Early update so I can focus on FnF's latest chapter (also loaded with smut lmao). Continuing with our favorite dysfunctional power-couple, and their tug-of-war - upended by a, er, tender shared breakfast3

cw: rough sex, rough oral sex, manipulation.

tw: unhealthy parent-child dynamics, abandonment trauma.


Touch if you will my stomach
Feel how it trembles inside
You've got the butterflies all tied up
Don't make me chase you
Even doves have pride

~ "When Doves Cry" - Prince


Dawn breaks against a paling sky.

The sun, a fat gold disc, hangs low on the horizon. The wind blows a steady ten knots.

The SS Woe Betide slits through the waves with a sensation not unlike a fingertip dipped down the edge of a rowboat, soft ripples fanning outward. Mel feels the velocity of the turbines in her bones. But the vessel's fine-tuned calibration keeps it perfectly stable. There is only the sleek purr of power; the gliding cut of friction.

And, far beneath, the vast dark unknown.

Her fever has broken. She's still a little languid. But it's a deep, rejuvenated languor. As if the Mal de Mer had drained her body, and sleep has filled it again.

Sleep—or Shimmer.

In small doses, the drug's efficacy is renowned. In large doses: reviled. A Philosopher's Stone, and yet a Devil's bargain—all in one sip.

Mel's never condoned the drug's use. But she's no fool. In Zaun, Shimmer is a necessity. The air, foul. The water, contaminated. The food, inedible. To survive, one needs ironclad immunity. And Shimmer, in moderation, keeps the body's defenses strong.

She's seen Silco, with his bad eye and the wreckage of his scarred face, rely on it daily. A single drop, pierced into the eyeball, the plunger bottomed. Ssssss—his gasp afterwards. A hiss of bitter necessity, not want. His is a pragmatic, utilitarian dependence. Not a millimeter more, and only once per day.

For him, Shimmer is a means to an end. And the end is survival.

And survival, Ambessa always said, is its own justification.

Slowly, Mel sits up. Her breakfast is ready on the sideboard. A pot of steaming green tea paired with a bowl of hot oatmeal. Her husband has come and gone. And she, alone again, with the rising sun.

Not this time, Mel thinks.

This time, I will rise with him.

Last night's thwarted seduction is a splinter. Irksome, in hindsight. She's never had to work so hard for a man's interest. Usually, her smile is enough. But her husband, she's learning, is not a creature to be coaxed or cajoled. He's a man to be met on equal terms.

And if that means she has to fight, to show him the woman she truly is—a woman not afraid of hard truths, or a harder sell—then that's a challenge she will rise to meet.

You are a Medarda, Ambessa always said. You will find your sealegs in the worst storms.

And your footing in the darkest fathoms.

Mel, rising, finds her sealegs. They are, admittedly, precarious. Her balance is off.

Strange how that works. One spell of illness, and the world's axis tilts. Suddenly she's a girl again, stumbling after her mother. Trying, and failing, to walk the path laid out for her.

My path, Mel reminds herself, is my own.

Ignoring the porridge—her appetite, reawakened, cannot be fobbed off by gruel—she slips into her peignoir. Then, barefoot, she pads into the shared bathroom between hers and Silco's berth. The humid air is an olio of him: astringent tea-tree aftershave, the bittersweet tang of bergamot oils, the lingering trace of cigarette.

Inhaling, Mel feels a tug between her thighs. It's a visceral reminder of last night's unfinished business.

But first: the real business of the day.

Beautification.

The clawfoot tub, huge and gleaming, beckons. The past week, she's made do with the washbasin, and a sponge soaked in lavender water. But it's an inferior substitute for the luxury of a proper soak. Twisting the tap, she lets the water run hot, and fetches her favorite scented salts: Kalishma rose petals, jasmine, and a generous dose of vanilla.

Then, shedding her peignoir, she slips in.

Bathing, for Mel, is always a languorous affair. Mornings are her rare moments of solitude before her day takes flight. A chance to meditate and set her plans in order.

A time, too, for self-reflection.

In the water, she can never stop the memories from bubbling to the surface: her mother's tutelage, absorbed both willingly and otherwise. Lessons in warfare and wile; in politics and poise. The many things she'd been taught, and the one thing she'd refused to learn:

To be a Medarda first—and a woman second.

To Ambessa, the two were one and the same. Their lineage was of singular, inviolate importance. The rest was frivolity.

Here, Mel relishes the woman within. And the pleasures of being that woman.

The hot bathwater suffuses her muscles. Her locs, unraveling at the ends, are gently coiled into separate rolls, and pinned up to await later care. She massages a special scrub, scented with Icathian lavender, into her scalp. Then, with lukewarm water, she rinses out the suds. A second lather follows: a heavy moisturizer of honey and coconut oil. With a warm towel, she lets it set into hair. Then, she scours her body from neck to feet: a pumice of sea sponge and a soft, sugary exfoliant of crushed pearls.

Nothing goes without attention. Every part, every inch, is carefully tended.

In her girlhood, she'd never had the luxury. Cleanliness was a necessity, not an indulgence. Mel was expected to be presentable: in mind, and in form. Under Ambessa's exacting scrutiny, she'd dressed as a Noxian noblewoman should. Her curls, pinned back in a simple bun. Her face bare, with mimimal flourishes of jewel and paint. And her body, a mantel for unadorned high-collared gowns of beige, blue, or black.

No frills. No furbelows. Just the austere, unvarnished truth of her person.

It was the style favored by Ambessa, no aficionada of feminine frippery. Not that Ambessa needed frippery to stand out. Her mother could wear bloodstained armor to the grand ball, and turn every head in the room.

Mel, meanwhile, was a late bloomer. Of her family, she'd been the plainest: her mother, the iron lioness, all dark mane and fierce eyes; her father, a Targonian admiral, his sinewy physique weathered by the winds of daring voyages; and her brother, Kino, the best of both worlds, so chiseled he could've been cut from pure bronze, and possessed of such guile he could've outwitted man or monster at the bargaining table.

Whereas she, the spare, was a mere slip of a thing. Delicate in her stance, and saddled with a heart too tender to match her family's martial ambitions. As for her looks: well, she was comely enough, or so Ambessa conceded. But she'd never hold a candle to the great beauties of their dynasty.

She'd tried, as a young woman, to be the mirror of her mother. But the reflection was a pale imitation. She was never as tall. Her shoulders, never as broad. Her nose, her eyes, her chin: all too soft.

Ambessa was a force of nature. Mel was a girl, still finding her feet.

In the end, she'd been relegated to a consolation prize. Mayhaps she'd catch the eye of a warlord's bastard, or the youngest son of a merchant clan. But she'd never be esteemed as a person of consequence. Never be the face that launched a thousand ships, nor the fist that won a thousand wars.

Never, truly, be the heir Ambessa wanted.

In the end, Mel's duty, her only value, was her readiness to play by the rules. Be the docile daughter. The biddable bride. She had no place in the halls of power, where the real bargains were struck. No say in the brokerage of alliances, nor the redistribution of spoils.

And no right, certainly, to her own ambitions.

Ambessa saw only weakness in Mel's softness. Mel, though, knew better. Soft was just a different sort of strength. One that, even in the worst darkness, must endure. Must, in fact, shine brighter.

