Chapter 13
Martin swore, loudly, as she pulled the dressing from his wound. This was the third time they'd repeated this ritual now, and though the wound seemed to be healing, he had managed to jar it several times between each bandage change, leaving fresh blood and a small spattering of pus to stick the cotton to his flesh.
The spots closest to the unbroken hinge of skin were healing, though, and as she wiped at his shoulder blade with a fresh, hot, antiseptic-soaked cloth, she found she could make out a few more distinct lines of his tattoo. There was old blood caught in the flesh, darkening everything, but it was beginning to leach out, and the swelling had gone down substantially. The lines looked like a dog's head, if she squinted.
She pressed the cloth to a few redder spots, spots that had looked angry and hot, and he spat a curse, fingers clawing on the edge of the sink.
"You were a better patient when you were half out of your mind with panic," she told him. "Your whining gets worse every time."
"I'm getting fed up with being an invalid," he replied, glowering at her in the mirror. Then his expression softened, eased into a smile. "Though I do appreciate your ministrations."
She hummed in response.
They were in his quarters in Holger. It had been only a day since Attano's execution, but it seemed weeks ago already. After she'd returned from Havelock's pub, and he from his stay with Burrows and the other worries, she'd attended to his wounds and updated him on what Havelock and Pendleton had had to say. He, as usual, appreciated her discretion.
She hadn't mentioned Havelock's comments about her uncle.
They're talked as she worked, and he'd related some of what had happened at the meeting. The woman had, indeed, been Lydia Boyle. Treavor's identifications of everybody were spot on. They'd spent the early afternoon talking of Attano and the state of the city, and while nobody had shared anything that made them vulnerable, Martin's spirits were clearly bolstered. He knew the city now, he said, or more of it than before.
She'd asked if Burrows had made any other veiled references to Martin's injury. He hadn't.
They'd spent the rest of the day handling common affairs, and quietly making plans for the raid on the Golden Cat. They would not be informing Havelock of their timing, or their knowledge. The next morning, they would go themselves with Windham and a few other Overseers to the Golden Cat. They would first claim to be investigating possible bone charm use by the courtesans, and would use that as an excuse to search the whole space. It would be imperative that they move fast, so as to preclude any other accomplices from moving the girl as they worked.
Everything was ready, or nearly so - but now the waiting began.
Callista wrapped fresh bandages around Martin's chest, then reached up to touch his jaw. "Your beard grows fast," she said.
"Mm- I could probably go another day," he said, lifting his own hand, rubbing at his stubble.
"In case anybody suspects injury, it might be better to look immaculate for the coming days."
He considered a moment. She watched his expression in the mirror. His fingers tapped, faintly, on the sink basin.
Slowly, he nodded.
"I agree," he said. "Though perhaps I can sit this time?"
"If you can find a chair you're comfortable in," she agreed, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding.
If every time she bent forward over his desk showed her trust for him, this was its counterpart. Martin dragged a chair in from the sitting room - a low-backed, simple thing - and sat facing away from the mirror. He didn't want to see her work. She found his razor (it sat differently in her hand, but felt quite welcome there), checked its edge, stropped it. She wet his badger-hair brush.
It was new.
The razor was not.
That was not to say that the razor wasn't in fine shape, but it clearly had been sharpened and honed many, many times, and once or twice had found itself sitting in the wet air of the Gristol coastline without a desiccant to keep the rust away. It was finely restored, and well-loved, though, and as she considered it, swirling the badger hair brush in his shaving soap meditatively, she caught the engraved name of the manufacturer.
Colquhuon & Sons of Fraeport
It had come with him all the way from Morley, then.
Which meant that he'd come from Morley as no earlier than as a young man, needing to shave. It made sense, she supposed - he must have been a young man there to make enemies dedicated enough to assault him on the streets of Dunwall.
She crossed from the counter to Martin's seat, and lathered up his jaw and cheeks. He hummed low in his throat as the brush slid over his stubble. The soap he had was finer than Geoff's, and smelled of bergamot and cardamom and several other heady spices she couldn't name or even distinguish. It curled into her nose and made her shiver, and she realized as she moved back to the sink to rinse the brush that it was because she'd only smelled it a few times before - all when she was close to Martin, pinned against his chest or lifted in his arms.
Callista swallowed, thickly, and tapped out the brush with more vigor than was strictly necessary, before hanging it to dry.
Whatever feelings of practicality had shielded her the previous morning seemed to be entirely gone. Her hand trembled as she picked up the blade, and looked over to Martin, shirtless and waiting, willing to trust her again.
Her tongue brushed against the backs of her teeth, remembering how they'd been wedged apart by the spine of Tynan. Her cheeks burst into brilliant heat.
She swallowed down the surge of arousal, and focused on the task at hand. He was trusting her; she would validate that trust. It was their usual give and take. It was what gave her power, and what made him offer his companionship. She returned to his side, and touched her free hand lightly to his jaw, gently nudging his head to one side. He let her lead, and his eyes closed half-way as she touched the blade lightly to his skin and made the first pass.
When it was done, and his skin was unbroken, she let out a long breath.
"Nervous, Miss Curnow?" he murmured.
"A bit. I'm no expert barber," she said, refusing to meet his gaze. She tilted his jaw again, pulled his skin taut, and made another pass with a lick of defiance teasing at her composure.
"You're doing fine so far," he returned.
It was hard to believe him, given the tension in his shoulders, but she tried to. She furrowed her brow and bared his cheek, then his upper lip and his chin. When she urged him to expose the other side of his face, he did so by leaning his whole shaved cheek into the palm of her hand.
The motion exposed his throat. Her breath caught. His eyes were on hers, burning, and she wondered if now that he had regained his composure, this was a test instead of a frightening necessity.
The thought of blood spilling from his slit throat made her own veins chill, and she had to take a moment, closing her eyes and breathing, to push the intrusive thought away.
