**Interlude 19 - Strive to see the beauty that inhabits the wretched beasts of the earth

Fabien had fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep, and remained perfectly undisturbed. Nothing stirred him, no sounds of movement in the house, nor the scent of food drifting on the air. He slept until his body had begun to knit its wounds, and his blood to warm his limbs.

The boy awoke at aching but restored, as he stretched sleep from his muscles and bones with a pleasing groan. He sat up in his bed and ran his fingers through his sleep-tangled hair. He did not know how long he had slept. There was no clock to tell him, no window in his room to reveal afternoon light or creeping dusk. It was just time, endlessly unspooling before him.

He turned his eyes to his bedroom door, still ajar just how he had left it, with a trace of disappointment. No sign of Émile at his feet, nor sulkily haunting the shadows of his room. His expression grew troubled, the bliss of a good night's sleep overshadowed by creeping concern.

There was a splinter of doubt between his ribs. How could he hope to contain such a creature? How could he keep them here, allowing them some sense of freedom?

The weight of it dragged his shoulders down. It followed him to the bathroom, where he turned it over in his mind as he brushed the mud and grime from his nails. He lingered upon it intensely as he gingerly cleaned the rust of dried blood from his hip. The boy placed his palm flat, fingers splayed over the score marks and released a shaky breath. Had they truly not known?

Once freshly dressed and clean he lingered barefoot in the hall, unsure of his next destination. He could not trouble his dear friend with this, for more reasons than he could count. Nor did it seem appropriate to appear before his Master so shaken and lost.

Madam Fakhir no doubt disapproved of his decision to keep Émile alive. But would she turn him away?

And what had they said of Lacrima? That she could change into a cat? He did not know what that could even possibly mean. But perhaps they knew something of Émile's condition, a way to control the animal within them.

With his mind settled, the youth straightened his spine and made his towards Fakhir and Lacrima's room. The heat of the bath and a nourishing sleep had strengthened him, and only a faint limp still affected his gait.

The urchin was nervous as he knocked on the vampire's door. His voice trembled as he announced, with soft apologies, his desire to speak with Fakhir if she had time for him.

He was dressed in his usual peculiar fashion, with beautifully cut clothes that hung far too loosely on his scrawny limbs. The ill-fit of his borrowed finery overall bestowed him with a look closer to that of thief than upper class.

The collar of his shirt hung open, scandalously exposing far too much of the lean column of his neck. Puncture marks from Fakhir's teeth speckled his pale skin like black stars, and the hollows of his grey eyes were bruised with worry.

The rich light that gilded the late afternoon air must have been familiar to the boy who spent much of his waking hours in the dark, bound by his night-eyed master’s timetable. The warm light diffused the corridor with a soft glow that warped his shadow to a dusky, long-limbed creature.

Fakhir’s door was firmly closed, but he could hear the gentle murmur of her voice through the wood. It did not hesitate to rise and bid him enter at his soft request.

The room was as he remembered it, though much of the accoutrement had been neatly packed inside the chest at the foot of the bed. The vampires must only have awoken recently and were disheveled and still soft with gentle drowsiness.

Fakhir lay on her stomach on the bed, the curls of her dark hair shrouding her shoulders and back like a bird’s wings. She held her pipe loose in one hand. Fragrant blue-grey tendrils of smoke tangled in her hair. The loose silk gown she wore was the sumptuous purple of a ripe plum and exposed a long strip of umber skin down to her breastbone when she shifted.

Lacrima stood before the vanity, her hair plaited in a neat line down her back. The smooth glass behind her showed Fabien nervous in the doorway, but nothing of her pale features. She studied their guest with an interest that had not been there prior, her eyes trailing the length of his silhouette attentively. Fakhir murmured something teasing and she flushed, responding hotly before turning back to continue packing away the odds and ends on the desk. The urchin could see the white of Fakhir’s sharp teeth when she laughed, smoke coiling from the corners of her mouth.

The vampire’s amber eyes lingered a long while on the boy’s open collar. There was something of satisfaction to her tone when she spoke.

“I would ask to what I owe le plaisir,” she said, her voice husky. “But I suspect I know what brings you.”

She propped her head up with her hand, a spark of gold amusement igniting in her eyes. It was not entirely kind. “Go on then, boy.”

Fabien entered and closed the door carefully behind him. The boy had begun speaking before he even laid eyes upon the vampire's. The words bled from him in a nervous flurry.

"Madame, I know you said not to get involved, bu-" He began.

His words trailed off as his eyes fell upon Fakhir, and his heart fluttered in his chest. To his horror, the boy felt heat rise to his sharp cheeks. His mind was suddenly overwhelmed by images of their bodies tangled together, her teeth sharp at his throat and groaned breath against his skin.

The urchin cleared his throat in embarrassment, and quickly averted his eyes. He turned his golden head towards Lacrima, one hand tangled in the curling hair at the nape of his neck. His lips parted as though he had more to add, but was temporarily mute.

His attention turned from the vampire to the large chest, and his slim shoulders sagged.

"You are ...not leaving, are you?" He murmured, unable to disguise the creeping dismay in his voice.

The boy stepped closer to where Fakhir reclined. He sank to his knees before her like one might fall imploringly before the altar of an old god.

"I thought... I had it under control." He confessed miserably.

He lifted his chin, and dared to meet the gold of her eyes with considerable effort.

