It was long past midnight by the time we were spent, now only sharing my bed for warmth and company. At least, I was – his own motives for staying, I couldn't know. But as much as I was loathe to admit it, I was glad. It was comforting to feel his body, solid and warm, beside me. The rise and fall of his chest, the little laughing rumble he gave when I sighed into his neck. My lips grazed the stubble of his jaw, hand tracing down his chest. I still felt divets there, countless little scars. How many were from the traitor? How many from the harrada in Oblivion? Or were they from long before he knew me, from his days training with my mother?
A twinge of pain at the thought. Still, it was soothed by not being alone. Even if it meant laying with him, it was better than laying alone, cold and trapped with my thoughts. Besides, part of me dared to hope he cared, in his own way. Was being possessive akin to being protective?
I took comfort in it, even as part of me recoiled.
"Lost in thought, pet?"
"Mm?" I had straddled his back then, rubbing my hands firmly up and down the length of it. His muscles pressed back against my touch, molding and relaxing under my hands. "Yes. I'm a scholar, remember?"
He snickered into the pillow. For a moment, I had to admire the view – the taut, lank lines of his shoulders and back, flexed from his crossed arms supporting his head. The way his hair fell untied, loose and wild, perfect for running my fingers through. I indulged for a moment, earning another little rumble of a purr. "I didn't think they taught such things at the Arcane University."
I grinned. "Oh, that's exactly where I learned it. Why do you think all mages wear robes? Easy access." In the hush and warmth of my bedroom, lit only by a flickering candle, I felt safe. The rest of the world, our arguments, the shrine and the laughing echo, all had melted outside of here. I'd have to face it again eventually, but not yet. Not quite yet.
"Tell me something about yourself." I was struck with a sudden thirst to know more about him then, for pillow talk, my head tilting. He snorted into the pillow.
"And what would you want to hear, my dear?"
"I don't know. Something." I remembered the long nights Bolor and I would spend together, trading strange little facts and stories about ourselves. "Your name is Breton, but you look Imperial. Act it, too."
He snickered. "And what does that entail, pet?"
"Oh, you know." I waved a hand in the dark, dismissing the question. "Charming, smug, slimy, all of that. But you didn't answer my question."
"I'll take that as a compliment." He sat silent for a moment beneath me. "My mother was a Breton, my father an Imperial."
"But you didn't take his name?"
"Why would I give him that honour?" He sneered. "No, pet, my name is my own. The Dread Father is the only father I've ever known, or needed." Another pause, as though he was mulling on his own words. I listened intently, hoping for more. He spoke so little of himself, his history.
"… And what of you? Surely Abelle didn't name you after dirt."
"Dust," I corrected him, giving a harder press of my fingers into back for good measure. "It was my father's surname, my birth father. He died when I was very young. I took it myself when I knew I didn't want to be a Toltette. Suits me better, I think."
"And your given name?"
I was silent a long moment, biting my tongue. How many knew of my given name, these days? I shared it rarely. I disassociated myself with it. She was a little girl who had lost her papa and all she knew in a single night. She was named for a god who'd done nothing for her. Still, he'd shared, and I wanted to be able to trust him. I murmured. "… Gabriel."
"Hmn." He hummed for a moment in thought. I could hear his grin creep into his words. "Yes. A name like that and I would change it, too."
"Ass." I smacked him lightly on the back of the head, only making him snicker. Such a silly little tease, but it made me smile. I continued tracing along his scars, up his shoulders, down his arms, and stopped cold.
At first, in the dimness, I could have mistaken it for the wolf bite I had healed at Applewatch. But no – a closer look, and it was indisputably human. Small but deep, not quite healed. Perhaps two weeks old, at the most.
The world swam, yet became crystal clear in the same moment. I stopped touching him, stopped moving, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. "Lucien?"
"Mhmn?"
I braced myself and traced the scar. "What's this?"
He propped himself up on his elbows, glancing at where I pointed, then at me with a cast brow. "A scar, evidently."
"And when did that happen?" I asked, but we both knew the answer. There was no point in denying it.
"About two weeks ago, give or take a few days. You've quite the set of little fangs, my pet."
The thief had been quick, deadly, unnaturally so. He'd met me where Lucien had been meant to meet me, where he should have been in the first place. I remembered the revulsion on his face upon the mention of Phillada at Kvatch, on seeing him in Bravil. I remembered the taste of blood in my mouth as I sank my teeth into the thief's arm. My potion, ruining any chance I had of healing the captain as his blood pooled.
All in one motion I slid away from him and stood, covering myself. A shiver crawled down my back. "It was you."
"I knew Phillada's route to the barracks at night, and it seemed the quickest way to attract his attention somewhere secluded. No one would blame you. It is quite clear you have no skill with a blade, and could never have committed the murder."
Disbelief, even as I knew it was true. I felt breathless, empty, yet somehow heavy enough to sink into the earth. "You used me."
"I could predict how you would react most easily. Save the little nip," he was smiling, how could he be smiling? A low chuckle. "I needed to attract his attention. I could not count on someone conveniently being in the right place, at the right time. You were never in any real danger."
"He was a good man." My voice grew raw with the strain of holding back my anger, my tears, the sudden crushing weight of it all. "He helped me. He found me outside Kvatch and brought me to Bravil, to you, safely."
"He was a thorn in our side for twenty years, and that he might live his days out peacefully in retirement was an affront to Sithis. After all he had done, all the Brothers and Sisters he had taken from our family, he needed to die." He spoke coolly, factually, brow raised as though he was surprised at my anger. "The opportunity presented itself, and I saw no reason not to pursue it."
My words left me as a hoarse hiss. "You used one of my potions."
"A testament to your skill as an alchemist, that it was one of your creations to send his soul screaming to the void. You should be honoured."
"If this was such an honour, why didn't you tell me!?"
"I knew how you would react, just as you are now. You are – soft." His smile twisted, voice soft as though he was trying to speak to a child. "You were never taught. You have none of the sharpness honed in your sister, or – "
"Don't – " I twirled on my feet to face him, wild, stabbing a finger towards him. "Don't you dare mention her."
His voice lowered, eyes dark. "…Or your mother. Abelle would have been pleased with his death, and with the hand you played in it."
The hand I played. Unknowingly used as a weapon, a tool, bait. I took a shuddering inhale through my teeth, raking my hands through my hair and pacing in circles. What had been so peaceful before, so safe and intimate, now seemed jagged and cold. I began to dress, ripping through my drawers, movements strained with fury and guilt. I felt I could vomit.
"Where are you going?"
"Away. Anywhere but here." Luke awoke at the noise and padded into my bedroom, giving a sleepy yawn. I pushed past him and fled down the stairs, out of my own home, onto the street.
Where could I go? I had nowhere, nothing. No one, but the man in my bed.
The clicking of claws caught my attention. I turned to see the hound following me, head tilted, ears perked as though he was asking what was wrong. He sniffed at my feet, whined, then made way for the Sanctuary.
I followed.