Control. That was the key. It had kept him from choking the life out of her - and from fucking her. It had kept her from panicking, losing control in front of Pendleton, or Burrows, or the Overseer who had come for her head. Life was an exercise in control.
She had practiced all her years.
When she opened her eyes again, Martin was smirking, but there was anxiety in his eyes. Her thumb traced along his cheekbone before she lifted her hand, and manipulated his skin to a drum-tight surface. The blade moved easily.
This time, when Martin had to tilt his head back to bear his throat in truth, he did so without a moment's panicked hesitation - but she could see his pulse jumping in his throat, and his chest rising and falling with studied gravity.
This time, she didn't remind him that he could trust her. He already knew that. He already did.
But as her blade made its third pass, he twitched or she hesitated, and the blade bit into his flesh. It was a small nick, but blood beaded on the blade, and she swore and pulled back just as Martin went rigid, eyes closing tight, breath gusting out of his flared nostrils as he fought to remain still.
The moment the blade was away from him, though, his eyes shot open and he surged out of his chair, hand catching her wrist.
"Accidents happen," she whispered.
His jaw tightened. His shoulders rose and fell with each labored breath. But as she watched, Callista slowly realized that there was none of the rage she'd expected in his expression. He wasn't angry, ready to attack.
He was frightened. He looked at her like a man betrayed.
Tentatively, she reached out and touched his cheek with her free hand. "Sit down. I'll get a bit of gauze, and blot it. We can wait as long as you need to before starting again."
His upper lip curled a moment before he let go and moved back to his seat. "I don't need to wait," he murmured.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then nodded. "Still, let me get that gauze."
Once the blood was blotted away, she could barely see the cut. It was tiny, inconsequential, but it had worked its change on Martin. He was rigid beneath her, and he held his breath as she shaved the rest of his throat. When she stepped back, he moved to stand up.
"No hot towel?" she asked, but he was already out of his seat and reaching for a dry towel to clean himself up with.
"No, not today," he said, not looking at her.
"We still have your hair to do."
He didn't answer, instead striding from the bathroom towards the sitting room.
She took her time cleaning and putting away her medical tools and the shaving kit, wiping down the sink fastidiously when she was done. She didn't like the look or scent of blood, though she'd long ago passed the point of being overwhelmed by it. Still, having it clinging in droplets to the basin was unnerving.
When she returned the chair to its usual spot, she found Martin nursing a glass of whiskey, empty hand clenching and loosening at his side. As she watched, he slipped a hand into his uniform pants and pulled out a coin. He danced it along his fingers. The flash of the coin became timed with the minute relaxing of the muscles of his back.
Finally, he leaned forward, resting his head on the mantle.
Callista disappeared into the bathroom again, this time in search of pomade.
When she returned, he sat down at the small work desk tucked into the corner of the room and let her set his hair. He pretended to look at the documents scattered across its surface, but she could tell his focus was inward. There was no threat in having his hair neatly slicked back that she could see, but his grip on his glass was tight.
I didn't mean to frighten you was on her lips, but she could imagine his response. He'd withdraw further, inform her that he hadn't been frightened, dismiss her or mock her or do something else to push her away. He was frightened, and ashamed, and she thought he might even be slightly confused.
The mix unsettled her. In her apartment, injured and still shaken from his assault, of course he had been hesitant to trust her.
But here? Now?
A few minutes later, as she buttoned him into his scarlet coat, she cleared her throat. "I feel, perhaps, as if a rebalancing is in order," she said.
That seemed to draw him back. "Rebalancing?"
"I'm usually the one placing my trust in you, not the other way around."
He was silent. She arched a brow.
"So if I were to, perhaps..." Her mouth was dry; she longed for his whiskey, but the glass was empty now. "Our old games," she managed, flushing faintly and turning to retrieve his belt and harness.
"Old games," Martin mused, and she thought she could hear his smile. "Not so old. It's only been- what, a week?"
"Two. You seemed... definitively finished, last time."
"I had some thinking to do."
She turned back to him, leather in hand, to find him appraising her.
"Are you offering to bend yourself over my desk to make me feel a bit more in control, Miss Curnow?" His confidence was more tentative than usual. She could see him contemplating, testing, evaluating. "Asking for comfort and offering it are... very different."
She swallowed, and stepped closer, looping the leather straps into place. It put her right up against him, and he leaned into her touch as she set his buckles. The scent of his shaving cream wrapped around her head, still strong and vibrant.
"I am," she said at last.
"And yet you wouldn't let me kiss you yesterday."
"I still won't," she responded, heartbeat skipping faster and faster. Her hands had stilled on the buckle at his waist.
He leaned down the few inches difference in their height. "Then I won't kiss you. But I might press you farther than before." His hand - ungloved still - came to hover over her waist, close enough that she could almost feel him.
"Farther?" she asked.
His eyes seemed to sparkle. "I'll have to consider exactly what I want of you. Tonight, once we have everything set to make history in the morning, I want you to come up to this room. We'll have quite a bit of time to pass, and I figure that neither of us will find sleeping easy."
"Are you saying," she said, voice faltering, "that you intend to-"
She couldn't make the words.
He chuckled.
"We have appearances to keep up, Miss Curnow. What was it you said? You didn't want to give the rumors truth? So no, I won't fuck you. Not unless you ask me to."
He stepped away. Callista swayed on her feet, the air around her too hot and then, suddenly, too cold and empty. She cleared her throat and straightened her own uniform, trying not to think of his body heavy atop hers, or his hand between her thighs. No- no, she wanted the balance back. She wanted to be at his mercy, for their comfort.
She wouldn't ask him.
"It will be our own private Fugue Feast, Miss Curnow," Martin called from where he was retrieving his gloves. "The in-between time, before the start of a new era. But until then-"
"We have work to do," she said, and let herself out into the hallway.