"But a wolf, Madame, they change-" He continued softly. "-I do not know what to do."

He pressed the heel of his palm into the hollow of his eye, and released a shuddering sigh.

"Pouvez-vous m'aider s'il vous plaît?"

There was little doubt her keen eyes had detected the heat that rose to redden his face. She relished his discomfort, pointedly putting her lips to the stem of her pipe without dropping her gaze, though she did him the kindness of not speaking it aloud. Lacrima turned her head to watch him from the corner of her eye though her hands did not cease their work of folding baubles into fabric.

“Soon,” Fakhir answered, satisfaction breathy in her tone. “Our business here is nearly done, and we will return home.”

She did not stir as he approached but watched with feline calm as he fell to the ground before her. She looked down at him through her dark lashes, an ancient divinity assessing a kneeling penitent. There was a long silence as she idly drew on her pipe, lungs pulling in the resinous smoke and holding it unnaturally long in her chest.

“I did help you,” she said at last. The words were deliberate and dangerously soft. Smoke curled in serpentine wisps from her nose. “I warned you of making a companion of them, told you to let them bleed, let them die, and let them rest, oui?”

She exhaled a silver stream of smoke between her teeth and the beguiling scent of it filled the room, heady and fragrant.

“And now you’ve made a pet of his plaything and come weeping to me when you discover its teeth.”

She clicked her tongue disapprovingly against her teeth. Lacrima turned at the sound, pausing to wordlessly consider their guest knelt on the ground before fetching a soft strip of fabric and resuming her task.

“The remedy is to let him finish what he’s started and send them to the earth, where they bother no one.”

It seemed for a long moment that this would be her proclamation, and the boy would be sent away without further aid. But when she spoke again, gentleness had returned to her tone.

“But eh bien, d’accord, if you will not heed sense,” she relented.

She sat up, gathering the loose silk of her dressing gown in her lap and patted the edge of the bed with a palm.

“Come, boy, and tell me of le loup.”

Fabien nodded sadly at her words, and when he replied his throat was tight. The sorrow at her departure had turned the skin about his eyes crimson, but he managed to offer her a soft smile.

”Ah, but it pains me to hear it, Madam.” He rasped. “I will be lost without your guidance.”

The urchin fell quiet as she spoke, and only interrupted when she paused.

“I know, I know you did.” He groaned piteously in response.

“Oui.” He admitted miserably to her words. “Mais comment puis-je? Now I have made promises. I - I can't break promises.”

The boy pressed his head despairingly into the palms of his hands. He leaned forward to press his brow against the side of the mattress, a portrait of despair. But when she spoke again, he lifted his head back to her with eyes that glistened wetly.

“Merci, merci Madame.” He gasped with trembling relief. “Je ne le mérite pas.”

The boy’s finely shaped hands were shaking as he rose to join her on the bed. He took his seat beside her somewhat stiffly. With thumb and forefinger he tugged upon a loose thread of his shirt. The boy drew in a deep breath, and recounted his night as best he could.

“I do not know where to begin.”

“It was early night, and I was helping the girl here, Colombe.” The youth’s expression softened as his lips shaped her name.

“I thought they were a dog at first, the fine shape of their skull. Like, I don’t know, some stray hunting hound. I call them wolf, but in truth Madame, I have never seen a wolf like it, and I have laid eyes on wolves. I know their likeness.”

“It was black like ink, the gleam of it. Beautiful, in a way. It could move sometimes on both feet, like you and I.” He continued thoughtfully, as he slipped more deeply into his recollection.

“And- and it had - there were things that it could not have possessed. A scar, the shade of its eyes, and … it’s wrist, a binding there.” The boy looked down at his hands, as the skin of his neck and face flushed again.

“I put it there myself. This is how I know it was them.” He swallowed, and rubbed once more at his eyes.

“We spent a night locked in some wooden hovel out back there. By daylight, I saw nothing of it. I found only Émile, bare skinned and-” He looked back towards Fakhir.

“Claiming no memory of it. See, here.”

The boy lifted his shirt and pulled the waistband of his breeches low to reveal the scratch marks that cut into his pale skin.

“I am lucky to live, Madame. I need to - to find a way to control it, before my Master thinks it too dangerous to stay here.”

He tugged his shirt back into place, and awaited her response with agitated interest.

Fakhir listened to his recounting of the previous evening without interruption. Her eyes shone like embers as she listened, the only movement the stirring of her silk as she breathed in the smoke of her pipe.

When he pulled aside his clothing to reveal the gashes darkening the skin of his hip she leaned forward with keen interest. Her fingers were cool as stone as they delicately trailed over the torn flesh.

“Quelle nuit,” she breathed as he finished his tale. She thoughtfully stroked the bridge of her nose with her index finger as she contemplated his words.

“It is a difficult thing you ask,” she said, her head haloed in a wreath of gossamer smoke. “If you came to ask to kill it I may have answers, but control? How do you control any beast? Contain them, bind them, poison them, peut-être, perhaps I have herbs that make them heavy with sleep or make them tame for a time but je ne sais pas…”

She trailed off, her features thoughtful. Lacrima moved to place the rolled bundles in the chest at the foot of the bed and, seeing the vampire’s furrowed brow, murmured a question to which Fakhir idly replied in the negative.

“They have bad blood,” she concluded at last. “It is…le fléau? Une malédiction, a curse of the blood. It is how they are born, bound to the moon, and there is no cleansing the blood.”