Because, Mel thinks, real power isn't in the closed fist.

It's in the open palm.

In the end, she'd done exactly that. Chosen mercy instead of the blade. Philanthropy over bloodshed; diplomacy over conquest.

In short, she'd chosen progress.

And paid the price.

By her twenty-first year, Ambessa, despairing of her daughter's idealism, had cast her out. She was not, Mel knew, an unfit heir. She was merely unfit, period.

The banishment—Mel's final lesson—was the cruelest cut of all. Yet, in the aftermath, Mel learnt that cruelty was not, by definition, the absence of love. The opposite: cruelty was the most extreme form of survival. It was a mother, unable to express the full depth of her heart, reduced to the worst of her instincts.

That cruelty—its extremity—was Ambessa's way of protecting Mel, from their world and from herself.

The exile, the rupture of their bond: they were sacrifices.

Sometimes, Mel thinks of how reptiles will sever their own tails, forfeiting a piece of their selves to escape a larger threat. It's a hard and terrible choice. But a necessity if the whole is to survive.

And survive, Mel did.

In exile, she'd found her own worth. She'd found her self. The self that she'd polished to a sheen, slowly and painfully, from the splinters of a broken psyche. The self built, brick by brick, out of a lifetime's loneliness and despair.

She'd never be a force of nature like Ambessa. So, she'd become something else.

A luminary.

In Piltover, she'd undergone a breakthrough into breathtaking beauty. She'd left off her old wardrobe: the gowns with their plain, high collars and the muted palettes. She'd learned how to gild herself like a lily in an elysian garden: dresses in dozens of sun-kissed hues, cut tantalizingly low to trace the shadow of her decolletage, or cut daringly high to showcase the smoothness of her thighs. Jewels that were a symphony in a spectrum: emerald, amethyst, citrine.

And gold, lots and lots of gold: until she'd glittered bright enough to outrival the sun.

As a girl, she'd worn her hair in its natural curl. Simple, stark, unfashionable. Now, she'd let it grow, and grow, and grow. Glossy locs coiled in gold, and styled into a coronet at the crown of her head: a diadem fit for a queen. As for her face: she'd learnt her best features, the way an artist learns the play of light. With philters of plum lip-stain, phials of indigo kohl, and pots of golden dust, she'd highlighted what nature had given, and exaggerated what it had not.

Until the girl was gone, and a goddess remained.

It was a transformation as gradual as the phases of the moon. As shocking as a solar flare.

And when, finally, she'd seen herself in the mirror, she'd felt the strangest sensation. Like the face staring back was a reflection, not of the woman she'd failed to be, but of the woman she'd been all along.

Mel, at last, had seen herself.

Piltover had seen her too. And, once they'd looked, they'd never stopped. She'd entered the elite circles as a mere footnote in the Medarda family-tree. Yet her footfall had stirred a stampede. Men and women vying for her attention; artists clamoring for her likeness; suitors offering themselves on a silver platter.

They didn't know where she'd come from. Only that she was here.

And, in her, they'd seen a rarity worth keeping.

Her beauty had been the key. Her cleverness, the lock. Together, they'd opened doors for her all the way to the Council chambers. In the space of a decade, she'd flourished from a foreign enigma into the Patroness of Progress. Wherever she stepped, she shone. Wherever she looked, they fell in line.

She was the impetus behind Piltover's transformation into a technological juggernaut. She'd bankrolled Jayce Talis, the boy who'd become the Man of Tomorrow. She'd spearheaded the Council's most forward-thinking social reforms, been the architect behind its boldest public works, and the guiding light for its brightest scholastic minds.

Her golden fingerprints were all over the City of Progress. She'd made it, the world swooned, a paradise. Her brand—the Medarda brand—was synonymous with a better tomorrow.

And she'd done it without spilling a drop of blood.

Her mother, Mel thinks, would detest the irony. Her daughter's ideals, once a folly, had given her the impetus to imagine a world where her family's sins were not a burden to carry, but a gift to give.

A brighter world.

In the tub, Mel feels for her wedding ring, twisting it gently on her finger.

And then...

And then, she'd met the Eye of Zaun.

And wanted, in a flash, more than the sum of what she'd built.

Wanting a man, Ambessa always said, is a fool's errand. They're empty vessels. The more you give, the more they need. You can pour your whole life into a man, and he will still be empty.

Better to keep yourself full.

Mel, as a girl, had learned the words. Mel, as a woman, had heeded the lesson. Men were tools. In the boardroom, pieces on her chessboard. In the bedroom, morsels on her tray. She'd made a study of their wants, molding them to suit her ends as a sculptor molds clay.

Each man she'd bedded was, in his own way, the same. Predictable. Easy to seduce; easier to discard. She'd always kept a measure of distance. Kept her heart separate from her head; her self, her own.

Only Jayce—her darling—had breached that divide. Their relationship had been a seamless fit. He was the same person, wherever he went. Always honest; always, forthright. He was the best piece of her, and she'd loved him for it.

Truly—loved him.

But the rest of her was a Medarda. And Medardas were neither honest, nor forthright. Least of all in matters of love. She and Jayce had both suffered for it. And, finally, they'd broken. Jayce, with his ideals, and Mel, with her pride.

Their city had broken too: the rift between Piltover and Zaun spilling blood into their streets.

And in the aftermath, their faith lay in wreckage. Jayce, a disillusioned husk, had left to heal in solitude. And Mel, a woman scorned, had turned to the shadows for succor.

She'd sworn to herself.

No more broken hearts. No more broken cities.

Then she'd met a man with a taste for both.

In Silco, she'd found, first an adversary, then an unlikely ally. Found, in his eyes, the answer to a question she'd never dared ask:

How far will I go to safeguard what's mine?

Theirs was the anti-match for the annals. And yet it proved the perfect antidote. They were so dissimilar at first glance, they threatened to cancel each other out. Like the sum of their parts was null.

And yet, in their duality, they were a force to be reckoned with. He possessed so many traits Noxus esteemed: grit, pragmatism, resolve. Traits extolled by her mother; traits Mel had grown to despise.

Yet, on him, they weren't hollow trappings. They were hard-won byproducts of a hard-lived life.

A Zaunite's life, through and through.

His grit was rooted in privation, not privilege. His pragmatism, a necessity, not a vice. His resolve, fed not by conquest, but the desire to carve out a future. A better life for his child, and his city.

Zaun was the lodestar of his compass. And Jinx, the lodestone of his heart.

It was that blend of ruthlessness and tendresse that had first intrigued Mel, then attracted her. Their courtship was a slippery thing, conducted in stolen glances and double-edged banter. Under the spotlight, they'd traded barbs. In private corners, they'd traded confidences.

They'd circled each other, closer and closer: a slow spiral that led to a low-down smoldering, and finally, after months and months, burst into catastrophic flames.

The fallout had sent shockwaves through both their cities. And yet, after the secrecy was blasted away, and the scandal had burned itself out, the spark between them had kept on fizzing.

And fizzing.

And fizzing.

A walk down the aisle, Silco had written in a letter to her, isn't much different than a walk down a corridor. It's a means to an end.

The end being the two of us.

In a room. Alone.

In other words: marriage.

The stone on Mel's ring glints: a green spark. She lifts it to her lips.