The day was chaos. Martin was locked up in meeting after meeting, about this initiative to combat the plague, that district search to root out heretics, and again and again the simple daily workings of the Abbey - food and training and the breeding of new hounds. Half he passed on to her, and she struggled to stay on top of it, while her mind raced and she tried to find time to check rosters and draft the appropriate documents for the raid in the morning. She told nobody about the plan, recruited nobody, too afraid that word would get out that they would be searching the brothel.
She assembled the team in other ways, making sure patrols were set up with trustworthy, skilled men that Martin was interested in promoting through the ranks. Anybody on the team in the morning would gain status, but would also be at risk. It was impossible to predict how Burrows would respond.
They ate lunch together, but it was a quick, perfunctory thing, all Martin's speech given over to lamenting the administrative duties of his office, with none to what had happened that morning, or what would happen that night. It was surprisingly easy, though, to put it from her mind as she walked the practice yards and spoke with the kennelmaster.
But after she'd eaten a small meal and the sun had gone down, there were no other ways to distract herself. Martin's last meeting ended, and she waited half an hour to climb the steps to his rooms.
She counted her breaths with the steps, then held her breath as she stared at the door.
Our own private Fugue Feast, she reminded herself, and repeated all his promises to her. She was safe, here. They would pass the time until morning, and she would replace the roiling uncertainty in her belly that sprung from their plans for the coming day with the nervous anticipation of what lay behind that door.
She knocked.
"Come in," he called, and she touched the knob, her hands sweating inside her cloth gloves. She took a deep breath, and pushed open the door.
Martin stood waiting for her just a few feet away.
He'd found himself a sling.
It was the only coherent thought she could dredge up from the riotous chaos of her uncertainty and arousal. He'd found himself a sling, and in preparation for her visit, had undone his jacket up the front and slipped his arm from one sleeve, so that the stiff fabric support could ease any strain on his injured back. Where had it been that morning, when they'd been alone together? Why had she never suggested it?
Martin chuckled, and she dragged her eyes back to his face.
"Did you see a physician?" she asked, pulling her thoughts away from the phantom, anticipatory ache at the backs of her thighs and instead to his schedule. They had been separate most of the day, but unless he'd shifted his meetings around, there should have been no time to see even the Abbey medics, if he'd been willing to.
"No, I had one brought up to the office. I said it was for you," he said. "An accident on the steps at your apartment - just a twinged elbow. You'll have to wear it tomorrow."
Martin crossed the few feet between them, shoes silent on the plush rug. He reached out and cupped her face in one gloved hand. "You look overwhelmed, Miss Curnow. Too much to think about?"
When she said yes, the game would begin. She was sure of it. His eyes glittered, and his good shoulder was tense with readiness. She sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, then nodded.
Martin pulled away. She waited for a command. Instead, he went over to his small writing desk, where he'd placed two glasses of wine - this time, effervescent and pale, its minute bubbles clinging to the sides of the long-stemmed glasses. He picked one up and held it out to her.
She shook her head. Wine would taste like ash, given her nerves, and it no doubt deserved to be appreciated.
Martin quirked a brow, then pulled his hand back. He considered the glass. Then, slowly, he moved to the armchair set by the narrow, protectively-barred window. They were on the top floor of the Abbey, away from any prying eyes.
He settled into the seat, leaning on his good arm, elbow braced on the armrest. He considered her, and sipped his wine.
"Well, then," he said, and her body thrummed in answer, tingling and tensing along the length of her spine.
She cleared her throat.
"Miss Curnow," he said, face impassive, almost bored. "Please remove your trousers."
Her mouth went dry. "I thought-"
"I don't want to ruin your uniform, Miss Curnow," he said, his voice a heavy beat, keeping her oriented to him. "Remove your trousers. You may also want to remove your knickers - I don't know how you feel about having shredded underthings." He pillowed his cheek against his loosely-curled fist. "Your uniform jacket, too, depending. And I can't imagine that corset is going to be comfortable."
She was shaking, uncontrollably, and she couldn't work up the strength to even fumble with one button. The other times, he had worked with what had been presented to him. Stripping was too much. Stripping meant-
Something.
Martin kicked his heel back against the leg of the chair, and the clear booming sound made her jerk.
"That was an order, Miss Curnow. Start stripping."
Her eyes were wide, lips parted in shock, but she twitched into action. Her gloved fingers slipped against the fasteners of her clothing, so she tugged them off and let them fall to the floor. Mechanically, barely seeing, she undid her belt, the toggles of her jacket, the fasteners of her trousers. Her face burned.
Her belly tightened, and twisted, and her breath caught and heaved.
He'd seen her in her bedclothes before, she reminded herself. By the time she stepped out of her trousers and shrugged out of her jacket, there was too much momentum to allow for hesitation. She stripped until she was left in her shoes, gartered stockings, knickers that barely brushed the tops of her thighs, and her corset and undershirt.
Her hands stilled above the lacing, then, slowly, dropped back to her sides.
Only then did she look back to Martin. He was fixated, drinking in the thin lines of her figure, the angles and planes of her. His wine was forgotten. As she watched, his eyelids drooped, and his lips curled into his confident, arrogant smile once more. She straightened her shoulders, and pressed her knees together.
"Plain, undyed cotton," he mused. "Soft enough, I imagine, and better than wool, but nothing indulgent. Do you ever indulge, in anything?"
Her mouth and throat were dry, and she'd forgotten how to speak.
"You like my wine well enough," he continued, easily. He'd barely left time for her to reply. Did he understand, then, that speaking felt impossible? That his gaze had wrapped itself around her throat, and had squeezed sense from her, leaving her gasping for breath before he'd so much as touched her?
"And you like my power, and my command." He looked her up and down, slowly, gaze lingering on her polished but worn shoes, on the darker, pinched sections of her stockings where she'd darned them, on the patchy stains and stretched sections of coutil that spoke to the age of her corset. "I suppose that what makes your obedience so attractive, Miss Curnow. You appear simple on the outside, but you have your intricacies. Tell me- have you ever played these games before? With an employer? With another tutor? With a dockhand?"