Something in her own words gave her pause and she considered a moment before clarifying. “No practical means of burning the beast from the blood, anyway.”

“Tu avez raison that it is not a wolf, not really. They are loup-garou, like a wolf and like a man, but not wholly either. The curse makes them hurt with hunger, compels them to hunt and kill to sate that ache. It is a painful thing. To change skins in this way, ah. It is torment. You say they claim no memory of it and perhaps that is true, perhaps they do not have the self-knowledge to know the wolf. Perhaps that is a mercy.”

When she met his gaze, her eyes were warm as molten gold and gleamed with wry amusement. “You say too it was beautiful - having seen your pet, this is no surprise.”

She turned her head as though struck by a thought, a wisp of smoke curling from her tongue when she spoke.

“There is one thing - you neglect a detail in your telling. Last night it was la pleine lune, when the moon is round. The beast sleeps when la lune is thin. They are, at the least, predictable in this way. You can know and prepare for the wolf.”

The boy nodded, one hand held against the wound as he listened to Fakhir speak.

"A curse? Then... there is no cure?" This was clearly not what he had been hoping to hear. Disappointment was etched upon the smooth plane of his brow.

"Loup-garou? But such things are only folk-" The boy shook his head, and the thought was dismissed. "Je comprend."

Fabien met her eyes, and nodded wearily.

"It would be easier, Madame, in many ways, were they not so. If the ugliness of their words matched the look."

"But you told me once, that Monsieur has an eye for beauty."

The urchin appeared all the more despondent at this. But he brightened at her final words.

"Ah, oui, so it was. So then they cannot change at will? Only when the moon is fat? That is… oui, useful, Madame. Merci."

"Perhaps Monsieur will give me a space to secure them on such nights, if I ask." He said, a spark of determination in his voice.

This was the small shard of hope the boy had been searching for. A starting point, at least, for dealing with his pet.

Fabien's resolve was admirable. Whether it derives from an iron-clad sense of obligation, or mere loyalty was hard to say. But it whispered of the lengths he would go to, the things he might do, to keep those he loved safe

The vampire's words had soothed the nervous fidget of his fingers, and eased the tension from around his mouth.

"Would it be possible to … to ever tame them? Will they only ever want to kill?" He asked softly.

Fakhir’s bright eyes narrowed when the boy began to question her assessment, but she allowed it to pass with comment as he corrected. She exhaled a breath of smoke before continuing.

“Donc il fait,” she agreed without irony. “I am sure he would be pleased to find a space to hold them when the moon is full.”

She considered his question in silence. The room was warm, hazy with fragrant smoke, and the lavish blankets tangled on the bed were half-tempting.

“It is their nature,” she said musingly. “But you have shown already you do not fear the nature of those that would have your blood.”

Her gaze, bright as fireflies, flicked meaningfully to the scars on his exposed throat. It lingered there a long while before she continued, her eyes lifting to meet his.

“It was not so long ago the wolf was a fiend known only by its eyes glimpsed in the dark and the blood that it left. Now the wolf’s children are not eaters of men but hunt beside them and sleep peaceful at their master’s feet.”

She stroked the underside of her jaw as she spoke, and for a brief moment a delicate silver scar glinted around her neck.

“Is it possible? Je ne sais pas, but with time and care, many things are possible. I think it is a worthwhile pursuit to try. It is a victory if the beast is after more than your blood.”

The vampire shook her head. “If you mean to contain them, it may be wise to have a means to bind them. Silver, if possible - steel and good leather are reliable if not. Maybe something for their pretty neck.” This suggestion was warmed with predatory pleasure and seemed more a personal indulgence than any professional opinion. “Maybe les herbes to make their pain small, and their teeth heavy.”

“We leave soon, as I said, but I will help if I can. They are your responsibility and I leave it with you what to do.”

Fabien lifted a hand to thoughtfully caress his scarred neck as he considered her words. He smiled faintly, and shook his head in amusement.

“I do not know about not fearing it, Madame. There is much to fear.” He breathed. “Peut-être que j'aime juste la peur. Maybe it makes me feel alive, you know?”

The boy continued to thoughtfully press the wound at his throat, while his feline-sharp eyes drifted away to follow Lacrima.

“Then I will try.” He agreed softly.

The urchin’s attention returned whippet-quick to Fakhir at her suggestion. He lifted his dark brows, and immediately lapsed into another thoughtful silence. The idea was turned about in his mind like a tumbled stone before he replied.

“A collar? They would be beyond angry.” He said, as humor twitched at the corner of his lips. He shrugged lightly. “Raison de plus.”

“I would be very glad of that, Madame.”

The boy responded with a flinch of pain when she mentioned leaving a second time, and he drew in close towards Fakhir, breathing in the scent of her smoke and skin. There was a moment of struggle in his limbs, as he fought the urge to sling his arms around her. But he managed to remain composed, despite feeling his chest begin to cave in on itself.

“You really must go? You cannot stay longer?” He asked, his throat tight with pain. “I still have so many questions. Things you said to me before, things about Monsieur, and you. I thought I had more time… though it is something I have so little of.” He offered her a small, sad smile at this painful realization.

The boy rose to his feet with the sharpness of one touching a nerve. He ran his fingers through his hair.

“And already I have stolen so much of yours. I should go.”

