[Mature] Light the Match

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Very Late Night, 28 Roalis, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Demkaih set the bottle back behind them; there was considerably less of the rich red wine than there had been when it was first opened. Niccolette could taste what they had drank on her lips; she could feel it all through her, warm and pleasant, a comfortable buzz sitting atop the leftover adrenaline from the fight. The conquest still thrummed through her, the memory of the island she had left in ashes glowing somewhere deep inside. She did not reach for the bottle; she did not need any more, nor want it, not just now.

“You killed a man,” Niccolette said. She did not shy away from the words, although there was something - almost a gentleness - to her voice. “If you had not, he would have killed you or me, if he could have.” There was the faintest edge of a smirk to those words. Niccolette shrugged. “He chose to come to that island, to try and lay a trap for me. If he did not know the risks, it is because he was a fool. This is conquest. There is no other way.”

Niccolette was watching Demkaih; the older galdor had given up the pretense of looking away from her. His teeth tangled in his lower lip, and she felt him freeze when her hands lifted to the tie of her robe, even his breath hitching in his throat.

Niccolette held still and patient when Demkaih reached for her; there was a little smile on her face. She shivered as the backs of his fingers traced down her bare arm. She did not lean closer to him, but she was turned, facing him, on the chair and she did not move away either. His finger crept back up, slowly, winding its way around the bruise he had left behind on her skin, tracing the contours of it. It did not quite hurt, but Niccolette felt it, very keenly, all the same.

Niccolette had been award of the surge of some taut emotion in his field; she welcomed it deeper into hers, and let it dissipate in the mona-thick air between them. She felt no such; not sadness, not anger, not hesitation or embarrassment. Not guilt and not shame, either. Demkaih’s throat moved, and he looked up at her, and the curve of Niccolette’s smile widened, ever so slightly.

He pulled his hand back as if he might have hurt her; there was something rough beneath the surface of his usually controlled voice. “Do not apologize,” Niccolette murmured, with a faint shake of her head.

The Bastian’s eyebrows lifted at the mention of her husband. She did not move to cover herself again, to tug the robe back up where Demkaih had slipped it down. It held still on her other shoulder, although only just, loose and open, the tie still undone.

“Uzoji is not here,” Niccolette said, gently. She had not flinched when Demkaih spoke his name; she did not flinch when she herself did. There was no guilt or shame from her in the air around them, only a further softening of her field. They were mingled deep together now; Niccolette had let him in, although she wondered if Demkaih knew how quickly she could force him back out - if she chose.

“I am,” Niccolette continued, firelight glittering in her eyes. Demkaih was breathing shallowly, every movement of his bare chest visible in the gleam of the stove’s light. He looked at her once more, and confessed that he was not a good man. Niccolette smiled a little broader, and did not look away. He leaned in, closer.

The Bastian reached up, and cupped the Mugrobi’s cheek in her hand, as best as she could. Against it, her hand was small and slight; her fingers, fully spread, would barely have covered him. Her thumb stroked, gently, back and forth over skin of his cheek; she traced it down, slowly, to brush over the corner of his lips.

Niccolette came closer, then, close enough that her leg brushed his through two layers of silk and the heavy cotton of his towel; Niccolette could feel the contact fully, the hard muscle solid against her.

Niccolette had never been one to wait, to hesitate, to delay; she had no interest in pretense, wine and battle hot in her veins. The Bastian did not wait for Demkaih to make up his mind, to decide what the value of her husband’s memory was worth to him, to worry about what being a good man entailed. Instead, she eased her hand back away, still soft against his cheek, and kissed him.

[Demkaih Alkrim]

27th Roalis, 2719
DREAD ISLE | 30 On The Clock

Her eyes held his, rich and full of depth and life, the lingering aftereffects of the battle on the Isle glowing somewhere in the fires within, and as much as he tried to convince himself he could be a better man the older Mugrobi found himself fixated on the Bastian. She didn’t move to cover the soft, freshly bathed skin that he’d exposed, taunting almost in the warmth of the hot embers burning in the fireplace.

“Uzoji is not here,”

Demkaih swallowed again, unable to hide the surge of emotions that filled his glamour, engulfed and soothed by the swathe of the younger woman’s own field. Their auras were merged, closeknit and entwined, and as shameful as it was—as it should be—the blue eyed merchant leaned closer to the galdor. It was intimate, wrong, but he was too full of wine and the events of the evening to care as much as he should.