She flushed. "No," she managed.
"Your Fugue Feasts, then - did you indulge in those?"
She nodded.
"Good girl," he said, with a chuckle. "But I take it they were largely fumbling affairs?"
"Sometimes."
"I don't intend to fumble."
Her thighs quivered. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes for just a moment to steady herself. She heard a faint creak, and then the groan of the chair as Martin stood up. Her eyes flew open. He'd set his wine aside, untouched, and had returned to the desk.
He stooped and pulled a length of thick red cord from one of the drawers, then straightened up and paced behind her. Callista stood, rigid.
"Arms out behind you," he said. "Wrists together."
Any thoughts of the coming day were gone, her awareness focused wholly on his voice and the rising excitement and fear inside of her. The fear, as before, was tempered with the certainty of her safety, of her trust in him, but it was sharper than usual. He'd never restrained her before, and this felt more dangerous than his hand around her throat.
She swallowed, licked her lips, then rolled her shoulders back and held her arms out behind her.
One hand trailed along the inside of her bare arm. She heard him shrug out of his sling, then gasped as he touched the cord to her skin. It was smooth, not prickly like the rope used down by the quay. Once, a lover of hers had tied her wrists to the bedposts - but the rope had smelled like brine, and the fibers had pricked into her skin until she broke out in a rash.
This cord, in contrast, felt gentle and kind.
Until he looped it around her wrists in a figure eight, and pulled tight. She gasped as he tugged on it, dragging her arms backwards, pressing her chest out. She squirmed, and he chuckled, low and close to her ear.
"Don't struggle, Miss Curnow," he breathed. "Put your faith in me, and I promise you'll enjoy it."
He gave another tug, and this time, she moved with it. She swayed on her feet. Then she stilled when he touched her hip, lightly. She kept her breathing calm as he began looping the cord further up her arms, to nearly her elbows. Once, he pulled tight, and it drew a soft cry from her - and he relaxed the cord immediately. He didn't bind her elbows tightly together, instead allowing space between them, space that he filled with quick knotwork.
"Any higher," Martin said, "or any tighter, and you might dislocate your shoulders. I've seen men suspended for days by just their arms, bound like this. It isn't pretty. But for a few hours, done right, I find it can be quite enjoyable."
"Oh," she managed, then shivered as he placed his hand in the bowl formed by hers. With her arms strained back, her sense of touch seemed magnified, and her fingers splayed as she tried to hold onto him.
He pulled away, and circled in front of her once more, easing his arm back into its sling.
"How does your corset feel now?" he murmured, reaching out to touch the utilitarian clasps along the front. "I can imagine your ribs must be pushing forward quite a bit."
It was true that her breathing felt shallow, and that the contortion of her spine made her corset press in strange places, but she shook her head. "It's fine," she breathed. She didn't want it removed. She didn't want him to see how her chest heaved, or how her nipples had already tightened to hard buds that, when they moved slightly against her clothing as she breathed, sent sharp, bright pricks of sensation racing to her spine and gut.
"Be sure to let me know if that changes." His hand skimmed along the curve of her waist, and then he stepped back.
"I considered blindfolding you," he said, "but I think I prefer to see your eyes. Are you frightened, Miss Curnow?"
She didn't know. She knew her eyes were wide, and that her breathing was fast, and that her only thought was for the moment, not daring to imagine what might happen next. But she didn't know if she was frightened.
She certainly didn't want to leave, though, and she didn't want it to end.
So she shook her head.
"I'm glad," he said. "I don't want you to be frightened of me. Come here, if you would." He held out a hand, and she stepped closer. Her balance felt off. Wrong. She was used to leading with a hunched shoulder, or a bowed head, not a proffered chest. She felt exposed and vulnerable, and as she came close, Martin leaned in. His breath ghosted along her shoulder.
He grabbed up the cord leading from her arms, and held it loosely in his hand. He led her by it, gently, to the dining room with its small, private table, large enough to seat only four at a time. It was bare except for a pillow. He'd pulled one of the chairs out so that the seat was turned half-away from the table, and he motioned to it.
"Climb up," he said.
She lifted her foot, muscles trembling, and stood up onto the chair, and then onto the table.
"Now- kneel for me."
His smile was indulgent as she slowly, shakily, began to lower herself. Every slight tip made her seize up and go rigid, throwing herself back towards her centerline, afraid of falling with no way to catch herself. Up at eye level, she was on display, and she could feel her skin burning down past the top of her corset.
She'd intended for this to be an exercise in control, and trust, and redirecting their attentions, but there was no hope of ignoring how badly she wanted him to touch her, and how terrified the thought made her.
She settled onto her knees at last, and Martin let go of the cord. He left her side, and she focused on breathing, focused on how cool and comfortable the air was against her hypersensitive skin. She hunched forward, belly settled onto her thighs, head down, and with her chin she dragged the pillow closer, so she could rest her cheek on it.
The sound of leather on skin made her sit up again, only to find a soft, cool piece of leather pressing against the back of her neck.
"Head down, Miss Curnow," Martin purred, "and ass up."
Heart pounding in her chest, she slowly lowered her shoulders and lifted her hips. He trailed the leather from the back of her neck, down her back, over her bound arms, and into her hands. Martin held it there a moment so that she could feel its contours. It was a folded-over leather strap, a few inches wide, attached to a stick.
It was a crop.
Her toes curled in her shoes and she cringed away from it, but he followed her, dragging the crop down over her thin knickers, along her thighs, to the hollows of her knees. She shivered and twitched, and he chuckled.
"Don't worry, Miss Curnow. You're safe here. Now, take a deep breath."