“Will your business bring you back to us again?” He asked as he moved away from the bed and retraced his steps. He paused at the door.

”I had… not thought… mon Maître the sharing type, you know? The opposite, really.” He said, as colour flushed the skin at the base of his throat. “He surprises me, happily so. Merci pour tout.”

Whenever his hands lifted to his throat Fakhir’s eyes followed, her attention briefly lost in the dark dapple her teeth had left in his skin.

Something of what he said of fear kindled a quiet pleasure in her features that his amusement at his pet’s anger only stoked. She leaned back to consider him.

“Seulement ma suggestion,” she murmured with a roll of her shoulders.

The vampire watched through her lashes as he stood and stepped away from the bed. His profile, desolate against the door, was too much to bear and she rose to bare feet, her pipe left abandoned on the sheets. The smooth silk of her gown swayed like water, betraying the shape of her curves beneath as she moved to join him.

She leaned close, gently tipping his chin up til he met her golden eyes. She studied him so intently it very nearly burned to be caught in the heat of her gaze.

“I will see you again.” The words were low in her throat, but spoken with unflinching conviction. The corner of her mouth quirked up at his observation.

“He does enjoy showing you off,” she agreed throatily. She was so near he could feel the sweet smoke of her cool breath on his skin, glimpse the pale curve of her sharp eye-teeth in her mouth when she spoke.

Something flickered in her gaze like a sudden gust of wind casting a ripple through a flame. Her breath caught in her throat and she leaned in to press her lips against his. The kiss was tender, warm with affection, though sharpened with animal hunger. Her mouth was sweet as thick honey and tasted of heady smoke and, faintly, a bright pop of copper.

Her cool hand cradled the side of his jaw when she pulled away. Her eyes were blazing with fierce delight.

“I will not complain of it if you don’t,” she whispered conspiratorially, amusement raking rough across the words.

She straightened in a rustle of purple silk. Lacrima was doing a convincing impression of not watching him with interest from the corner of her dark eye.

“Go then, boy.” Fakhir waved him off with a regal gesture. “We will speak again, je suis certain.”

Fabien’s fingertips had only just brushed the door handle when he sensed Fakhir move towards him. The urchin’s heart skipped in his chest as he watched her approach, his storm cloud eyes wide and unblinking.

The boy could not have prevented himself from admiring her. His eyes trailed the length of her body with breathless longing. He was dragged viciously back to the recollection of her cool skin against his. He remembered the feeling of his palms warm on her thighs, her hips. His fingers twitched at his sides, the desire to touch her briefly overwhelming.

“J'espere.” He replied thickly at the press of her hand.

The boy’s lips slightly parted when their mouths met. He slumped back into the door, his shoulders softly unstrung and bruised eyes closed as he indulgently tasted her. When the vampire released him to hold his jaw, he released a soft sigh and met the beauty of her eyes.

He placed his warm hand over hers. His mouth brushed her fingertips affectionately as she withdrew her cool palm.

“Non, Madame.” He agreed, with breathless affection.

The boy fumbled awkwardly for the door, and this time it took him several attempts before he managed to successfully open it. He stumbled in a somewhat ungainly fashion from the room, bidding Fakhir and Lacrima more soft farewells as he closed the door behind him with trembling hands.

Once outside, he allowed himself a moment to gather his thoughts. His skin was still flushed from his encounter, and eyes bright now with pleasure. He lifted two fingers to his lips where he could taste her still, and they remained there as he began to make his way through the dark corridors of his home.

The boy wandered, perfectly distracted as Fakhir continued to occupy his thoughts. His path eventually took him to the kitchen door, where the sudden desire for sweet bread and fruit overcame him. And so it was with this creeping hunger that he prepared to enter.

The door to Fakhir and Lacrima’s room closed with a gentle click behind his ungainly exit. The pair's voices rose from beyond it and, though he could not understand the words, Fakhir's voice was warm with breathy delight.

The last gasp of afternoon light had dwindled and the corridors of the house were bathed in familiar darkness. All was still and quiet save the sound of his feet and the breath that had not quite calmed in his chest. The smoky scent of Fakhir’s room lingered on his clothes.

The faint glimmer of light from beneath the kitchen door was a comforting beacon, a sure sign his friend had been here and had been thinking of him.

However, the brooding silhouette that greeted him when he swung the door open was certainly not Colombe's.

Émile was taking advantage of the lit lamp, a pool of warm light burnishing their skin to smooth, pale marble. They were sitting with their bare foot braced on a chair to prop their knee up as they bent over the shirt they were studiously working on patching. Beneath their seat, the dark blemish of spilled wine stained the hardwood like blood.

They had taken a razor to their hair and the scar scoring their scalp was plainly visible in the close crop on one side. The inky spill of hair along the other fell in waves long enough to brush their shoulder. Their clothes were neat, though worn, dark fabric clinging close to their calves and thighs and gold thread still glinting at their collar.

It was a far cry from the undressed state he had last seen them. They cut an elegant figure in the dimly lit kitchen.

The needle in their hand paused when the door opened and they lifted their gaze to him. Their eyes were lined with a practiced hand in rich black that accentuated their fine almond shape. Those eyes narrowed and the needle flashed as they stabbed it back into the fabric.

“Eh bien,” they said darkly, pulling the thread through to the other side of the half-stitched hole in the fabric. “If it isn’t the roi des rats himself.”