Sometimes, it still feels surreal. That Silco, a subterranean predator with no heart in him for trust, no room in him for mercy, had given her his ring. Had pledged himself to her in a simple vow: I do. And she, a sunlit mirage, the chambers of her own heart hidden beneath layers of guile and grace, had repeated the same vow: I do.

A binding oath.

Elora, in her gentle way, had cautioned Mel not to sign on the dotted line. He's a dangerous man, Mel. I've seen the way he looks at you. He'll do anything—anything at all—to get what he wants.

Mel had smiled.

So will I, Elora.

Jayce, predictably, had been less circumspect. He's a crimelord, Mel. Worse, he's a monster. He'll ruin you. He'll ruin our city. Why the hell are you doing this?

Mel had kissed his cheek.

Progress, my darling.

Loyalty had stayed Elora's tongue. Love had stayed Jayce's. But in their eyes, she'd seen the same misgiving. They'd both feared that Mel was blinding herself to the truth. That the Eye of Zaun, with his black heart and blacker past, would tally up her life, and take it for all it was worth.

Take her coin, and her city, and her soul.

Their doubts, Mel knows, have merit. Except she's no doe-eyed naïf. She's a Medarda. And because she's a Medarda, she'd known the truth from the beginning. Known it, and chosen anyway.

Chosen, because it was the truth she'd grown up with. The truth that'd defined her entire life. A mother, who'd culled her children's weaknesses with the same blade she'd cut down her enemies. A childhood, spent first as a spare, then an exile. A womanhood, alone, trying to reconcile her heart with her head. Trying to understand, the difference between power and cruelty; between a fist, and an open palm.

Ambessa's lesson: Power is absolute. Cruelty is the means.

Mel's answer: Power and cruelty are both means.

The end is mercy.

She'd learned, at Silco's side, not to fear power. Not to flinch from the cruelty that came with it. And she'd never feared him, though she had flinched, once.

Because she'd understood that his power, like his cruelty, had a source:

Love.

To safeguard it, he'd resort to the worst of himself. He'd be the monster to end all monsters. He'd hide his open palm in a fist, and close the deal, whatever the cost.

For his city—and his child.

I am not, he'd told Mel once, a good man.

But for my family's survival, I will do what must be done.

Perhaps it was a measure of Mel's own hypocrisy, that she'd recognized in Silco the same monstrosity as her mother's, and yet embraced its paradox. Perhaps it was a measure of her own madness, that she'd seen past the scars, and into the eyes of a kindred spirit. Perhaps it's a measure of her own strength, that she'd taken the monster's hand, and taken him to bed, and in the morning, awoken not only whole, but held.

As if he'd found something, in her, that he'd likewise dared to keep.

Something that could survive the sum of their pasts.

Survival, Mel reminds herself, is its own justification.

Both she and Silco are survivors. They've seen, in each other, two halves of a greater whole. The promise of a future. He's seen Zaun: a city transformed. No longer an industrial blight, but a cutting-edge marvel. She's seen Piltover: the City of Progress. A shining jewel on the cusp of eternity.

She's seen him. And he, her.

And together, their vision can be made real.

They are so close. The game is in hand. The prize, on the hook. All Mel needs to do is reel it in.

But her guests aren't the challenge.

The real challenge sits on the other side of that door.

"Sea legs," Mel whispers.

The bathwater has become a perfumed broth. Her skin is tingling. Her curls gleam like spun-black sugar. Rising, she douses herself with a blast of cold water, then wraps up a thick towel. Padding out is like walking on clouds.

Her mind and body are humming, primed.

Ready.

In her berth, she opens the armoire. Inside, the dresses she'd chosen for the trip are neatly arrayed: each one a study of tasteful luxury. Silk, organza, damask.

Since her wedding, she's favored a number of Zaunite clothiers. Every gown, exquisitely tailored, combines sartorial elegance with political substance. Not a single thread of silk, but an entire industry. Not a single motif, but a manifesto.

Fashion, she knows, can be a handstitched masterclass in diplomacy.

Already, her strategy has borne fruit. At press engagements, her gowns are photographed from every angle. High-end publications, from the Gazette to the Illuminator, feature her wardrobes across their glossies. Each label she patronizes, the jetsetters have followed suit. Zaun's textiles, once derided as subversive trash, are becoming the toast of the town.

Last summer, she'd sponsored an entire exhibition: 'Zenith.' A collection of avant-garde couture, by the most talented Fissure=bred artisans. In a mere week, the exhibition had sold out. Newsreels had praised her 'daring tastes', and the Sun & Tower Newspaper had devoted three full pages to the 'cultural significance' of the collection. In the space of a season, Piltover's fashionistas had begun making pilgrimages to visit their edgier sisters belowground. They'd flocked to the bazaars, gaped at the splendor, and left with a veritable caravan of textiles.

It's the opening, Mel hopes, of a dialogue. An invitation for Zaunites and Piltovans to meet each other halfway.

One fashionplate, Silco often disparages in his wry way, won't fill a dozen empty stomachs.

Perhaps not, Mel concedes.

But a starving artist, with the right benefactor, might become a rich one.

She takes a dress off its hanger: a chiffon day-gown of the palest champagne. It boasts a paneled bodice in a deep V-neck and sheer overlay, and a pleated skirt that cuts away into a slit at the knee. Light and ethereal, with a coy touch of sin.

Retwisting her locs, Mel pins them up into a high sleek bun, baring the swanlike curve of her neck. Then the finishing touches: a dusting of gold powder on her cheekbones, a dab of plum stain to her lips, and a slash of indigo to her eyelids. The green and gold flecks in her irises leap out.

There.

Not quite ready to greet her guests. But not a woozy invalid, either.

She needs to look vibrant. For herself—and her husband. Her pride won't allow otherwise. Three weeks of marriage, and she's already been felled. By Mal de Mer. By a novice's nerves. By a costly error, and her own failure to read the tides.

Now, she must make a show of her vitality.

Sealegs, she thinks.

Mel exits her chamber. No sound comes from the baronial stateroom, just a diffuse light stealing from behind the drawn blinds. The space holds the gloomy masculinity of a bachelor's den: the floral bouquets withering, the basket of exotic fruits competing for space with cut-glass decanters of whiskey, the elegant mantelpiece crowded with papers.

The whole scene, an artist's rendering of old-world baroque, is muddied by a fug of stale smoke.

Mel's lip pinches.

It's Silco's morning routine: shortening a cup of black coffee and a cigarette as he goes over the dispatches from his network. Thousands of miles away from Zaun, and yet his grip is merciless. His lieutenants keep him in a constant loop. A barrage of reports: delivered by radio-wave, or through a series of cyphers embedded in the latest editions of the local newsprints. His orders: a litany of edicts, read by dawn and set into motion by dusk.

The Eye is an all-seeing entity, his system a web of a thousand threads. His informants are everywhere in Zaun: its rooftops, its basements, its ginnels. Nothing goes unnoticed. Nobody is beyond reach. He keeps a tally of all his assets, and moves his pieces accordingly.

Even away, his presence remains: cold, remote, watchful.

But here, Mel thinks, it should be different.

Here, he should relax.

This idyll was meant to be a respite. For both of them, and the duty of their stations. By her own plan of events, they ought to still be in bed. Instead, she's been laid up for a week. And he, of course, has defaulted to a state of hypervigilance.