She did, and as she let it trickle from her lungs, Martin switched the crop lightly against her thighs. She yelped and pulled away. He grabbed the cord and hauled her back. He kept hold of it as he positioned himself beside the table at an angle where he could work the crop easily with his good hand, then held it tight as he brought the crop down again, a little harder this time.
It was sharper than his hand, the blows more painful, more focused. She stared ahead, shocked and uncertain of how to act.
"Miss Curnow?" he asked, voice a hoarse whisper. The sound that escaped her in reply was small, uneven, and unbidden.
He loosened the rope by an inch, maybe more. The next swipe of the crop eased instead into a strange sort of tenderness, focused only on the most fleshy part of her. From there, he alternated light blows with teasing strokes of the crop, and she slipped slowly into the gentleness, into the wordless, utter focus on his actions. By the time the blows grew syncopated again, harder, more difficult to predict, she'd fallen headlong into that place inside of her that needed the grounding, the unrelenting reality of the sting of leather biting into her skin.
She whined, hips shifting, chest pressing harder to her knees. In answer, he moved the crop lower, lavishing attention on her thighs. The leather skipped over the smooth curves of her skin, over her garters, and once or twice dipped between her legs, a few inches below her knickers. Sometimes he moved it in blows, and other times in trailing, enticing whispers.
Callista closed her eyes, and drank it all in. The letting go came fast and easy, and again it came without the relieved and overwhelmed tears of the first time. This time it came with a feeling very close to bliss. The pain was understandable, it was agreed upon, it was negotiated. There were no unwelcome surprises, no moments of horror or panic or crushing defeat. The world, within these walls, was safe. Pain didn't mean danger; it transformed to mean the reclamation of all the pain she'd felt without consent.
It washed over her, and soon she couldn't feel the pain at all.
She did, however, feel when Martin's fingers gripped her chin, when his hand cupped her jaw and lifted her head from the pillow. She blinked, blearily, feeling the same groggy sense of disconnection that she had the day she'd denounced her uncle, overlayed with the calm vagueness that came upon waking from an easy, comfortable nap.
"There you are," he murmured. He still held the crop, though now it was in his weaker hand. The leather of it brushed her knees, and she shivered. She could feel a small, ridiculous smile on her lips. He answered it with one of his own.
"You went away, for a little bit," he continued, easing her upright. "I pushed you too far."
She shook her head, then felt the rest of her body shake too. "It stopped hurting," she protested, her tongue thick and heavy.
He looked vaguely concerned at that, and he set the crop down. "I think," he said, "that we're done with that for the night."
"No," she said, the thought kindling fear in her. "No, not yet. I can't- I don't want to go-"
Martin's hand on her jaw tensed, and he pulled her head up, straining her neck. She pressed into the feeling. His own jaw was tight, his brow furrowed, his gaze distant.
Then he smiled. It was the same smile that always came after his little internal wars.
"I just meant that we're done with the switching for the night," he purred. "There are other things we can do."
The fear receded, and she became aware of how her legs and ass throbbed. Yes, stopping the rain of blows was probably a good idea. Tomorrow, she would have to-
It wasn't tomorrow yet. She nodded, and straightened up, gasping at the sensation. Her stockings were torn up near their tops, and her flesh bulged through the small gaps. Her knickers were damp with sweat, clinging to her sensitized flesh.
"Can you stand?" he asked, and she nodded. She would stand. She focused inward, and drew herself up, though her knees knocked together. She stepped gingerly from the table onto the chair, and then the floor. Martin was at her side, and the moment she was stable, he looped his good arm around her.
He pressed his lips to her brow, and she went very still.
"You continue to surprise me," he murmured against her flesh. "Now- I want you to get down on your knees, and crawl back out to the parlor. I want you to go find my wine glass. You distracted me earlier, and I didn't get to enjoy it. It's probably gone flat, but I can't imagine there's much you can do about it, now." His hand toyed with the cord at her wrists. "I want you to retrieve the glass for me."
She waited for him to undo the knots binding her arms, but he only let go, and turned away from her, moving to set his dining room back in order.
Her mind, still foggy, struggled to race through her options. She dropped awkwardly to her knees, and nearly pitched forward.
Martin made no move to help her.
She began to shuffle forward. Each inch was a battle fought and won not only against the awkwardness of her body and her restraints, but against the throbbing memory of the riding crop, against her own uncertainty, against her slowly returning embarrassment. By the time she made it across the great expanse of fine stone (cold against her knees where her stockings were beginning to wear through) and plush carpet, she was heaving for breath. The wine had been forgotten except as a destination.
She stared at the glass, unsure and frustrated.
Calling for Martin to unbind her never crossed her mind, nor did giving up. Instead, she stared at the glass, its bubbles now few and still, brow furrowed. An exquisite agony tore at her. She considered her options. Grasp the bowl of the glass with her teeth? Tilt her head sideways so she could carry the stem upright in her mouth? Neither seemed feasible. She pictured again and again the fine wine spilling out onto the carpet.
She could hear, distantly, Martin moving around the dining room. He would emerge soon, and find her- what? Staring at his glass of wine, unable to obey his command? She didn't want that. She frowned at the glass, then took a deep breath as she hit upon a new idea.
Bending down, she touched her lips to the glass and slowly, slowly lowered, until the wine tipped into her mouth. She held it on her tongue, its bright acidity almost too much to bear, its bubbles springing to life against her cheeks.
She pulled away. The narrow, empty glass, that had held only a single mouthful, dropped onto the rug, but she ignored it, focused only on turning around and shuffling back to the dining room.
Martin reached the threshold just as she did, and she looked up at him, head swimming from the alcohol leaching into her flesh, senses alight with the constant wash of tannins and sugars over her tongue.
He looked her over. "I thought I asked for my wine," he said, quirking a brow.
She strained up, tilting her face to him, and parted her lips just enough that a bead of wine slipped from them, and slid down her chin.