Fabien paused in the doorway at the sight of Émile. All at once he was torn from his pleasing reverie, plunged back to icy displeasure when his eyes trailed over them. Their words caused a shiver of irritation to move through the entire length of his body. His fingers curled into fists at his sides.

The urchin did not respond, not at first. He moved to prepare his food, as he had intended. To gather bread, butter and sweet honey to sait the hungry ache in his stomach.

"Not much of a reception for your king." He said softly, as his knife sliced rough through the firm crust. "I'm sure you can do better."

The boy glanced over his shoulder, only his sharp profile visible as he spoke.

"Did you have an enjoyable morning, Émile?"

His tone was light, unnervingly conversational given their last encounter. But there was not a shred of warmth in it.

The boy took a seat opposite from his pet, and set his plate before him. He had prepared a small feast, in his usual style. Fresh honey and cheese and rustic bread. And a gleaming red apple which he turned over in his long fingered hands.

"I hope all this prettying up is not for me." He said, as he gestured in their direction with the point of his knife.

"I much prefer you without all your … hm - I don't know, finery?"

Fabien's eyes met theirs and his lips twitched in amusement as he sliced off a segment of apple. He sank his teeth into it with slow, deliberate satisfaction and sighed happily. A trickle of juice was left to slide glistening from the corner of mouth.

His eyes did not return to Émile. He did not pour over their features with his usual wanton admiration. But continued to eat with a smile gracing his youthful lips.

The set of Émile’s shoulders was tense as he approached. Their eyes lifted defiantly to meet his. When he moved aside to collect his food the tautness in their frame relaxed and they bowed their head to the stitching in their lap, content to work in silence. Their eyes followed him beneath the waves of their dark hair without moving their head, the motion of their hands instinctive as they pulled the needle through.

Though the fetching black they had applied went some way in obscuring it, the gentle light revealed deep purple half-moons beneath their eyes. They watched keenly as he procured his meal, inhaling the floury fragrance of the bread he cut with naked yearning. It was doubtful they had slept or eaten since they’d bolted from his grasp.

They scoffed under their breath at his observation. “I am still polishing up my curtsy.”

His conversational question was met at first with silence as they turned it over in their head. When they answered, their tone was honeyed with false decorum that grated on the nerves.

“Merveilleuse, comme toujours. I took a walk under the flowering trees, dined on oysters along the fresh air of the river-” They showed their hand at this, as they could not resist stealing a glance at the cheese and bread temptingly piled on his plate. They swallowed dryly before resuming, the soft green of their eyes dropping to the needle in their lap. “And took a show at le théâtre before returning here, to ma charité pour les moins fortunés.”

Their attention had faltered as they stabbed the needle with particular vehemence and they cursed as they pricked the soft pad of their finger. Blood welled like a dark sphere of ink and they pressed their finger to their mouth.

They bristled as their eyes met, still sucking on the tip of their finger.

“All the better,” they snapped.

They gathered needle, thread and torn shirt in their hand and stood, the legs of the chair squealing against the wood of the floor.

“If you will excuse me,” they said sharply. “I am sure you have loftier matters to consider than how I occupy my time.”

Fabien lifted his head from his meal at their words, and arched one dark brow

"Oh, oui? Perhaps then a demonstration?"

When they lapsed into silence, he returned happily to his food. Bread was split between his agile fingers, soft cheese devoured with almost groaning satisfaction. His fingers were sticky with honey, his face and lean neck to a glowing ruddiness.

He listened to them speak, meeting the green of their eyes now and then. Their sneering description was met with a gentle nod or two, a polite smile, as though he was thoroughly entertained by their active social life.

When Émile made moves to cut their meeting short, the boy's manner changed with unnerving swiftness.

The knife he had been holding connected with the solid wood table. The sound of dented wood and vibrating metal echoed about the kitchen, as he plunged it deep into the polished oak surface with ferocious force.

"Sit. Down." He ordered, his voice rising to a level that was unusual for the boy.

Fabien thighs were tense beneath the table. His sharp shoulders primed like a wild cat ready to leap from his chair.

"Walk away from me a second time. Be my guest. You will find yourself not able to walk at all." He snarled, his temper hot at the back of his throat. "I have no need of your legs."

The boy's grey eyes were dark beneath the sweep of his unkempt hair. This was no empty threat to unsettle them. His eyes could not lie. There was no doubt that he would not hobble them if he had to.

The sudden dull thud of the blade striking the table caused Émile to visibly flinch, though they did not shrink back. They stopped short as though they’d been struck.

Their lip pulled away from their teeth at the command and their mouth parted but, mercifully, whatever retort they had ready died on their tongue as he continued.

There was hot, black malice simmering in the gaze that moved from the trembling handle of the knife to his unpitying eyes. Their fists were clenched so tightly at their side that the knuckles were white. Their calves trembled as though aching to test their luck once more and bolt from him, flee the darkened interior of the kitchen like a wild hare.

They appraised him in hateful silence, the line of their spine straight as a razor as they considered.

Whether it was the hard set of his eyes or some sliver of sense that hadn’t yet been throttled from their brain that convinced them, they conceded with a soft hiss against their teeth. They lowered slowly back to their chair, perched stiffly on the edge of the seat.

“There is no need for such melodrama, I think,” they said coolly. Their eyes did not meet his. Their hands were taken with a sudden restlessness he was sure to recognize, but after mindlessly patting their thigh did not wondrously produce a cigarette, they fell still.

