Malachite Page 8

  Marion crossed his arms over his chest, feeling somewhat included in Tris's dismissal of Jean. “He wasn't always like that. When we were younger and the city was at war, he—”

  “I don't care, Marion.” Tris sighed and slid his butt up on the desk, folding his hands on his leg. “And don't defend him to me, it's annoying. I’ve heard how great the legendary Jean Rivard was back in the lawless days. He's not so great now, and he's a pain in my ass when he shows up, which is more often than I'd like.”

  “He's the southwarden. I still have to work with him.”

  “And yet, Paris is not knocking on our door thrice a week.”

  Marion felt his jaw clenching. Tris’s large and well-funded conservatory was stationed in the Gaol, where Paris could drop in and see him ten times a day if he wanted to. “You don't have to work. We don't need the money, and when our son is here—”

  “Don't put your cart before your horse, signore Casterline. You haven't even bought me a ring yet.”

  Marion bowed his head. Kon Sessane had raised Tris with much care, expense, and hard training. Because of that training, he had to keep reminding himself that while Tris’s sweet face was seventeen, his mind was fifty. Behind that demure smile was a mind like a brass clock. “I apologize. It’s foolish to be jealous.”

  “If I'd wanted Paris, I could have had him. I didn't. I still don't. I only want you, Marion.” Tris looked away. “I don’t believe you can say the same.”

  Marion’s insides felt like a tightly-wound ball of string, a jumble of conflicting emotions fighting each other for attention. Jean's behavior of late was erratic, irresponsible. The man had never let anything get to him before.

  Maybe it’s act to get my attention, he thought. He hoped so. Jean could never stand to be ignored. And Tris?

  Tris would tolerate Jean for Marion’s sake, but only so far. Tris looked soft, but scratch that gentle surface and there was a diamond-hard core through the middle of him, courtesy of the ruthless magestros who had raised him to inherit a legacy.

  For all that, there was a side to Tris that melted Marion's jaded heart. Tris blushed when they tongue-kissed and trembled when Marion's hands got too bold. Sometimes he caught Tris gazing at him over the breakfast table, and there was a tender, yearning look in his gray eyes that Marion had never been blessed with from Jean. Not once.

  He unfolded his arms and slipped his hands around Tris's narrow waist, pulling him tight against his body. “You know what I think?”

  Tris shook his head, his eyes growing wider.

  “I think I care for you much more than you know.” He bent his neck and kissed Tris, gently at first, but harder when he felt Tris press against him and wrap his arms around his neck. “And I want you.”

  “Marion...”

  “Hush.” Marion kissed him again.

  “Mmm,” Tris smiled against his lips. “You taste like beer.”

  Marion busied himself with brushing his lips back and forth across Tris's soft, irresistible mouth and smiled back. “Is that good?” he murmured.

  “I like a man who drinks beer. Father drinks wine. Papa Mika drinks beer. It's more forward, less pretentious.”

  “Too much talking.” He traced Tris's lower lip with his tongue. “Let me show you how forward I can be.” His hands slid up and down Tris's back. Tris was slim but strong, and his body felt so good against him. Marion realized he was hard just from the kissing. He pressed the stiff line of his cock against Tris's thigh, rubbing against him.

  “Damn it,” he growled. “It’s so hard to wait.” Then he laughed a little, aware of what he’d said. “Well, it is.”

  “I’m tired of waiting for you. Can’t we...?”

  Tris's voice was shaky and unsure. The sound of it made Marion want to pick him up and carry him straight to bed. But I promised Kon, he thought.

  Thinking of Kon Sessane was like throwing cold water on Marion’s desire. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed sex, or done anything that did not include a dark room and his own right hand. It was necessary, if he wanted to marry into the Sessane family. The magestros took a dim view of his only son marrying the kind of man who went to prostitutes, so Marion had been on enforced celibacy for more than six months; all during the time he courted Tris. After he proposed, Tris was allowed to move in with him, but it was only the customary mese; a month-long experiment of living together, to see if they could get along. They were not lovers yet. Kon had made him swear.

  Why did Kon make me promise? Does he really believe I’ll just fuck Tris and run out on him, run back to Jean?