“I am,”

She faced him, smiling in the bask of his shame, frankly honest and owning her feelings and thoughts. There was no struggle of shame in her delicate features, so assured of what she wanted in this moment. A soft hand reached for his cheek, curling against the early rasp of stubble along the edge of his jaw, freezing the Mugrobi in place as a gentle thumb brushed against the corner of his mouth.

This was dishonorable. Niccolette was the widow of his friend, more than that, a man who was like a little brother. He was older, and wiser, and knew better than this. For so long now, the spice merchant had kept affairs of the heart aside because he had focused on Orianna’s wellbeing and her future. There was no time for distractions, when there were crops to be harvested and deals to be brokered and shipments to oversee and investors to be wooed. Sure, Demkaih had indulged in his share of one night stands and brief flurries of friends-with-benefits, but he’d never found himself captivated enough to want someone. He’d never marveled over the fire in one’s heart or the grandeur of one’s strength. Niccolette was more than just someones wife. She was as dangerous and as powerful as the waters of the Great Turga, and as wise and clever as any shadowcat. Her passion and determination drew his attention almost as much as the curve of her lips or the whisper of her breath.

She deserved more than the wick that pretended to be a galdor sitting here in her kitchen like some lovesick puppy.

The Bastian shifted closer, her leg brushing against the layers of silk and toweling, causing the Mugrobi’s jaw to clench as he held himself in check against the rush of wanting that pooled at the base of his spine.

Walk away. Sober up. Sleep on it. Get up and walk away.

There were no chances to act upon the thoughts that clawed at the back of his mind, as the younger brunette closed the space between them and pressed perfect lips against his own. Demkaih caught his breath, held it for a moment as the Bastian crossed over the line that he was so very determined to stand back from. His heart raced in his chest, and his hands fisted in the white cloth against his legs, knowing what the right thing to do was. And yet—

Clock it.

Lifting a hand from the towel, the dark skinned man brushed his palm against her cheek, threading his fingers through the glorious tresses that he’d so desperately wanted to touch. It was just as soft as it had appeared, and Demkaih couldn’t help the soft groan of defeat that escaped him as he closed his eyes and deepened the kiss, curling his hand into Niccolette’s hair with a gentle yet firm movement to draw her closer. His other hand moved to snake around her waist, resting against the small of her back as he broke away from her mouth to nuzzle against the soft curls, brushing against the curve of her neck with warm breath and soft lips. Stroking his fingers through her brunette locks, the Mugrobi trailed to the golden fabric of her robe perched still on the other shoulder, pushing it away and nibbling kisses down her throat and across her shoulder. Returning to the Bastian’s lips, Demkaih lingered, before finally pausing to catch his breath. One hand curled into the loose golden fabric at the small of her back, the other moving to rest against her ribs.

“Hulali forgive me.” He muttered huskily, letting his eyes open and roam over the delicate features of her face and the curve of still hidden skin that he’d seen once before but in a far less carnal context. There was restraint in his pause, obvious effort to stop himself from taking too much too quickly. The older man inhaled shakily, meeting Niccolette’s eyes again with a silent question. A final ask.

Was this what she truly wanted?

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Very Late Night, 28 Roalis, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Demkaih was stiff against her, almost trembling. A sharp shock had rippled through him at her touch, and he held, scarcely breathing. The only movement was his hands, tightening in the fabric of his towel, clenching harder. Niccolette was close enough that the living conversationalist could hear the pounding of his heart – could feel it, practically, against his bare chest, pumping blood all through his veins.

The moment stretched on.

Niccolette felt it, then; anger, coiling in her stomach, burning through her. You coward, she thought, eyes flickering open to look at Demkaih. You coward –

He moved.

Niccolette pressed against him, not a yielding but a rising, a joining. He pulled her closer with both hands, one tangled in her hair and the other settling against her back, and she urged him on in every voiceless way she had. He bared her other shoulder, and she felt the brush of his lips and the prickle of his cheek.

Niccolette had not been able to see more than the hint of movement through the flames and smoke, but she could imagine it well enough – Demkaih in sharp, sweeping motion, those vicious blades of his digging and biting deep. A coiled spring, she thought, her hands freely exploring the contours of him, his chest and arms, fingers digging lightly in.