He's a creature of instinct, her husband. And instinct, in this instance, is to reconnoiter and safeguard his territory.

At land—and at sea.

It's plain he hasn't let a soul enter their cabin since she's fallen ill. He hasn't even let the staff air it out. The dimensions are steeped in neglect. And Mel, despite herself, feels a twinge.

Was he... concerned?

Then: a second twinge, sharper.

He needn't be.

She can look after herself. And the sooner she puts a foot back in the game, the better.

At the table, calling cards spill from a silver tray. Her guests, Mel sees, have paid their respects. And, soundly, been declined. Their messages—fawning, frivolous, full of platitudes—pinch her lip again.

The lot are as predictable as clockwork:

'Pray, accept my sincere well wishes, Mel; your absence has cast a poll over our bridge games' — 'Dearest Mel, I hear the seasickness has laid you low. May I suggest a cure? Better company than the sort you'll find in your berth.' — 'Madam, my heart is a-breaking. My eyes a-aching. When will you come out, and let me feast them on your sweet face?' — 'To the loveliest Melusine on the SS Woe Betide. Please accept this small token of my esteem, and my earnest hope that the sun will shine on me again.'

And etc.

In the margins, the original reader has scrawled notes in his own spiky script. His messages, however, are the antithesis of flattery.

In a few choice strokes, Silco eviscerates every line:

'Poll, you say? How about a grammatically calamitous plague?' — 'Better company than at the bottom of a bottle? That's how much I'd have to drink to stomach yours.' — 'Feast your eyes on this: I have a knife, and it's a-begging to feast on you.' — 'Sunshine is the last thing you deserve. How about a tempest? Better yet, a kraken? Melusine, pray oblige.'

And etc.

Mel smiles. The penmanship is neat as a pin. But each line cuts to the bone. The guest who'd penned the last lovelorn verse is left, rather literally, hanging: his message ends with the phrase, "Darling, dearest—" only to be punctuated by a single, damning word.

Dead.

Mel stifles a laugh. Then, a third twinge. This time, behind her ribs.

Silco, since their departure, has been perched on a knife's edge. Small wonder he's kept to their quarters. For a self-made man, wading night after night into the piranha-infested waters of Zaun's underbelly, the open seas of Piltover's high society must seem a veritable abyss of boredom.

That he's shown his face, each evening, is a credit to his patience. That he's not stabbed anyone—with a fork or a pen or a single sharp word—is a miracle.

And miracles, Mel knows, are not the currency her husband trades in.

Squaring her shoulders, she goes to Silco's berth. A hand lifts to knock.

Then:

"Not there."

Mel turns.

The voice floats from their private saloon. The door is ajar. The sunlight, a cool white-gold, filters through the skylight above. The rays fall upon a veritable feast on the table. Not a lavish Piltovan spread, with its towers of sugar-spun dessert and silver trays laden with exotic fruits and rare cheeses, but a simple, savory repast. Fragrant heels of bread, sausage, scrambled eggs, and spiced congee.

A Zaunite breakfast, born to fill the bellies of miners, factory workers and chem-fiends.

And Silco.

He sits in a louche sprawl across the settee. His lounging robe is charcoal linen, Fissure-woven, the collar trimmed in a subtle gold braid. The color suits him. His scar, usually a lurid slash, is softened by the milky morning light. And his eye, the one without the red, is cut as if from the sea.

He reminds Mel of a creature caught between worlds: a merman, perhaps. Or a sea-monster, half-submerged.

But his double-take is the same as any man's.

"Hell's bells."

Mel purrs, "Good morning to you, too."

His stare—detaching from the letters in his lap—takes its prowling measure of her, head to toe. It lingers on her bare throat. His favorite place to cut a target. Or to bite.

His smile is a bite too: slow and sharp. "Here I thought you'd be another day on the rack."

"I'm a resilient creature, you'll find."

He crooks a brow. "And the Mal de Mer?"

"Gone as the fog."

"In that case, I'm waiting."

"What for?"

"Those three sweet words."

Without missing a beat, she coos, "Schön bist du."

"The other ones."

Sighing, she relents. "You were right. The Shimmer worked. I feel better."

"Not quite yet."

Rising, he pulls out her chair. He's no stickler for etiquette; every act of chivalry is as calculated as the rest of him. His manners, in fact, are the exact opposite of Jayce's: sardonic rather than sincere.

Yet in their focus, the two men are cut from the same cloth. Both give Mel their undivided attention.

Except, where Jayce was sensitive to Mel's whims, Silco is attuned to Mel's wants.

"I gather," he says, as she slides into her seat, "you skipped your porridge."

"I find I've lost my taste for oats."

"Even mine?"

"It's seven o' clock in the morning, husband," she chides sweetly. "Do turn your mind from the gutter."

"I was born in the gutter. Seven o' clock is prime time."

"For what, precisely?"

"Breakfast," he says, all innocence except for that gleam in the bad eye. "It's kept me busy, at any rate."

Mel stops mid-furl on her napkin. "You made this?"

"I've had to. Your chef can't tell a Ripper from a Wreck 'em."

"Which is which, exactly?"

"You prove my point."

Spearing a sausage with his fork, he holds it out to her. It's a smoky morsel, dotted with sprigs of herbs. Mel hesitates, then takes a bite. The flavor is bolder than she's accustomed to. But, chewing, she finds her smile lit with a softer glow than a moment ago.

He is, her husband, a man of many layers. Some, she'll never unravel. Others, reminders of the humanity he's never fully forfeited.

"Well?" he prompts.

"A bit much, perhaps." She takes another bite. "But it grows on you."

The gleam returns, full-force. "It's seven o' clock in the morning, wife. Do turn your mind from the gutter."

"I'm married to you," she rejoins archly. "It's a lost cause."

But she makes no protest as he heaps the rest of her plate. The sausages are piled high; the bread, thick-crusted, is slathered with butter. Even her tea is soused with dollops of honey.

It's a far cry from the delicacies of a Piltovan palate. But Mel, her belly grinding with hunger, finishes every bite. Silco, settling across her in a chair, rests his chin on his knuckles, and watches. It's less a look of appraisal than of absence.

It occurs to Mel—

"Did," she asks, "you used to make this for Jinx?"

"If I hadn't, she'd have grown up eating gummy bears and gobstoppers." The barest grimace. "Just contemplating the inside of my daughter's belly makes me shudder."

"What was her favorite food?"

"Cat's Eyes on a Checkerboard."

"Which is?"

"Waffles with tapioca pudding." The grimace becomes a sly grin. "The ingredients smuggled, naturally."

"From Piltover's larders."

"Your city has plenty to spare."

"As a rule, we do." Mel bites a forkful of egg. "Is that why you're feeding me Fissure fare now? To repay a debt?"

"Not a debt. A favor. Another day of the galley's swill, and you'd have keeled over and left me a widower. Jinx would've composed the perfect eulogy. 'Woe Betide, the best of brides—'till she stuck a spoonful of porridge down her pie-hole.'" His mimicry is eerie. Then again, Mel sometimes thinks he and Jinx share a hivemind. Or, at the very least, a very morbid sense of humor. Refilling his coffee cup, he adds, "She sends her regards, by the way."

"Jinx?"