  He curled his fingers around Tris's hand and tugged it down between their bodies. “There are other things we could do,” he whispered hotly against Tris's ear. “Very nice things, mia promessa. I want you so bad, baby.”

  “Ohhh,” Tris moaned.

  He was thrilled with how pliant Tris was in his arms, how deliciously yielding. Jean had seldom surrendered control, and disliked being dominated or taking the passive role. Theirs had been a match of passionate equals, though both of them had craved other desires, softer men. He let his teeth mark Tris's neck gently. “You know how?”

  “With my... yes.”

  He chuckled. “With your what? Do I want to let you finish that sentence?”

  “I was going to say my hand.”

  He reached down and cupped Tris's groin. Tris grew hard under his fingers. “I'm pretty sure you've known how to do that for a long time.”

  “Then what... oh.”

  Marion laughed. He couldn't help it. But when he looked down at Tris's pinched face, he knew he had made a mistake. “I'm sorry.”

  Tris's pretty mouth turned down into an unhappy curve. He grabbed Marion's belt buckle and began to jerk at the clasp. “I suppose you never had this difficulty with Jean. He was probably born knowing how to make love.”

  “Well, no, but... Tris, stop.” Tris opened Marion's trousers and slid his hand down the front of his underclothes. He sensed Tris was embarrassed and trying to make up for it, trying to pretend that he wasn't intimidated by Marion's experience, or by the long history he shared with Jean.

  He caught Tris's hands. “I said stop.”

  Tris hooked his arm around Marion's neck and dragged his head down, kissing him hard, sliding his tongue boldly inside Marion's mouth. After more than half a year of celibacy, Tris's tongue was almost unbearably erotic. He moaned and unbuttoned Tris's shirt. Tris copied him, and Marion shivered when Tris's gentle fingertips skated over the numerous scars on his broad chest, and over the brand he'd received when he was thirteen, a symbol of his formal acceptance into Aureo Marigny's family.

  “So many scars,” Tris whispered. He bent his head and kissed the silver ridge of the brand, tracing a wet tongue over the intricate lines. “Is it true, what they say about the mark?”

  “It's true.” Marion gasped and arched his hips forward, and then Tris cupped his hand over the front of his trousers. “If a Teschio swears by his mark, he must be believed.” He was no longer crossbones, but the brand would never go away.

  Tris worked the buttons, taking Marion in his hand. “So I could ask you anything, and if you swore by your mark and lied, there would be no mercy?”

  “None,” Marion groaned.

  Tris licked his shoulder and smiled. “Then I should have pity, and not ask.”

  It was only when Tris began sinking to the floor that Marion grabbed his shoulders.

  “Wait, wait,” he panted. He looked down. “Are you sure?”

  Tris pushed his hands away and dropped to his knees.

  “Oh baby, yes,” Marion groaned. His hand cupped the back of Tris's head and urged him forward.

  Behind them, a man cleared his throat noisily.

  Marion jumped and half-turned. “Fathers save us! What the hell are you doing here?”

  Kon Sessane stood in the doorway, his gray eyes fixed on him with the cold disapproval that he usually saved for felons. “Paying a visit.”

&n
bsp; Tris didn't say a word. He stood up immediately and began buttoning his shirt with his head down while Marion stuffed himself back in his pants. Tris smoothed the front of his tailored shirt, took a breath, and lifted his chin.

  “Buonasera, father.”

  Kon's gaze shifted from Marion to Tris, and his anger visibly evaporated. He nodded. “Son.” His eyes flicked back to Marion. “Warden Casterline.”

  “Marion is to be your son-in-law, and we're not in public,” Tris said. “You should address him by his name.”

  Marion felt a moment of pride for his promessa. It was rare that Tris corrected Kon. If Malachite could have had a single ruler, Kon would have been it. As it was, the city was ruled democratically by the governing body of the Consolari, but Kon was magestros of that body, holding the highest rank possible. In his youth, Kon had been a fierce swordfighter turned spy for the Consolari, running the intelligence network that eventually overthrew the Teschio. Now, no man's word carried more power than his. Kon Sessane was a leopard in a city of cats, and he knew it.