Fabien's feline-sharp eyes did not once retreat from Émile. The urchin stalked them with quivering intensity. His muscles were taut as a wire trap, his hands clenched at either side of his plate.

When they reclaimed their seat, the boy rolled his shoulders. as though shrugging off a cloak. His breath settled, though he did not return to his food. Whatever brief delight he had found there was gone.

"Now that I have your full attention." He continued, dismissing their comment with a scathing flash of his eyes.

"I am pleased, non, delighted, that you made good use of your free time. I hope you savoured every second of it."

The boy's eyes were hard. His voice was stripped of its aloof politeness, every word  a sharpened flint shard in his mouth.

"Your wandering ends now." He said with unshakeable finality.

"You have proven to me, quite beautifully really, that you do not deserve it. Why should I grant you the luxury of free movement in this house?"

The boy leaned back in his chair to regard them.

"Such things should be earned, non?" He asked lightly.

"So I will be managing your time from now on."

The youth reached for his knife, and pulled it irritably from the table.

"Would you like me to go over how you will spend your time?"

Émile’s eyes stubbornly refused to find Fabien as he spoke. They wandered, instead, evenly along the wall behind his head as they inspected the shelves with keen interest.

A hot shudder of rage passed through their tense shoulders at mention of “deserve” and “luxury”. They leaned back in their seat in an attempt to disguise the hard set of their jaw, crossing their legs scornfully before them as though what he was saying was of little consequence.

Their gaze moved to the knife as he pulled it from the table. Light skittered dangerously along the thin edge and they contemplated the sharp blade silently before lifting their eyes to meet his. Their features were coolly impassive, carefully blank, though they could do little to conceal the anger that bled dark as blood behind the hard jade of their eyes.

When prompted to answer, there was a dangerous pause before the fierce grind of their teeth loosened enough for them to reply.

“Bien sûr,” they said, their imitation of rapt obedience a sharp mockery. “I am sure I will be stunned by another display of your brilliance.” The derision scorching through the word was hot enough to blister.

If Fabien was at all pleased by Émile’s anger, his expression did not reveal it. The boy’s displeasure was still palpable. His eyes had not lost their hardness, nor his voice its sharp edge. He continued to score the point of his knife in the dent it had made, as his eyes remained steady on his pet.

“When you fled from me this morning, you severed our agreement. You demonstrated a clear misunderstanding of your position here.” He said, his voice steady over the sound of metal scraping wood. “And your purpose to me.”

“You left me dissatisfied. You left my bed cold, and my room empty.”

The boy’s expression did not falter as he spoke. Nor as he finally set the knife down, and laced his fingers together.

“I have not asked much of you Émile. Very little, I think. Perhaps that is my mistake.”

The urchin straightened, and stretched out the tension from his legs and arms with a low sigh.

“When I am finished here, which will be soon I imagine. For some reason, I have now lost my appetite. But when I am finished, you will accompany me to my room. You will, whether you desire it or not, make up for the time we have lost.

Immediately, perhaps, later. I don’t know, I have fewer rules to follow than you. But I will take my pleasure, I will have you in whatever way I decide.

A smile returned to his lips, and it remained there, though there was little amusement or fond affection in it.

“After, you will not leave my room without permission. You will be there, willing and accessible, when I have need for you”

The boy crossed his arms over his slim chest as studied Émile. He watched to see his words take effect, for them to understand the limitations he imposed.

“Perhaps this is harsh? I am not against bartering with you. If you need to stretch your legs, to wander, to go to the library to read your precious books - I will demand payment. If I am satisfied, oui, perhaps you will get something in return. But I best be fully and completely satisfied, Émile.”

The youth rose from his chair, plate in hand, and set what remained on the side. He did not  soften and offer his pet scraps, if they were hungry, so be it. They would remain so. The youth was solemn, his expression devoid of its usual glinting attraction or playfulness. His words spoken like a business transaction, in which the favour lay in his hands.

Émile continued to meet Fabien’s eyes with a steely gaze as he spoke. That hot rage bubbled thick and black as tar beneath the surface, but they listened in silence, their gaze unwavering.

A shadow flickered across their face as he spoke of making up for lost time, but they swallowed this bitter decree with perfect, wordless fury. It was not until he delivered his edict that they should remain in his room that their stony composure cracked, their eyes glancing from him as though it hurt to look him in the eye.

Their breathing deepened as the repercussions of his words sank in. Soon, it was gasping from their chest in short, fast heaves as anger and some wild panic began to claw its way up their throat at the implication of being trapped.

“Non,” they said firmly, as though this would settle the matter.

Their sharp breaths broke into pieces, becoming ragged and staccato before growing into a barking laugh. It held no humour.

“Ah, très amusant,” they said in a hoarse whisper, still gasping for breath. There was a manic glint in their eye that foretold only disaster.

“But I have a better proposal.”

They leaned forward and clutched the corners of the table with fists balled tight as though resisting the urge to hit him, the green of their eyes venomous.

“How about, instead.” Their voice was low and vibrating with dangerous loathing. “You spend your time learning your letters so that one day, si Dieu le veut, you are fit to lécher la merde de mes bottes.”

They stood so abruptly the chair fell back and slammed on the ground with a sharp crack, the bundle of cloth in their lap falling to the floor. They did not dart for the door, did not seek to flee, but took several quick steps back further into the room, away from him, pacing like a wild animal cornered in its den.