"A postscript attached to her report." He stirs a fingertip through the pile of letters on the table, and plucks out a glittery pink envelope. Unfolding the sheet, he recites in a droll monotone, "Dear Silly. Hope you're having a whale of a time. Hey, can you get me a whale tooth? I hear they're great for bludgeoning. I'll use it on Sevika—she's been driving me crazy. Why'd you leave her behind? She's already smoked all your cigars, and converted the study into a pool room. Also, Dustin's filched your cigar-box, but he won't admit it. I'm gonna string him up from the ceiling by his ankles till he fesses. Oh, I've just designed a new batch of generators for the mines. If they work, they'll double the output. So, get your butt back here soon. And maybe get me a crate of sun apples? I hear they're super juicy. Tell Step-Mel I liked the dress she sent me, but no lace next time. Lace makes me itch. Also: the new Sheriff is a tool. Get rid of her, will ya? And her hat, too. XOXO."

Mel hides a smile. "Step-Mel, is it?"

"A marked improvement from your moniker before the wedding."

"This, I take it, signifies progress."

"Or a bullseye in motion." He folds the letter, then pockets it. The fond paternal gleam is replaced by the usual half-lidded enigma. "Speaking of: hers and Sevika's report warrants a consultation."

"How so?"

"Noxus is playing at sabotage again. Warmasons are making overtures to the chem-barons. Shimmer-fueled weaponry in exchange for a shot at destroying Piltover's Hex-Gates." He leans back, steepling his fingers. "In my absence, the chem-barons are tempted."

"That's troubling."

"Isn't it just?"

"And your response?"

"I've told Sevika to wait until my honeymoon's done."

His smile is a slow, lethal thing. Mel returns it, sweet as nectar. It's an old game between them: petty one-upmanship played out on the surface, while currents, unseen, run beneath.

They make a game of it because they both know his remark might've been a threat, once, but that now it isn't, and cannot be. It is their way of keeping score. Not of their place in the game, but at each other's side.

Progress.

And yet...

"I trust," Mel says, deceptively light, "you'll make the right choice."

"I figured I'd give you the first shot. After all, they're your brethren."

"They are not," Mel corrects him, with a fixed smile. "Noxus was my nation. Piltover is my home."

"A distinction without difference."

Her smile dims a degree. "Only to an exilee."

There's a moment's silence. Then: a slow clink-clink. Silco's fingers against the rim of his half-empty cup. The gesture is, for him, the equivalent of a sigh. Concession, in the language of their détente.

"If the distinction holds," he says, "then I'll humor the warmasons until the end of our trip."

"Lull them and gull them, as the Zaunite saying goes?"

"Exactly so. By the week's end, my network will have intercepted every last correspondence between them and the chem-barons. The latter, their hands down the cookie jar, will have no choice but to renege their assets. Or their heads. And Topside's Wardens can have the warmasons for themselves. After a fee to Zaun for services rendered." His teeth, a serrated gleam between curving lips, put Mel in mind of a shark's. "No fuss, no muss. Also a Zaunite saying."

Moments like this, Mel marvels queasily, are when she can glimpse her husband's true face. The face she's seen delineated in her mother's visage time and again: a carnivorous hunger that exists only to consume.

It's a face he is adept at concealing. He can wear the mask of the gentleman, or the statesman, or the patriarch. A versatile repertoire: yet each with its infinite capacity for cruelty. A cruelty that is a necessity.

And yet...

Silco's mismatched stare hooks hers. The darkness dissipates.

"You should know," he says.

"Yes?"

"For all that you're an exilee, you've got a home. In Piltover, yes, but more. Zaun is where Topside hides its dirty little secrets. But it's also the place the lost lay their heads. And you, my dear, are the patroness of lost causes. My city will always welcome you into its fold."

There is no tenderness in his tone. And yet, for a man who has never had the luxury of giving away his heart, the matter-of-factness is, perhaps, the best he can offer. A pledge of loyalty, as real as the ring on her finger.

Mel fights down the dizzy dip in her chest.

Monsters, she thinks, know a thing or two about pledges.

"I hope," she returns, softly, "my stay in your city comes with a tour of its best parts."

"The brothels?"

Her foot, beneath the table, nudges his leg. "The breakfast. Because the chef's quite outdone himself."

"Has he now?" he drawls. "Well enough to earn a tip, or a...?"

"If you dare finish that sentence with tup, Silco—"

He smiles, unrepentant. The shadowed mood is dappled with tiny pricks of light. So it always goes between them. He lays a gold nugget of honesty in her palm, and she exchanges it for a fistful of diamonds. They trade in the currency of extremes rather than trust.

The former comes easy; the latter, hard as a heart.

Yet, incrementally, the balance is shifting. Bit by bit. An ounce of feeling, for an ounce of faith. A gleam of promise, for a glimmer of truth.

In time, Mel thinks, they'll learn fair trade.

Maybe, one day, the language of compromise.

"I suggest," Silco says, stretching out his legs, "you thank the chef the proper way, and eat. There's nothing fouler than cold congee."

She complies, taking a spoonful. It's rich and heavy, spiced with cumin, and garnished with fried shallots. Silco, meanwhile, piles the remnants of breakfast on to his own plate. They compete, in their own way, to finish what's left. Each vying for a place of their own: the upper and the underhand.

Though it's a game, Mel can't help but be caught up.

Caught up, but far from caught.

"So," she muses, "what is your agenda for today?"

"Besides fortifying you like a warship?" He tops off his cup, then hers. "Nothing."

"Then why are you in such high spirits?"

"Is your good health not reason enough?"

"You're never in high spirits. Not unless there's wickedness afoot." She hesitates. "And last night, you seemed—cross."

Silco says nothing. From his waistcoat, he withdraws his silver case, and a matchbook. Lighting a slender roll, he taps the spent match. The smoke, a thin grey veil, obscures his features.

Six a day, Mel knows, is his current limit. He's been trying to cut down: for Jinx's sake, and hers.

"What you call 'cross,'" he says, "is my natural state."

"With me?"

"Only now and again." He takes a drag. "But since you're so very curious: we're taking an excursion. Today."

Mel, finishing the last bite of bread, frowns. "You mentioned. But to where?"

"Someplace close."

"How close?"

"A few kilometers. I've had a word with the captain. He'll lay down anchor. We'll take the motor launch there." He blows a rippling smoke ring. "I'm told the scenery's pleasant."

"What?" Mel sets down her slice. "Silco, we can't delay. Our itinerary—"

"—has been adjusted. Our guests will enjoy an afternoon on the water. And a late supper at the villa."

"We were scheduled to arrive by midday on the island. Take a tour of the local sights. I had a meeting with the Wuju chieftain. He and his wife have requested a private reception. There is a dinner, at night, on the High Councilor's flagship. To simply alter our schedule—"

"—will have no consequence. And if it does, so be it."

"We are not freewheelers," Mel objects. "We don't make and break plans at our own convenience."

"We are not cogwheels," he counters. "We are not beholden to the whims of those who wish to use us. And if they are offended, well. The wind changes direction all the time."

"You are being absurd!"

"I'm being a man with a message."

"Which is what, exactly?"

"Compromise." He nudges her teacup closer. "Drink up. You'll need your strength."

Mel's mouth sets in a stubborn line. "Will I?"