  Marion turned. “Evening, Kon. What brings you out so late?” He used the maestros’ given name for Tris's sake, but he wasn't comfortable with it. He suspected that even Kon's husband addressed him respectfully.

  Kon looked at Tris, avoiding the question. “Would you be so kind as to make me a cup of tea?”

  Tris glanced between Kon and Marion. “You have an artless manner tonight, father, which means you’re plotting something.” When Kon simply waited politely, Tris blew out his breath in a huff. “Fine. I know when I'm being sent to the kid's table.”

  Kon smiled gently as Tris passed. “Thank you, my dear.”

  “Just don't expect anything fancy.”

  Kon waited until Tris was downstairs. “I thought we had a gentleman’s agreement.”

  Marion could still taste Tris's kiss on his mouth. He realized his hands were clenched. It really had been too long. “We did and we do. Do you want details?”

  Kon frowned. He was a tall, lean man in his early fifties, with coal-black hair and deep-set gray eyes. Age had streaked his pointed black beard with silver, which rendered his aspect imperious and virile. The city called Kon old bastardo behind his back, but he was far from elderly. Marion was one of the few men left alive who had seen Kon engage in a sword fight. Kon looked like a scholar, but drop a blade in his hand and he became a walking slaughterhouse.

  Kon straightened the collar of his long robe; a spotless black vestment adorned with an official sash of crimson and a heavy silver necklace denoting his high office. The necklace was inlaid with red garnets and crystals, flashing in the light.

  “No,” Kon answered. “I fervently wish to know as little as possible, but since I have my doubts, I only require reassurance that you've kept your word.”

  He really is going to make me say it. “We haven't had sex. We weren't going to have sex. Things were just going a little further than usual.”

  “So I gathered.”

  “I desire Tris. I thought that was plain when I asked him to marry me.”

  “Do you? Desire him, I mean.” Kon picked up the faded rose that Marion had placed on the book case.

  “Of course I do.”

  “Hmm.” Kon smelled the rose and gestured to the doorway with it. “And yet, as I was coming down the canal, I saw southwarden Rivard leaving. Did he have some business here tonight?”

  Be damned if he would recount his fight with Jean to Kon. “I'm his superior officer. I will occasionally need to meet with him.”

  “But a former lover, received in your home before your wedding?” Kon shook his head. “Well... his post comes up for review in a few months.”

  Marion squared his shoulders up like he was facing a brawl. “Dismiss Jean and you can have my post, too.”

  “There are a dozen candidates—”

  “And not one of them would last a month in the slums. They'd tar and feather him. Jean is known there. Shit, he's a legend there. They still call him il principe.” Marion raked his hair back from his forehead and rubbed his temples. He didn't want to shout at Kon tonight on top of everything else.

  Tris had been a child when the new Peace was signed, and Kon needed to remember the years when planning for the future was impossible.

  “How many times have you been down to the Zanzare this year, or even the Martello?” Marion asked. “Only Jean’s wardens will patrol the Mire. It’s a sinking shit-pile, but it does have two very important features: Aequora, and it faces the mainland.”

  He lowered his tone. Only reason would get through to Kon. “If we’re attacked again from the west, the Mire will function as a land-bridge straight into the Citta Alta. It has to be manned and watched, and I'm precious short on wardens capable of doing the job. If you want the Myrtles safe at night, Jean’s your man.”

  Kon listened to his speech without reaction. “Then I suppose I'd better keep him at his post.”

  Marion knew that he'd lost a point. Kon was misdirecting him, taking with one hand and giving with the other.

  “But,” Kon added, “any contact between the southwarden and my son must be kept at a minimum. There's no official necessity for them to speak at all. More importantly, I don't like the way he looks at Tris.”

  There it is. Marion shook his head slowly. He admired Kon greatly, but when it came to Tris, every flaw in Kon's persona was outlined in scarlet relief. “You're a piece of work, you know that? You had no intention of sacking Jean.”

  Kon’s tone was brittle. “Calling a man’s bluff is a tool to be used sparingly.”

  Marion ignored that. “Did you bluff Tris this way when he was growing up?”