“You are so stupid,” they hissed. “Tellement putain de pathétique. You want so badly to be like him.”

The sleeves of their shirt prevented their nails from raking across their inner arm and instead they found relief scratching frantically at the soft skin of their inner wrist, raising angry welts red as the thread that bound their forearm.

“You think he loves you?” they spat. “You think if you try hard enough he’ll ever love you? How pitiful, how stupid can you be.”

They shook their head, dark strands of tousled hair falling messily about their red-rimmed eyes.

“Just let me be. I’m not yours to do with as you please,” they snarled.

Fabien watched Émile carefully from beneath the tangled sweep of his pale hair. He did not move towards them, only watched as their rage bubbled molten hot to the surface.

It took all the boy's will to remain still and steady. He swallowed his anger at their first strike, though it escaped his throat in a hot pant.

"And just so, your time in confinement lengthens." He murmured. His hands were trembling, his grey eyes deeply wounded.

The boy fell silent as they continued. He allowed them to speak without interruption, gave them the space to be their own undoing.

"Have you finished?" He asked sharply. The boy began to circle the table, and move slowly towards them.

Émile had already chosen a difficult route. Their fallen chair had created a barricade that meant giving the urchin the slip would not be easy. The youth continued to advance on them, blocking their way until there was only cold stone to back into. If they tried their luck and attempted to spring past him, the boy was primed to catch them and fling them back. There was no escape, not this time.

When he close enough, Fabien struck them firm across the mouth. It was painful, no doubt, but a mere distraction.

The boy grasped Émile by their beautiful neck, just beneath their perfectly sculpted jaw. Their graceful swan throat was easy to ensnare, and it fit almost too perfectly in his palm. He pushed their spine into the unyielding stone wall with considerable force.

He lifted them until they were level with eyes, only a few inches, but enough to cause breathless discomfort. They would have to stand on the tips of their toes to avoid choking in his hand.

"And is he here right now, you misérable avorton?" He hissed. "Does he observe your little brattish performance? Do I play the part well? Do I make a good impression?"

The boy's hand tightened. His face was close enough to kiss them. And there was, if only briefly, something about the way he looked at them which suggested he was achingly tempted. Something in the way he lingered on their gasping lips too long. That his grip might soften, his mouth meet theirs so he could force his way in, and taste their poisonous tongue.

"I am not using you to court Monsieur's favour. Like something so trite as this would turn his head." The boy's expression had unknowingly softened. There was indeed love in his voice when he spoke of the Master of the house, a fierce affection that did nothing to weaken Émile's theory.

"I am using you because you are mine. Mine to be used, over and over, and over." This seemed to awaken something in him. His hips pressed with weakening patience against Émile.

"You exist purely, simply, for my benefit. Is that not a relief to you? Ah chérie, it should be."

The boy's knee connected upwardly with the tender flesh of their stomach. If his violence had been mild thus far, this was intended to hurt, to knock the air from their lungs.

"Now we are going to my room. And I am going to fuck you."

Émile did not shrink back from his stalking approach. Something half-feral had overtaken them, visible in the fevered madness of rage glinting in their expression and the surge of their chest with their hot breath. As he continued toward them they faced him squarely, head lifted combatively to meet him and fists clenched tight at their sides.

Radiating contempt though they were, they still possessed the savage beauty of a wild animal as he lifted his hand against them.

They were expecting the blow but that did little to soften the shock of pain that snapped their head to the side. The breath left their chest in a hiss. When they raised their head their eyes were wet, the defiant set of their jaw daring him to strike them again.

They did not resist when he took them by the throat. He could feel the rapid pulse of their heart beneath the delicate skin as he wrapped his hand around their exquisite neck. Their skin was feverishly hot. They strained into his palm like a muzzled dog, brazen and bristling and prone to bite.

Their back hit the wall hard enough to force a gasp of air from their lungs. They fought him, twisting with surprising dexterity as their fingernails dug into the skin of the wrist.

Their squirming ceased as he lifted them and their back arched as they were forced to their toes. They had to pant to draw breath and it revealed the pink of their wet tongue.

"Va te faire foutre," they spat in a heaved gasp.

When he pressed his hips to them their pelvis rose to grind insistently back against him, their body writhing against his hand for the leverage they lacked.

The sudden jolt of his knee connecting with their soft stomach robbed them of their breath in a wheeze. They tried instinctively to double over but were restrained by the hand that held them. When they found their breath again, it was in a low groan. They were shivering all over in some ecstasy of pain. Their limbs were slack and yielding.

Their eyes were hazy, glazed with hurt, but they found sudden sharp clarity, black pupils contracting when they turned their head to meet his gaze.

"Come on then," they snarled, their voice hoarse. The words fell somewhere between threat and impatient provocation. The impact of his hand had coaxed a welt to bloom red across their pretty mouth.

Fabien shifted a thigh between Émile’s legs, as he continued to press himself hungrily against their body. His desire for them was impossible to disguise. It could be felt in the growing hardness beneath his clothes, in his heavy lidded gaze which roved over them with increasing urgency. His hand released their throat just enough to grant them a deeper breath.

The glimpse of their tongue was too much for him to bear. The boy pressed his mouth to theirs after their scathing declaration. He groaned softly into their lips, reddened and warm from his hand. His tongue curled against theirs with firm insistence, desperate to taste them still hot and angry against him.