"The captain's expecting us at the wheelhouse in one hour."

"I don't like surprises."

"You'll like this one."

He takes another drag on the cigarette. The tip glows a fiery red. His expression, beneath the smoke, brooks no argument. She can't read the currents. Whatever his diabolical designs, she's going to find herself caught up in them.

She'll either have to fight him, or ride the tide.

Sealegs, she reminds herself.

"Silco," she warns. "If you've some elaborate scheme planned, I'd rather not have to apologize for it later."

"Elaborate?" He grinds out the cigarette in his empty cup. Smoke curls everywhere. "Nonsense. I've no interest in grandstanding. Only a modest spectacle."

"Silco—"

"We needn't linger. But your presence would be appreciated."

"Why?"

"Because," he says, "I want you there."

Mel, stymied, stares. She's lost the thread, somewhere. His mood, too, has changed. It's as if the currents have shifted, and the tide is rising.

The question is whether to dive, or let the flood overtake her.

Silco, taking advantage of her lapse, hooks a finger into her bodice. He gives a playful tug. The space between them closes. His scent is a cool wash: bergamot, tobacco, and a touch of body-warmed musk.

It's the scent of a Morning After. Déjà vu lodges low in Mel's belly.

Last night's near-miss still burns vividly on her skin. Her fever's gone, but another's taking its place. This one: hotter, headier. Nothing to do with Mal de Mer.

Everything to do with him.

Tipping her chin up, Silco holds her eyes.

"I want you there," he says, "because, as my wife, I think you ought to see your husband's world."

"My husband's world," she says, a touch breathless, "is cutthroats, and cons, and chaos."

"Not his whole world. Not the heart of it."

"But—"

He kisses her. His lips, cool, are flecked with spice. Then they part, and she tastes his tongue. The flavor is the same, with a hint of smoke. The kiss itself is a slow, searing thing. The kind of kiss that leads to other, equally slow and searing things.

"We have," he says, a little hoarse, "one hour."

Mel's breath hitches. She wants nothing more than to take him up on his offer.

But she cannot afford to lose sight of the stakes.

"One hour to explain yourself," she says, trying to disentangle. "And this isn't fair. I can't think, when you're—"

"When I'm, what?"

He dips his head. His lips touch the base of her throat. The tip of his tongue tastes the hollow, a hot, slick glide. Mel shudders. Her eyes fall shut. She's lost her appetite. Now, all she wants is his.

"Silco," she tries again. "Our itinerary."

"Damn the itinerary." His lips drift lower. "Tell me."

"Tell you, what?"

"Do I feel like a liar?"

Mel's lashes flutter. Her breath quickens. She shakes her head.

"Good." He flows like a spool of shadow to kneel between her thighs. "I've always told you the truth. Even when you didn't want to hear it." His gaze, dark and steady, rises. "Today's no different."

"But—"

"You want the future. So do I. But I've a different view of what it holds." His hands settle on her knees. "So: compromise. I've seen your world. Now you'll see mine. And we'll both have what we want."

Mel struggles to gather her wits. "The guests—"

"Are our guests. They'll play by our rules." His hands, cool and rough-tipped, coast up her thighs. Her skirts rustle into a crumpled heap. "Ours, Mel. Not theirs."

He's a man with a plan, her husband. The plan is, at present, undoing the buttons holding up her stocking garters. His fingers pick each one. Each, with a faint plink, gives way. The fabric, a whisper-fine silk, is tugged loose.

Then his palms, cupping her knees, tip them higher. Spreading her wide. His breath is a hot susurration across her thighs. And between them: a wet heat gathers in throbbing counterpoint.

"This is how compromise works." His thumbs hooks into her satin drawers. "By giving. By taking."

"This isn't compromise," Mel pants, one last-ditch effort. "It's extortion."

"Is it?" He smiles, a sly little curl. "Here I thought I was taking my due."

"I—"

"Six nights," he muses, the satin slipping down. "Five days. And you've been laid low the entire time." His breath ghosts her bare flesh. "It's robbery. And I aim to rectify."

"I would've happily—"

"In your sorry state? Tch. You needed rest."

"I needed—"

"My attention. My care. My patience." He peels her drawers down, leaving them to dangle from one ankle. "Now I'll give it. All of it. Every drop. But first: a down payment."

"Silco…"

"Ssh." He looks up. "Let me."

The last of Mel's willpower melts. He's too close. Too much. And she, the shrewd stateswoman, the expert negotiator, is a lost cause.

She is, Ambessa would say, a child yet. Too easily distracted. Too eager to forget her lessons. She is, Ambessa would say, a woman yet. With a woman's needs, and a prerogative to seek them.

She is, Ambessa would say, a Medarda yet.

And a Medarda, at heart, is a hungry thing. Hungry, and never, ever full.

He spreads her thighs wide, curling one over his shoulder. His hand splays the small of her back, arching her up. Mel, gasping, grips the chair arms. In the bright clean light, he can see everything. Her naked thighs, the folds of her smooth-shaven labia, the dewy moisture gathering at her entrance.

The display is as obscene as his slowness. Turning his head, he dots kisses along her inner-thighs, first one, then the other, until they quiver. Then, the barest bite. Another, and another. Harder, then harder still.

Reflexively, Mel's legs try to squeeze shut. He doesn't let them. There's iron hidden in his lanky form. When he holds her down, there's no quarter given. With a touch, he strips away decades of pretense. With a kiss, he cuts her to the quick.

And with a look, he rips her last veil to shreds.

Veils, for Mel, were once her armor. The veil of her beauty: worn in the Council chambers, to hide the full scope of her cunning. The veil of her grace: worn in the ballrooms, to disarm the most hardheaded adversaries. The veil of her composure: donned since girlhood, to keep her most raw hurts hidden.

And the veil of the dark: her body bared and her heart barred, while her bedmates groaned and shuddered and finished atop her.

The last is, perhaps, her own fault. For years, she'd made a game of it: playing a part, but withholding the sum. Her affections were an exquisite riddle; her lovers, a revolving door. If they courted her with enough finesse, she'd consider them worthy of her bed.

But the thrill was always brief.

During the act, they'd try too hard. They'd want too much. Quite often, she'd slip from the moment, even as she lay in the heat of it. She'd keep the satisfaction for herself. Afterward, as the men slept, she'd finish with solitary caresses what they'd failed to give her. In the morning, she'd smile into their eyes and bid them adieu.

Their egos were her little trophies. Her heart; their loss.

Only Jayce—sweet Jayce—proved the exception. Jayce, who'd kissed her, and shown her the stars. And in his arms, she'd found a sanctuary she'd never imagined. She'd bloomed as a night-flower does, shy and secret, in the safety of his hands.

After they'd parted, he became the standard by which she measured every paramour. Each one proved a pale imitation; the disappointment barely worth lingering on. And she, in turn, made bitter peace with the loss.

Life, she told herself, was made of a thousand little losses, and a hundred little gains. And sometimes, a heart must lose the one to gain the many. Sometimes, a heart must accept, even as it breaks, that the dream is over, and it's time to wake up.

Silco's kiss hadn't woken her.

It had ripped her wide open.

She still remembers their night, in the depths of Zaun's underbelly. How, in his smoky little bower, the glow from the windowslats had cast a deep-green hue across his silhouette. How the shadows, slow and shifting, had cut dark rills like blood across his scarred skin.