He pulled away, breathing hard, whispering to his god.

Niccolette smiled, slightly swollen lips finding a slow, wicked curve. She tugged the last of the robe’s tie apart, and shrugged the pale golden silk off, letting Uzoji’s robe tumble fully from her shoulders, down her back, pooling against Demkaih’s hand. She gave the pause no more than that, and then she was pressed against him, her hands searching, questing, finding, and she was urging him on once more – urging them both on, forward, together, towards a place beyond words.

The only light in the kitchen was the firelight of the stove, glowing a soft, warm-red, and whatever pale light from the stars and Benea’s half-covered face filtered in through the branches that overhung the window. It rippled patterns against whatever it caught, whether the gleam of the heavy table’s wood or the damp dark fabric of Demkaih’s clothing. It shone through the two glass bottles, and sparked flames of its own in different dark red wines, however much was remaining. It was enough to see by; it was enough to feel by.

A time came when Niccolette’s eyes opened, when her breathing slowed and settled, and her heart, too, quieted its racing. She let out a noise that was not quite a sigh; she shifted, and pushed her hair back from her forehead with one slightly shaking hand, and her eyes closed once more. She mastered her breath, the faintest edge of a rhythm washing through it. Calm rippled out through her field, cooling the flames of heavy emotion that had so recently burned through it.

Niccolette was hot to the touch still; it was not a dry, feverish heat, but one which was almost warm and comfortable. All the same, it meant the night air prickled uncomfortably over bare skin; she shifted a little more, her eyes opening, and looked at the golden silk robe draped over the back of a chair.

Niccolette shrugged herself away, slowly; she stood, on somewhat uneasy legs, conscious of an ache through her body, the strain of the last few days far from dealt with. Her pale skin was bruised; there were many more than just the handprint on her arm. She was brushed green-yellow across her ribs, with another splotch of dark purple and blue on her hip, and another almost overlaying the earlier bruises. There were bruises like fingerprints on one wrist, and the arm Demkaih had not grabbed had a new bruise, a vicious streak line a line painted against the outside of it – the only reminder left of the bullet which had brushed her earlier in the night.

The first movements were a little stiff, careful; Niccolette settled into them, slowly, taking her time. She took the robe from the chair, and draped it over her shoulders; she did not bother with the sleeves or the tie. Niccolette sat, slowly, back on the edge of the table, one bare foot resting on the seat of a chair, and closed her eyes again, catching her breath once more. She did, at least, brush her hair out from the back of it, letting it tumble free over the soft fabric.

Amidst all the bruises and scrapes, though, there was only one scar to speak of. Beneath the edges of the robe, still just visible, was the edge of a hand-shaped scar; the fingers wrapped around her waist, spanning from the top of her hip over her lowest ribs, and the palm rested, solidly, at the edge of her stomach. Every line of it was etched onto her skin, carved through the slightly raised burn scar.

[Demkaih Alkrim]

27th Roalis, 2719
DREAD ISLE | 30 On The Clock

It had been the wrong thing to do, in any place and any time, what he’d just done was entirely the wrong thing to do. A brother, not by blood, betrayed in death. Instead of focusing his energy in prayer or the pursuit of these newfound things, the Mugrobi had let weakness overtake him. He’d fallen prey to temptation and had tumbled willingly into its sweet embrace.

It had been the wrong thing to do, but it had been glorious.

Demkaih’s heartbeat still thrummed loudly in his ears, and his body felt as though it were made of lead. Too much wine made his head spin slightly, and eased the aches the man absolutely knew would come about by morning. As the brunette shifted, the blue eyed merchant reached for still somewhat damp dark pants, tugging them on before coming to rest against the table beside Niccolette. Her warm, tanned skin was covered now by the golden fabric of her robe, but he could remember how it felt. Reaching for the bottle that had been so hastily shoved aside, the tall Mugrobi was thankful that it hadn’t fallen off the table, taking a good swig before handing it over to the delicate galdor.

“I did not expect this night to be so…eventful.” Demkaih said quietly, enjoying the way the low light of the fire caught the damp curve of exposed skin, unashamedly joyful that he could retain the memories of this evening. Their actions had done nothing to quell the warmth that was burgeoning in his chest, the lithe young woman as lovely as he’d been imagining. Instead of the need to collect his things and depart, like so many one-night trysts, the merchant wanted to stay and talk and be more than just a passing ship in the night. The bandaged wound along his torso ached a little, and the bleeding had seeped slightly to mar the creamy cloth a little, but it had been worth it.

