his sleeve.

"Until tomorrow then," he says, bowing again.

A turn of his shoulder carries him away, the smell of his heavy tobacco lingering like a stain in the air.

Nico turns pale. His fingers grip my arm too tight, his thumb digging into my skin.

He drops his voice until it barely clears the space between us. "What are you doing?"

The invitation is the key. Tomorrow night, I will enter Le Sanctuaire with Captain Moret's name in my head and the galley knife hidden in my dress. I also carry one new, unwanted weight: a stake in the man whose fingers now clamp my arm. Armand believes the evening went to his plan. I know better. I am going to the cellar, because that is where the key is, and I will open the door myself.