How, bad eye glowing, he'd drawn her to him, and taught her the pleasure of the darkness.

She'd always been a woman who made love beneath the sheets, with the shutters drawn and the lamps low. Her body, her greatest mystery, was only ever hers to reveal. She did so with deliberation: a coy unraveling of garments, a languid unfolding of limbs.

In the dark, her nakedness was an offering. And she, the secret garden in bloom.

With Silco, the dark became something else. A realm of unshackled instinct. Inhibition was a four-letter word to him. His tastes were neither gentle, nor genteel. And that night, she was—as he'd made indelibly plain—all his. Her body, his domain.

And he'd possess every inch, even if he had to carve her open to do it.

Mel hadn't expected her own surrender. But surrender was all she could give. She, who'd always enveloped herself in beguilement, even as she saw through others. She, who'd divined their needs, and kept her own at bay.

And yet...

And yet, there was a side to her. A side she'd never revealed, even to Jayce. A hunger that verged on ravenous. A darkness, deep and desperate, that ached to delve into the unknown.

To be uncaged.

Monsters, Mel thinks, know a thing or two about cages, too.

Silco had understood. Sometimes, Mel thinks, he'd understood before she did. And that night, he'd looked at her, and she's been reflected in his eyes: the want and the woman.

He'd seen her for all she was. All he could take, and give.

Afterward, they'd lain tangled in the sweat-soaked sheets. She, sore and spent and throbbing in every particle, too drained to do anything but breathe. He, with a hand on her bare throat, breathing in turn. He'd fallen asleep that way, still half-buried inside her. His body a little heavy, a little sharp, but solid and grounding.

And Mel had felt, for the first time, completely and utterly unveiled.

Veils, Silco had written, in a final letter delivered with a single, ink-black orchid, a day before their wedding, are a bride's prerogative. Wear one as you will.

But remember: a groom's prerogative is to cut through it. To lay bare what's beneath.

He'd signed the letter: Yours, S.

Then, a postscript, scrawled in his spidery hand:

I promise, whatever is beneath, I'll keep it safe.

Mel, on her wedding, wore no veil. She didn't need one. Silco had already seen through her luminous façade, and glimpsed the starveling beneath. And she, whatever Elora or Jayce believed, had long since pared down the man from the monster.

"Mel," the monster rasps now, his breath hot and close. "Look at me."

She does.

He holds her gaze, as he holds her spread wide. She's pinned head to toe, her skirts a froth, her ankles trapped. She is, in his eyes, bared to the heart of herself. The heart that beats, in her throat, in her breasts, between her thighs. She feels a single droplet of moisture seeping out, tracing its way down. His eyes, rapt, follow its course.

And finally, mercifully, his mouth covers her.

Jolting, Mel cries out. He doesn't relent. Hooking her heel behind his shoulder, he holds her steady. And then his mouth is teasing her open, one slick nudge at a time. His tongue, dipping lower, tasting her: one savoring slurp after another. He's a connoisseur of his craft, her husband. He devours with idle relish, as if sampling a rare oyster. And she, shivering, is the pearl. The very deliberateness is a torment.

She needs more. She needs everything. She needs—

"Silco," she whimpers, the air thickening with musk. "Gods—"

"Patience. Breakfast's not to be rushed."

"Please—"

"Sssh. Let me finish." His chuckle vibrates deep. "And then, petal, I'll finish you."

His teeth close, and suckle. Her vision flashes white. Her nails score the wooden armrests. He's an absolute beast, her husband. The only mercy is his own hunger. His tongue teases her clit until it is taut and throbbing, and she is gusting high-pitched contraltos that are not quite song but nearly prayer. Then his hands shift: two fingers sliding into her. Not prodding, but slyly insinuating, a come-hither curl.

Mel's thighs spasm. Her eyes roll upward. Through the skylight, she sees the sky. Blue, bright, endless. She's at the crest of a wave. She's at the bottom of the sea. She is sobbing, her fingers seizing his hair and her heels kicking at his spine.

His hand, cupping her bottom, hauls her up. Now, her only anchor is the chair, and him. And he's lapping her without pause: tongue liquid, teeth scraping, fingers digging. His growls, low and filthy, reverberate straight to her core.

She feels as though she could be consumed by him. Devoured top to toe. She'd welcome it.

But her husband is nothing if not an opportunist.

Before the climax can claim her, he drags his mouth away. She wails, clawing at him. He wrenches loose. Kneeling between her splayed legs, he is a disheveled mess: his hair wild, his lips glistening, his bad eye spitting fire.

Their shared breaths saw raggedly in the sun-streaked parlor.

"Silco," she moans, her body wracked with tremors. "Silco, Silco—"

"Ssh." His palm stills her hips, a firm press. "That's only the first course."

"What—?"

Her juices gleam on his mouth. He takes his time licking them off.

"A proper breakfast," he says, "proceeds in stages."

"Oh, I hate you," she groans, and falls back. "I absolutely hate you."

"Not quite yet."

With a sinuous stretch, he rises. A moment's work, and his lounging robe is tossed over the chairback. In the stripe of golden sunlight pouring through the skylight, he is a lean, coiled creature: all scarred sinew and jutting bone. No ink on the pale swathe of his bare torso. But his body, like hers, is all history. His wounds, etched, where hers are veiled. His shape, utilitarian where hers is ornamental.

And yet, between the extremes, they find their golden mean.

Compromise.

He undoes the buttons of his trousers. Mel, half-lidded, stretches a leg to stroke his thigh. "Do that quicker."

"If you insist."

The last button, flicked free. His cock, jutting from the peeled-back flies, is hard and wet-tipped.

Ready.

Mel, staring, licks her lips. It's been a week since she's had him, and her appetite is a high flame. She imagines sinking to her knees. Taking him, deep, in her mouth. It's not a service she doles out on whim. But with him, it's nearly a reflex. Her palate pools with saliva. Her tastebuds tingle. She wants the tang of him: smoke, salt, musk. Her throat wants all of him: the fullness, the heft, the ache.

Except it's nothing to the ache between her thighs. Every breath is a sharp-toothed misery.

Silco's fingers thread into her hair.

"Open, petal," he rasps. "Open wide."

Mel, wetting her lips, obeys.

He's not gentle. He shoves himself inside without prelude, a heavy slide across her tongue. Mel's jaw unhinges wetly. Her breath hitches. He's ungodly thick; blunt-tipped and heavy-veined. But the rest is all smooth elegance: silk and velvet.

Her palms starfish his hipbones. Her tongue swirls. Once, the knob past her throat was all she could manage. But he's a patient man, and she's a canny woman. In his own words, she's graduated, From a competent little cocksucker to a downright connoisseuse.

The lascivious praise still sends a thrill through her. It's an act of mutuality, when she pleases him. To give her power away, and yet be given more. To yield, and yet have all her hungers met.

Even the ones so dark, so deep, they threaten to swallow her whole.

Mel suckles, her cheeks hollowing. Silco grits out a curse. One hand fists her hair. The other curls under her jaw, tipping her head back. His cock hits the back of her throat. The pressure makes her world blur. She gags, tears spilling.

He doesn't let up. His eyes, red and black and blue, lock her in place.