Martin inhaled, sharply.
Callista tried to stand, but the effort made her gag, slightly, the wine trying to escape down her throat. She didn't have to, though; Martin dropped to one knee in front of her. His gaze flicked across her features, judging, weighing, evaluating. His hand shook when at last he reached for her and cupped her cheek.
"Very thoughtful of you, Miss Curnow," he breathed at last, then leaned in and kissed her.
His tongue nudged her lips apart, and she relaxed, letting the wine flow into his mouth. He groaned and swallowed it down, then lapped at her lips and tongue until the last of it was gone. Her head spun as he pulled away abruptly.
She hadn't thought, when she'd filled her mouth with wine, about how she would deliver it to him. Spitting it out into a new glass would have bordered on the repulsive. A kiss was much cleaner. But she'd told him not to kiss her just that morning, and he'd agreed.
It wasn't a kiss, she decided, panting open-mouthed and looking at the line of his jaw instead of his face.
"And to think, I'd expected you to get the glass into your hands," he murmured, reaching out to touch her bare palms.
Her cheeks heated.
Oh. She hadn't even thought of-
Martin shifted behind her, shrugging aside his sling and tugging off his gloves. He touched her palms again then began loosening the knots. She'd grown used to the tension and pressure of the cord, and as it fell away, her arms felt light. She felt like she was floating. She pulled her arms back in front of her when they were free, and swayed, slightly, at the rush of new sensation.
When he stood up, she felt his absence like a blow. She turned to him, only to find him striding towards the parlor. She followed, on hands and knees at first, then climbed to her feet and padded after him. It felt strange to stand, and her head spun.
At the sound of her footsteps, he slowed, then turned.
"I never said you could get up, Miss Curnow. Knees. Now."
She dropped down to them.
He looked at her, his gaze heavy, then took a deep breath and ran a finger beneath his collar. He dropped back into his armchair, nudging the empty glass away with his toe. Ignoring her, he looked at the window, then at his bookshelf.
"Go to the shelf. Get me the book with the red and gold spine. Just like you did with Tynan."
Callista nodded, lips curling into a smile. She could do that quite easily. She crawled across the rug, grateful for the use of her hands, and went to the shelf. The red and gold-spined book was at the bottom shelf, and she bent low, nudging the volume out with her chin, then fitting her lips and teeth around the binding. It was narrower than Tynan. She lifted it easily and came to him.
He took it from her without so much as a look. He didn't cup her cheek or touch her brow. And when he opened the book on his lap, and began reading, he made no pronouncements or comments.
Suddenly, she felt very alone.
Still, it was part of the game. His silence made her fixate on him, and she appreciated it. She knelt close by, at his feet, and she read the upside-down pages. Slowly, her brow furrowed. He was reading up on the powers and limitations of the position of Lord Regent.
He was doing work.
She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. Perhaps the book had only sprung to mind because he had used it recently. Perhaps it wasn't work at all. She waited. She waited, and watched his hand as he turned each page, and watched his features as he simply- read.
Once, he stood. He retrieved the glass of wine he had poured for her, and he drank it himself. He kept the book in hand, and paced. He left the room, once, only to return a few minutes - minutes! - later.
Her knees began to ache. She began to grow frustrated and restless, and it wasn't the small, focused, helpless frustration of staring at the wine glass. It was more expansive. It went beyond their game. He had abandoned it when it was something they had both agreed they needed. She had offered herself up, and he had used her, until- what?
He grew bored?
She pressed her lips together, trying not to think of how his kiss had felt, how his tongue had slipped into her mouth, how she had wanted to lean in a little more. He was humiliating her, by ignoring her. This wasn't the sort of game she'd asked for. It gave her nothing, and left her feeling used in return.
When he finally returned to his seat, she was done. She moved to stand up. Her motion finally caught his attention, and she stared back at him, challenging him with a furrowing of her brow.
His eyes, in turn, were wide, his lips slightly parted.
The book in his hand closed with a snap, and he set it aside, hurriedly, and slid from the seat. Before she could stand or respond, he'd bent his head to her throat. He kissed her at the corner of her jaw, then lower, and she responded with a confused gasp, her arms sliding around him.
"Martin-"
He growled something unintelligible, then moved lower, sinking onto his knees, shuffling back as he mapped out a path over the swell of her breasts, down the plane of her stomach. She couldn't feel him through her corset, but she could imagine the blossoming spots of heat. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders, gingerly, and she leaned back against the bookshelf, legs sprawling before her, around him.
His jaw dragged along the top of one thigh, and she whispered his name again.
This wasn't the game, either, but she quickly parted her legs for him, lifted her aching, raw hips for him when he tugged at the fabric of her knickers. She squirmed until she could pull one stockinged leg free, then reached for his finely-pomaded hair as he leaned in, arms wrapping around her thighs, holding her open for him. His tongue was hot and certain, and she cried out, fingers tightening against his scalp. The illusion broke, falling away in pieces, and she couldn't help her laugh.
Their games had always been about lust.
Lust for control, lust for order, lust for distraction- for each other. It had been far more comfortable to ignore it, but now, with him lapping at her nub and exploring her folds, tongue nudging inside of her and making her squirm, she gave in. In the morning, all would be forgiven and forgotten, the time set aside where it belonged - outside the year and responsibility - but now she threw back her head and drank in every flare of pleasure, every answering echo of pain when her raw skin dragged against the carpet, or was pulled taut by his grasping, kneading fingers.
She could still taste the wine in her mouth, and could feel the phantom sensation of Martin's hand on her throat, on her waist. She fell into it, world narrowing. When she came apart, gasping his name and tightening her thighs around him, she didn't care about anything beyond the heat of her own body.
Lying there, panting, refusing to drag herself back together, she waited for the sound of his belt being undone, his trousers pushed down.
It never came.