“I suppose now we should figure out where to go from here.” It might be that the man meant more than just chasing down rumors, intoxicated by more than just the rich red wine that stained his lips, though he was not entirely clear on that point. His cheeks felt warm—though there were plenty of reasons why that could be—the older Mugrobi was unsure of how to navigate these things welling inside. He wasn’t a lovestruck teenager chasing pretty girls along the Turga, he was Demkaih Alkrim, the heir to his fathers legacy. He had much that he needed to maintain, much to protect.

Including his heritage. It wasn’t just Orianna that couldn’t know, not just his business partners.

If the Bastian found out he was not what he appeared…after what they’d just…

Never. It could never be told.

"There is much to understand, I think. Though, I do not have the mind for it this night." The dark skinned merchant followed up, as though to cover the way his pulse fluttered as he thought of the young woman's lips curved in a slow smile and the smell of her soft brown tresses.

His gaze drifted down, catching the handprint against her side, a burn so perfectly outlined it was impossible to see it as anything else.

He’d seen it now, along with all her other marks, unhidden and bared like stories across her skin.

“What did this?” The older man finally asked, gesturing with a familiarity to brush against the curve of what could have been a thumb against her hip, noting it was slightly smaller than his own.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Very, Very Late Night, 28 Roalis, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Niccolette sat, her eyes closed, feeling the lapping warmth of the fire against her skin, the faint brush of the silk robe. She heard Demkaih shifting next to her.

He spoke; Niccolette opened her eyes to see his hand hovering before her, holding the bottle of wine. She took it without a word; she took a long drink, her throat moving lightly as she swallowed, and then set it down between them.

“Mm,” Niccolette murmured between closed lips; she glanced away towards the fire when Demkaih asked where they should go from here. A city of flowers where no bloom lives, Niccolette thought, closing her eyes once more.

Demkaih spoke again before she could think through the rest of the riddle; Niccolette’s eyes opened once more, and she looked at him, quiet. The Bastian reached for the bottle of wine once more, and took another sip; she held it lightly between her hands, one curled around the neck and the other the body, watching the firelight gleam against dark glass and dark liquid.

She did not flinch or pull away at the brush of Demkaih’s fingers against her side; she looked down, watching his hand, and the dark shadow he cast from the firelight. She had supposed at first she would lose sensation there; it was not uncommon with burn scars. She had not, but it felt different in a way which was hard to describe. Not muted, precisely; just different.

The feel of it, too, was strange beneath her fingertips; familiar-unfamiliar, like touching him.

Niccolette felt her breath catch in her throat. She knew where she was going, then; she did not try to avoid it. There was no other current she could talk, no path through the night and the stars which could lift her up over it, or let her duck beneath it. She faced it, squarely, and let the grief take her.

Niccolette set the bottle down once more. “Backlash,” the Bad Brother said, shifting to look at Demkaih. “Three and a half years ago.” She reached across herself, with her right hand; her fingertips traced the edge of the scar, slowly. She did not need to look.

“It was a favor for Hawke; it should have been nothing,” Niccolette shrugged her shoulders, the pale golden fabric of her robe shifting. “A meeting with some ersehole who thought himself too good for the taxes of this harbor.”

“It went badly,” Niccolette said with a little grimace. She thought of traps willingly sprung; she thought of conquest in the dark, and how it had sang in her veins. She remembered turning to Uzoji and seeing the blood spreading through his sweater, and bubbling up on his lips.

“Uzoji was stabbed here,” Niccolette’s hand came from her side, and brushed Demkaih’s side, low beneath the ribs, “and here.” Her hand came up, and settled over his lung; one finger drew a slow, careful line between two of his ribs. There was no hesitation in the saying of his name, even now.

Her hand came away; it settled back against her side. “He was dying,” Niccolette said, her voice calm and even on the word. “I held him to me,” she let the palm of her hand rest against the scar, slowly, her fingers settling into all its contours, “his hand against me, and healed him.”