He forced himself to sever the contact between them, his lips wet against their cheek as his grip on their throat tightened again. He crushed their throat hard enough to have them writhing pleasingly against him, as he rubbed himself up and against their body.

The urchin finally released his punishing grip on their throat, and his leg moved away to allow Émile to find their feet. They were barely allowed to regain a breath or two before he struck them again on the cheek, harder this time, enough to entice fresh tears to the beautiful viper green of their eyes. He kept them trapped against his firm chest, the press of his body against theirs growing ever insistent and completely inescapable.

“Oui. Oui, when I am ready. You do not order me, Émile. I am in no rush.” He breathed, as his lips brushed against their neck.

The boy could not resist running his thumb over the plush curve of their lower lip, and he shivered as he did so.

“Down. On your knees.” He breathed.

His hand slipped down across the curve of their neck. He stroked over the beautiful sweep of their fading finery, before his fingers clamped on the shoulder. Forgetful of the injury, he squeezed the tender spot where his teeth had sunk into their flesh. The boy urged them to the floor with firm insistence, down until their eyes were level with his pelvis.

The urchin’s hand moved to unfasten the fabric at his waist, and lower it enough that his firm cock could be shrugged free.

“Maintenant ouvre ta bouche, putain.” The boy urged. His fingers grazed over their hair, before his palm came to rest at the back of their skull.

Émile was beyond attempting to conceal how receptive they were to the hand that crushed the air from their throat, how the firmness growing against their stomach made their skin hot with animal want. They ground hard against his thigh between their legs, the roll of their hips audacious and angry as they choked against his palm.

Their mouth opened furiously to him. He could not help but discover how wet he had made them as he groaned against their lips. They sucked hungrily on the tip of his tongue, their teeth scraping his bottom lip when he pulled away.

He could smell the sweet, creamy musk of their skin mingling with the smoke of Fakhir's room that still lingered in his clothes as he rubbed himself against them. They choked against his tightening grip around their throat. Their lips were parted, their mouth breathless, but they did not try to prise his hand from their neck as they shuddered and writhed against the hard press of his body.

Their breath came in a hoarse gasp when he released them. Their legs trembled from the strain of having been forced on their bare toes and they sagged against the wall, grateful for the respite.

The sound they made as he struck them was nearly a whimper. Black hair obscured their features but when they turned back to him, their eyes were glazed with a wet sheen of want. Their hips rocked against him in short, needy thrusts, their lips parted.

He did not have to repeat the instruction to kneel. Though the ache of his hand pressing thoughtlessly into the bite mark on their shoulder had their spine arching, they did not need the coaxing. They fell impatiently to hands and knees, their lips nuzzling eagerly between his thighs.

They were a pretty picture on all fours, the elegant line of their collarbone just visible beneath the collar of their fine shirt. Delicate purple bruises were already beginning to form on the pale skin of their throat.

He would struggle to unfasten his clothes as the insistent press of Émile's head was obstinately in the way. They did not wait passively for him but hungrily tongued the outline of his hard cock through the fabric, their breath shuddering hot and their mouth leaving damp spots where they dragged their lips against him.

They only reluctantly pulled away at his command, rocking back to their calves and into his palm at the back of their head. The charming green of their delicately black-lined eyes was still hard with angry contempt when they lifted to him, though now they were wet with something else entirely.

His pet's lips parted and they obediently opened their beautiful mouth, exposing their white teeth and the wet curl of their silken tongue to him.

Fabien could not disguise the animated tremble of his expressive hands when Émile turned so compliant. His heart skipped in his chest with delight when they moved as bid. The sight of them knelt so willing at his feet was almost his undoing. He fought with himself for a moment, the desire to simply drag them off and fill them all consuming.

But the boy held back to regarded them, to savour the image of them knelt before him. Their green eyes turned up towards him so beautifully, their lips glistening and bee stung from the strike of his hand.

The heat of their mouth against his clothed skin made the his breath come in sharp pants. He pressed himself against their lips, his breath ragged in his throat.

"That's better." He managed to rasp encouragingly.

The boy grew unsteady at their willing enthusiasm. He had expected some sulky obedience, but not this bold enthusiasm. The sensation of their tongue rolling eagerly against him caused his knees to weaken. He placed a hand, palm flat to the wall to brace himself. His cock twitched responsively again their tongue, and the boy swore under his breath.

"Oui, let me see that pretty mouth of yours." He said breathlessly. "Very good."

Fabien's fingers stroked affectionately through Émile's inky hair. He scraped his nails over their freshly shorn scalp with doting fondness. The gesture was not unlike how one might stroke a well behaved hound.

"My good Émile. Let's see how ready you are for me."

The boy brushed the back of his fingers across their lower lip. His hand was outstretched to them, as lordly and expectant as a monarch awaiting an appropriate greeting. No doubt it would cause some spark of displeasure. Their aforementioned rodent king demanding complete satisfaction. He slipped two fingers deep into the heat of their mouth, trembling as he did so.

The boy waited in perfectly agony for his request to be fulfilled. When satisfied, his hand moved to grip the base of his cock. The youth's eyes were glazed with arousal, and words were proving difficult.

"Take me." He rasped.

He held himself towards their lips, hot and twitching as he waited for his request to be fulfilled.