  “My son can have no complaint of how I raised him.”

  “That’s because he’s not a complainer.”

  Kon smiled thinly. “No, he is not, is he? I didn't coddle him, though I very much wanted to.” He looked down and traced his finger over the polished edge of the drawing table. “Wait until your own sons are under your roof before you judge me. It’s a thorny puzzle to raise a boy you love into a man, to support him without making him weak. I was harsh with Tris, but he's not afraid of me.”

  “No, just terrified of losing your respect. Do you know how hard Tris works to make you proud of him, to live up to your name? Jean's qualifications aren't the issue. You just don't want him near Tris.”

  “Very true, I do not.”

  “Why?”

  “Jean Rivard is not suitable company for a gentleman. You will agree that Tris is a gentleman?”

  Marion sighed. “Of course, of course. But Tris can make his own decisions about his friends. Have you asked him how he feels about Jean?”

  “I believe he’s made his feelings very clear to you in that regard. The question is,” Kon held his gaze, “are you respecting his wishes?”

  Am I? Marion frowned. He felt a twinge of guilt. Tris did bristle and snap when Jean was around, but Marion put that down to youth and jealousy, which was natural and not that unexpected. If it was more than that...

  “You haven’t answered my question,” Marion persisted, unsettled.

  “What makes you think I don’t listen to Tris? I'm allowing him to marry you. Isn’t that enough?”

  Not even close. “Thank you. Yes, you are. But if Tris is going to have a household, it's going to be truly his, not yours by extension. That includes his choice of guests. Are we clear?”

  Kon sketched a polite half-bow, flourishing with the rose. “Benissimo.”

  Marion could ask for no more than that, and in truth had been given nothing. He wanted to argue the point further, but there were too many other favors he needed from Kon.

  “Tris is quite taken with you, you know.” Kon sniffed the rose again before placing it carefully on the drawing table. “More than I expected him to be. However, he is very young, and that will result in some missteps.”

  “He’s only a little younger than Dominique was when he married you, and you were... how old?” />
  Kon ignored the question. “Do you know that Tris spoke of seeing a Pae before he moved out of my house? I forbade it, of course.”

  “Paladin's cock!” Marion could not hide his alarm. A Pae! The coarse guild of aging courtesans lessoned young men in sexual technique, usually for a steep price. The nobler the client, the higher the price. “He would have never gone through with it,” he said, trying not to think of his cultured, soft-spoken boy approaching one of the obscene Pae. In the Colibri they were known as wise uncles, and much worse.

  Kon smiled and flicked an invisible bit of dust from the table. “I know, but it does illustrate that his judgment is not sound when it comes to you. That's why, now that he’s no longer under my roof, I am charging you to see that he manages his affairs sensibly and continues to further his career.”

  Enough was enough. “Forgive me, magestros, but I’m not going to stand in Tris's home and discuss him like he's a child to be managed. I trust my promessa to make his own decisions.”

  “Trust is essential between partners.” Kon clasped his hands behind his back. “But Tris has no experience in these intimate matters, no experience of men at all, save you. The fault is mine, I believe. I may have sheltered him too much when he was growing up.”

  May have? Marion had known Kon for years, had been to his castello a hundred times, and while he'd always known that Kon had a son, until eight months ago he had never even been introduced to Tris Sessane. Kon had kept his only child out of his politics, and very far out of the public eye.

  “You did what you thought was best,” Marion lied smoothly. “But you didn’t come here all the way out here to talk about Tris, did you?”

  “Ah, yes! I’d almost forgotten.” Kon produced a small box from his pocket. It was wrapped in soft green satin with a gold ribbon. “For you.”

  Marion felt a little ridiculous. A present? He untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. Kon had informed him he was having it made, but goldsmiths were hard to find and Marion had forgotten about it.

  “It's beautiful,” he murmured. Kon gazed at him fondly, and for a moment, Marion’s throat grew tight as he pictured the face of his own father. He'd never really gotten a chance to know the man before he was killed. Aureo had fed him and clothed him in his childhood, but Kon had taught him about honor and pride, and what it really meant to be a man.