“The mona resisted; they do, sometimes, according to their will,” Niccolette continued. “I refused to let go, according to mine.” Her voice was steady and even, the words carefully enunciated through the thickness of the wine. “My hands were numb, and yet I held him; my lungs filled with pressure, and yet I spoke.” She was not looking at Demkaih, anymore, but the flames; her words drifted between the rhythm of her breath. Tears welled up in her eyes; the first one broke and trailed down her cheek, and left a droplet on the golden fabric of Uzoji’s robe. “The mona broke in the air around me, but when I curled the spell, he breathed still.”

“I would pay this price again,” Niccolette said, evenly, “a thousand times.” She still looking at the fire; she did not crumple or cover herself. But tears flowed steadily down her cheeks in a hot rush; they caught her breath then, and her rhythm collapsed. Niccolette shuddered, finally, and turned away from the man on the table beside her. She wept; there was no mistaking it, no pretending otherwise. She cried, for there was nothing else she could do.

[Demkaih Alkrim]

27th Roalis, 2719
DREAD ISLE | 30 On The Clock

He felt it in her field first, before anything was spoken aloud, a rush of grief that flooded his senses like the Turga in the rainy season. Demkaih immediately wished he could take back his question, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat as his own body responded empathetically to the young woman's pain. He didn’t reach for the bottle where it was placed, meeting her fire-lit gaze with a creased brow, holding it with his own.

“It went badly,”

The merchant considered that to be an understatement, judging by her tone and her aura. He didn’t look when Niccolette demonstrated exactly where Uzoji had been hurt, skin tingling as though it echoed the wounds of the man he’d cared for like a brother. Demkaih wasn’t well versed in anatomy, but he knew enough about bodies to understand the finality of those types of wounds.

Three and a half years ago, Hulali had prepared the gangplank for Uzoji. And he had denied it.

Monic will, there was no one person who could say why the sentience that gave them magic chose who it chose to work for, or why it did what it did. To force it though, Niccolette had risked both of their lives and maybe worse for a galdor, their connection to the mona. She had risked everything for the young man whom she’d loved so dearly, who had loved her so hard in return.

Gods, he was an ersehole.

The tears came then, and the powerful Bastian who had been so stoic and so angry when he first met her, who had not once since the funeral let her guard down, finally let herself fall. She turned her beautiful face away from him, weeping openly in a way which Demkaih felt like his heart was being torn from his chest. He’d been right before. He was not a good man. To imagine, for a moment, that he could walk even a step in Uzoji’s shoes was a despicable act. The blood on his skin, staining his pants, was nothing compared to the stain on his ohante.

“Niccolette.” The older Mugrobi said softly, shifting carefully to turn the young woman back to him, cautious of the claws he absolutely knew she possessed. Wrapping his arms around her, the merchant hugged the brunette closely, confident in their intimacy and in too much wine. He held her, for as long as she needed, for as long as she wanted, the grief of her field lacing with the growing rage in his aura. Uzoji’s death had been asked for, but by Hulali’s will not by the will of men. His soul was unrested, abandoned by the cycle, chum for the sharks lest they get vengeance. Lest they make it right. Something about the raw, genuine tears from the petite galdor stirred more than just the anger in Demkaih. He felt it, in his chest. Inappropriate and pathetic, but inescapable, the way his heart broke for her.

“You should never have to pay this price. Not then, not now, not ever.” The dark man’s voice rumbled in his chest, gruff with the emotion that he struggled to keep in check. His lips brushed her hair, blue eyes staring at the fire and heart rampant in his chest.

“We will find them, eh’a—eh’axipbetrayers.” Demkaih covered the slip with a hitch of his breath, as though he’d been caught by his feelings half way through word, cutting short the affectionate term before it had life.

Eh’ama.of my heart

“We will find them, and I promise you Niccolette, we will slit every one of their throats and their blood will stain the waters of the Turga with Hulali’s rapture.” He continued, fervent in his words. His blades had tasted blood now, they would seek more. Hulali demanded vengeance.

And he, devout of the Fish Headed God, would offer it gladly.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Very, Very Late Night, 28 Roalis, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Demkaih wrapped his arms around her and Niccolette stiffened; she did not pull away, but she went taut and tense against him, all sharp angles. She was still sobbing, and it showed no signs of letting up; she had yet to run out of tears. She would have thought she had cried a bathtub’s worth, or perhaps several, and yet all the washing in the world could not scrub this away.