Instead, he crawled up along her body and slid his good arm beneath her back. He pulled her up, against him, and her arms circled around his shoulders. Wordlessly, he guided her up and into the chair, then settled down heavily between her legs, resting his cheek on one thigh. His breath ghosted out towards her knee.
She looked down at him, for a moment forgetting to question, her hand settling against his scalp. She could see red marks spiralling around her wrists and forearms, and she shifted in her seat, pushing her hips forward until her weight was balanced more on her lower back than her legs. The welts across her flesh were beginning to prick back to life in red-hot stinging lines.
"Did you know," Martin murmured, between heavy, studied breaths, "that you have a bit of an accent when you're crying my name?"
"I grew up in the countryside," she replied, voice thick and lazy. Her brow furrowed. She could see, if she leaned forward, how he strained against his trousers, but he made no move to relieve himself. He looked, instead, very tired. "I spent the first... six months of my professional life learning to hide it. Even the children of tailors know not to listen to a woman who sounds like she should be tending blood oxen."
He sighed, eyelids drooping. "All your intricacies," he murmured, reaching up to trail his fingers down her calf. "Tell me about it. Your childhood. Or your tutoring. Whatever you- want to tell me."
She frowned, then scowled, then shifted her leg beneath his head. It was heavy. He refused to lift it.
"And if I don't want to?" she asked.
He shrugged, then hissed as it jostled his bad shoulder. The whole area would be red and inflamed, she knew, and his ribs must have been in agony. She waited for him to settle.
His fingers began drumming on her knee as he murmured, "I grew up in Caulkenny. Was born there, in the city."
Her fingers in turn stirred against his scalp, dragging whorls into his slicked-back hair. "Martin-"
"I knew my father, for a little while, before he left my mother destitute. She wasn't sick, then. She wasn't sick until I was a lad, and had joined up with other thieves and pickpockets and fences my age. Took me a year to realize we weren't as independent as I'd always fancied myself. I thought I was forging a path. Making the world listen. I didn't realize that the bigger kids let us get established, waited until we had our contacts, then sunk their claws into us." He laughed, and it was weak, and small, and she could see the same tension in his shoulders from when he'd struggled to master himself as she held a blade to his throat.
She bit her lip.
"There's a peculiarness to being Morlish, you know. No, you don't know- well. It's this heaviness mixed with an exultant lightness. You're beaten down, and broken, but it doesn't matter because at least you've got the countryside and your fists and the castoffs of the empire, even while they're stripping your soil and stamping out, generation after generation, anything a sane man would be proud of. So you start to prize other things. And it's only worse if you're poor. You grasp at everything on offer, you prove you're stronger, and better, and- I did all of that."
She leaned forward over him, and saw him smiling, grimly. His eyes were open, but only barely, and he stared straight ahead. "I wanted to rule the world. But politics were fucked, and so was the army, and I wasn't good enough for either anyway. So instead I worked my way up the ranks of the boys I'd fallen in with, until I was almost a man, and I was holding court. We were thieves, mostly. Smugglers, too. We moved weapons and munitions for the right price, and a few of my boys started dabbling in flesh, but it wasn't lucrative enough to my mind. Then along came this offer."
His voice was thick with his accent, and Callista's breathing slowed to the cadence of his rolling speech. Her body became a web of aching flesh and exhausted bones, the passion and need leaving her, with a nervous emptiness in its wake.
He was telling her too much; she wanted to squirm underneath the weight of his words.
"It sounded simple. Turn over my territory to somebody higher up the food chain, and I'd stay nominally the man in charge, and my boys would all be safe, too, as long as we paid our way up. In return, I'd get a nice new house, and medicine for my ma. Say no, and I'd have my ear sliced off, at a minimum. So I said yes, with every intention to replace the guy who'd offered.
"Then the bastard called the city watch, and half my boys ended up dead or in chains, and I ran. They took over, replaced all our operations. They'd never trusted me for a second. My reputation had preceded me."
Martin sighed, and lifted his head, staring at his arm as he worked it back into his sling.
"The other night?" Callista prompted, softly.
"The boys who lived, some of them."
Callista licked at her dry lips, resisting the urge to reach for him. "What happened after you left? Did you go to- Fraeport? Your razor-"
He laughed. "Perceptive," he said, voice edging on a sigh. "No. I stayed close to Caulkenny at first. Thought I'd try my hand at outright robbery. I made a name for myself again, out on the roads between Caulkenny and Alba, and I made a good living for a year or two, before my old crew gathered up their strength and their weapons and came to fetch me. I ran again."
"But you've stopped running, now," she said.
He turned to look at her. His gaze drifted to her thighs, to her red forearms. "I have," he said, softly, "but I doubt it'll last."
"Why are you telling me all this?" she asked. "Now?" She lifted a hand, and he held out his in turn. He stood and drew her up with him.
He took a deep breath. "Do you want a convenient lie?" he asked. "I could tell you that the wine's gone to my head. That we're in our own private Fugue Feast and I believe you'll abide by it."
Callista's lips tightened. No, she didn't want that, except that it seemed much easier. Just like keeping up the fiction that they'd never kissed.
Martin's mouth pulled tight in something like a grin. "Or I could tell you that I trust you, Miss Curnow. More than I should, and more than I should want to." His gaze went distant, far away. "... But I do, and, moreover, I do want to."
She reached out and settled a hand on his arm. "I moved to the city after I was orphaned. I had other family left, but Geoff was the best off of all of them. He had a home big enough for me, and I knew him well. I was fourteen. I dreamed of going out after leviathans then, still, though I knew it was foolish."
Martin watched her, unblinking, then let out a deep sigh. He placed his hand against the small of her back. "You should get- cleaned up. Going forward-"
"Going forward," she said, "I think we would be foolish to ignore... this."
His expression was unreadable, but absent among the myriad flashes of half-thoughts across his face was anger. At last, he nodded. "Indeed."
She glanced down. "Why didn't you...?"