Demkaih’s arms held her.

Slowly - slowly - Niccolette softened. It was a gradual, incremental thing; it was her hands, first, where they had fisted tight in the golden robe, and then her shoulders, and all the rest of her too. She sagged against him - not quick like a rushing of floodwaters, but slowly, steadily, like a faint trickle through a cracked vessel.

In time - in time - Niccolette turned and settled her face into the hard plane of his chest. She was still crying, then, but it was softer, a trembling of her shoulders and a hitching of her breath rather than the all out sobbing of minutes prior.

Her grief did not lessen, precisely, nor did the deep blue haze color shifting the air all around her, perceptible-imperceptible. But Demkaih’s anger burned drifting through it; she felt it, and slowly, she responded. It was a soft, muted red-shift, faint tendrils of color spiraling through. She settled into it, the anger comfortable and familiar, and she shuddered a little, and closed her eyes against him.

It wasn’t the towering intensity of all out fury, but she felt the anger glowing warm through her, and she could breathe through it, a little more, until she was calm once more.

By the time Demkaih spoke the tears had stopped, although Niccolette’s damp face was still curled into the place beneath his shoulder, where it met his chest. She could have laughed then; perhaps she did, a muted bubble of a snort against his skin.

Yes, Niccolette thought, she would have to pay this price. She knew what it was she did, every time she called upon the mona. It was not costless; it could never be. She knew what she might pay, each and every time she cast; she knew the price that would come for her in the end.

She understood, too, what this quest for vengeance might cost. She understood and she offered it all - everything she had and more - on the burning pyre of his death.

Demkaih spoke of slit throats and blood in the waters of the Turga. Niccolette smiled, curled against him. She straightened up slowly, one palm settled against his chest to ease the way. “Yes,” the galdor said. She looked at him, and met his bright blue gaze. She did not say more, not with words, but the last of the blueshift shuddered and faded, and for a moment it was all red, a joining of her fury to his.

Niccolette’s eyes fluttered shut, and opened once more. She combed her hair back off her forehead and sighed, softly. She was close to Demkaih still, close enough to feel his warmth. She turned to him, looking up at him, and found a very different smile.

“Come to bed with me,” Niccolette said, quietly. Her voice did not rise, but it was a question all the same, an offer laid out between them.

[Demkaih Alkrim]

27th Roalis, 2719
DREAD ISLE | 30 On The Clock

He sensed it, like the coppery taste of blood on one’s tongue, tangy and warm like the slowly building red seething rage in her field that rose to meet his own like some shadowy beast of the depths. It overtook the sadness, a simmering storm on the horizon, full of promises and danger. The wick—a galdor in her eyes—embraced it into his own. Bolstered his aura with her responsive silent agreement. It was her bastion, a place in the sorrow that drew the worst and the best of her. A safe haven amongst the vicious rapids that swirled around her. And it called to him, held him prisoner in its touch.

Something was there, between them now. A bond. Forged in blood and sealed with a kiss. A pact. For Uzoji.

He spoke, and for a moment the Mugrobi thought she would laugh at his words. Instead, she quietened, and sat up, a hand on his chest and hazel eyes holding his gaze. A single word escaped her, and with it any remnants of the younger woman’s overwhelming sorrow dissipated. Fury, rage, hate. That was all there was.

That was all that was needed.

The Bastian seemed to gather herself, taking a breath and pushing her hair away from her forehead, before smiling back at the merchant. Demkaih felt a surge of warmth in his chest, spreading through him, unable to look away from that face.

“Come to bed with me,”

It was a question, and yet was not, spoken simply and without inflection. A statement of someone who didn’t need anything from anyone. The voice of a woman who had resolved herself to whatever this was, and one that knew in herself what she was. The tall, dark Mugrobi realized that he would not—could not—refuse her. Not here, in this. Not in the future, whatever would come. He would follow Niccolette to whatever end this journey wrought for him, hidden behind Uzoji’s vengeance. Motivated by something he was adamant to deny. Shamed by the tension in his chest.

By Hulali she was going to be the death of him, he was sure of it.

Rising from the table carefully, Demkaih picked up the bottle of wine and held Niccolette’s hand delicately as though assisting her from a carriage. He allowed a small curl of a smile to touch his lips, before escorting the Bastian to her bedroom with no further words required.

Not tonight, at least.