"Because it was for you," he said, pulling away and twitching his jacket into place. He strode off towards the bathroom, and she followed. "You did- quite a lot for me. You have done quite a lot for me. I'm not sure I'd be here if not for you. I saw it as only- equitable."
He opened the taps to the tub, then went to the mirror, peering at himself in it. Callista turned away and worked open her corset. Her hands stilled once the laces were loose, holding the baleen and coutil in place.
He'd had his head between her legs, she decided. He could stand to see her naked.
She slipped out of the rest of her clothing, folding what was left neatly. She set it all aside, then twisted and inspected her backside. It was covered in crisscrossing welts, most faint, a few red and angry.
"How's your back?" she asked, straightening.
"... It's been better," he said. He was still looking in the mirror, searching for something she was fairly certain wasn't visible. He was clearly uncomfortable sharing his past in Morley; she'd seen that the night he showed up in her apartment, bloody and talking in circles. And now she was beginning to suspect his pacing and his absence before he'd pounced on her was another war within himself, balancing self-control against whatever it was connecting them.
But she couldn't bring herself to approach him. Instead, she stepped into the steaming water. "Ribs?"
"Sore. Agonizing." He chuckled. "Worth it, though. I suppose."
Callista sank down into the tub. The water was only up to the top of her belly, and it was almost too hot. The bottom of the basin clung to her abused flesh, and she grimaced and turned slightly onto her side. "Will you be ready for- tomorrow?"
"I'll have to hang back a bit, I think," he said, leaving the sink at last and approaching the tub. He settled down beside it, good arm propped on the edge. "As should you. We don't need to be the first in to take the credit."
The water pooled over the tops of her thighs, rising up towards her knees. She nestled her head against the side of the tub, in line with his.
"Will she be okay, do you think?" Corvo's beaten body flashed in her thoughts, and she frowned.
Martin tapped the edge of the tub, his lips pursed. "He has no reason to hurt her, and every reason not to. If he knows we're coming - if there's still a leak..."
If there's still a leak, she thought, then one of us is breaking trust.
"If there's a leak," he said after a moment's pained thought, "then he'll just move her, or reveal her tonight. Keep an ear out for announcements."
She looked at him with his tightly-furrowed brow, and his glittering eyes, sharp but focused on something far distant.
"She'll be there," Callista said. "Nobody knows. All I meant was... considering where she's been held? And the fact that Burrows can't be there all the time, and that Campbell's- inspection visits have obviously stopped-"
"That would be why the Pendletons are responsible for her, I suspect," Martin said, turning his head to look at her. Their noses almost brushed. His expression was solemn. "Easy to cast them as the villains, in whatever way is necessary. Even if they're the ones to rescue her for the good of the Empire, if she later speaks out against them... well, they were acting in their own twisted self-interest."
"Their money won't be able to protect them from that," she said. "Not with the child Empress."
"No," Martin agreed. "So we must assume that Burrows is more than prepared to sacrifice them. The question, then, is do they know it? Desperate men, Miss Curnow-"
"Callista," she said.
He managed a chuckle as he leaned forward to turn off the tap, but the laugh quickly turned to a groan and he sagged back against the edge of the tub. The water lapped lazily at the undersides of her breasts.
"Miss Curnow suits you better, in my opinion. And I wouldn't want to slip in public and be too intimate, hm?"
She splayed her fingers in the water, then began rubbing gently at her arms, hoping that the blood reddening them would drain away. Her lips twitched towards a smile. "Or maybe," she said, "you just have a fondness for governesses. I've seen it before, you know. Miss Curnow, will you punish me for flubbing my Serkonan dancing lessons?"
He snorted. "Have you seen it in men who didn't learn to read until they were twelve years old, and then only by their own tutelage? I never sat in a schoolroom all my life, unless you count sermons at the Abbey."
"How did you join the Abbey?" she asked, sinking a little lower in the tub and skimming her hands over her legs.
"... A story for another time, perhaps," he said, pulling away. He looked at her appraisingly, and she saw his easy arrogance fall into place, separating them. "Once you're washed, you should dress and leave. The longer you stay, the more likely somebody realizes that you're gone, and starts lurking by the stairs to see if you come down from here."
"We'll need another meeting space, then," she said. "For... other times."
He paused, strap of his sling caught between his fingers where he'd been fiddling with it. Then he stood. "I'll look into it, Miss Curnow."
He didn't question her, and that made her relax just a little more.
The door shut behind him, and she spread out in the tub, which was larger than the rest of his spartan furniture, no doubt a relic of Campbell's time that couldn't be easily replaced. There were even bath oils on a small stand nearby, and she added a few drops of the least fragrant of them. The scent still bloomed around her, and she closed her eyes, leaning her head back.
Uncle, she thought, I know you wanted me to be safe, but-
But while she had the affection and confidence of a powerful man, when she closed her eyes and saw Corvo's face, she couldn't help but think that their safety was tenuous. Even Martin expected it to end one day.
Still, she felt warm and momentarily safe, and if she focused on the ache in her ass, she could banish all the prickling fears and doubts. She imagined a confident, arrogant mask descending over her face, and found that it relaxed her limbs. She lingered, luxuriating, only rising from the water when it began to cool. Her hair was still mostly dry, and she reset it easily, before drying herself and dressing in short bursts as she followed the trail of her discarded clothing out to the study.
Martin sat in his chair, a book and several pages of notes in his lap. He looked calm, and never glanced up as she rolled her stockings up, or fastened her jacket.
When she was put back together again, she canted her head. "Good night, Martin."
"I'll see you in the morning, Miss Curnow," he said, not looking up from his book.
She couldn't help the small smile that formed on her lips, and tugged her uniform into place once again. "In the morning, High Overseer."
Martin closed his eyes, and she imagined his intake of breath. She carried the thought with her out of Holger and all the way to her uncle's apartment.