Be a good girl, they warn. Finish your breakfast.

So she does.

His first thrust is goading. The second is dizzying. The third is deep. And she takes it all. Every last inch. Her mouth, swollen and wet, works his shaft. The sounds are obscene: slurp, swallow, slurp. Her hands, trembling, cup his testicles. They're heavy with their load. She fondles them, rolling the sac, teasing the base.

Silco's head tips back, the pale smoothness of throat bared. The muscles work as he bites down a guttural groan. Anguish. Agony. He's not a man given to raptures. But in the grip of his own, he's a sight well worth savoring.

"Mel," he grits, "fuck—"

Then he's taking her, filling her, using her. The only thought in her mind is his cock. The only thing she wants is more. Her jaw burns. Her lungs burn. Between her thighs, the throb becomes a clench. Reflexively, Mel's nails score his hips. Her mouth seals around him. Sucking, laving, begging.

"That's it," Silco gasps, voice raw. "Such a greedy little slut."

She keens around his cock.

"Soon," he pants. "Soon, petal."

Then, he's gone. The loss is a shock. The sound her throat makes—a wet, lewd pop—echoes through the parlor. Panting, Mel stares up through watery eyes. His own are a seething void.

She's what's undone him. Her, and her insatiable need. The knowledge makes her drunk.

"Silco," she rasps, "now, now, now—"

He doesn't argue. Seizing her shoulders, he drags her from the chair. The room spins. A moment later, the carpet's a soft landing. The skylight, a blue corona.

And Silco, blotting out everything: the eclipse.

He is upon her, one long continuous line: sharp teeth, sharp elbows, sharp hips. His cock rides against her mons. Mel, spreading herself wide, tries to urge him where she needs. Her hips roll: seeking friction. Her sounds are wordless, wanton, weeping.

"Ssh," he soothes. "Ssh. I've got you."

And then, at last, he's there. A hot slide, and a slow shocking stretch.

A sob tears out of Mel. He's so much, and she's so full. The sensation is almost too much. But her body, her mind, her heart: they are greedy creatures. They will never be satisfied until she is split wide open. Until she is utterly, completely, his.

Until he is hers.

"Harder," she gasps, thighs locking. "More, more, oh—"

Her husband, no less greedy, delivers.

It's not the tender lovemaking she'd dreamt of all her girlhood. Younger, she'd imagined sex as no different than a ballroom dance. Two bodies, one harmony. Each step, a perfect accord. A graceful, inevitable union.

Diplomacy in motion.

Her husband is the antithesis. His body, a taut, sinewy cage, keeps her pinned. His rhythm is the same as his zest for everything else. Merciless. Remorseless. Relentless. It hurts, it hurts so sweet, her whole body a single raw nerve singing in a pitch that verges on pain. The sounds he makes: growls, grunts, harsh-edged curses. The sounds she makes: whimpers, sobs, incoherent pleas.

It's the fever, come back. It's her senses, aflame. It's him, the only cure.

"Mine," he hisses, driving into her. "Mine. Mine. Fucking mine."

"Yours, yes, yours—"

He lifts one of her thighs over his shoulder, their bodies wedged impossibly close. Then he's grinding, grinding, grinding. She's so wet, every motion is a visceral squelch. Every thrust hits where she needs: deep and unerring. She seldom climaxes except in her own time. But here, she's already halfway to the edge.

And then, he takes her over.

His slick thumb finds her clit. Her head falls back, thighs seizing.

"Silco, gods—"

"Let me feel you, Mel. Come for me—"

The crescendo hits in a shockwave. Mel cries out, a shriek torn from her bones. She, who's always held together with threads of glossy gold, is unspooling into wet ribbons. It's no pretty picture. It's sweat, and slick, and spit. It's her, and it's him, and it's theirs.

It's everything.

The aftershocks don't ebb. They crest into another wave: smaller, sharper, sweeter. Keening, she rides out the spasms. Silco, teeth gritted, hitches himself deeper. His thumb is still on her clit. And his cock, gods, his cock, the way he's working her, is a bliss tantamount to torture.

"Again," he growls, "fuck, again—"

She cannot. She's going to. She cannot. She has no choice.

She's not anything, anyone, except his, his, his

Her third peak is a slow-burning quake. Mel feels it from her heels all the way to her heart. Her spine arcs. Her body locks. She is the sun, and the sea, and the sky. The world is blue. The world is gold. The world is red, and black. She cannot take her eyes from Silco. Needs to see him watching her, her reflection in that monstrous, burning pupil.

He is a monster, her husband. A devil in scarred mortal flesh.

And his mouth, his hands, his cock, are a hell she will gladly suffer.

"Mel." His thrusts, rapidfire, are losing tempo. "Gods, you feel—"

"Come," she begs, her thighs quivering. "Inside, now, please—"

He does, with a hot, pulsing rush. She feels it: each distinct throb. He's buried achingly deep. She is full of him, filled with him. In that moment, she knows nothing else. His face, above her, is a rictus: bared teeth and wild eyes.

All the layers, undone.

"I should," she gasps, "do a painting."

Silco, chuckling raggedly, collapses. His weight, pinning her, is deliciously heavy. Mel cradles him in place. His body is a little angular, a little cutting. But she's filled with such a languorous, liquid warmth, the discomfort doesn't register.

She wants only this: him, and the sun-dappled silence, and the whole day to come. A hundred days of this. A thousand nights.

She can be selfish, and take it all.

Except he's already peeling away.

One cool palm smooths the curve of her skull. Cooler lips touch her temple. Their bodies disengage wetly. The echoes of him throb inside her, a visceral pulse of emptiness.

Mel bites down a whimper. In the aftermath, he seldom lingers.

A shark, she'd once read, must keep swimming, or die. Silco is the same. After the attack, he's gone. A cigarette lit; smoke suffusing the silence. A caress imparted: cool, light, fleeting. An endearment, if he's well-pleased: petal, darling, sweetness.

And then he's off to whatever wickedness his mind's conjured up. To his office, where his Amazonian lieutenant waits. To the clubs, where the chem-barons congregate. To the workshop, where his daughter, his pretty little mirror, sits spinning her own wicked webs.

His is never idle, her husband. His languor is all surface: a silhouette gliding beneath the black.

Always on the prowl.

But here, he's no shark. He's just a man. His body, spilling onto his side, is a study in elegant lines. Long, lean, sated. Sweat cools on his hairline. His breathing evens. His good eye, the one that's all blue sea, holds a gleam she knows.

A little raw, a little real.

All hers.

"A painting," he repeats, his voice a drowsy husk. "Of what?"

"You."

"Ghastly."

"Only when you're scowling. When you're like this—" she lifts a hand, fingertips tracing his scarred torso, "you're almost handsome."

"Almost?"

"Beauty is different from magnetism. The first is best appreciated from afar. The last draws you in. Forces you to look past the surface."

Her palm, roving down his shoulder, finds a knot. She kneads until he hums. Tactile hooks are her little specialty. They keep him close. Keep him from straying away.

"I remember," she whispers, "the first time I spent the night with you." It's not an easy memory to conjure up. So much is layered on top of it: before and after. "In the morning, I saw you in full daylight. You were lazing naked in the patch of sunshine, with your awful cigarettes and your awful musings. And as the sun rose, it dyed your skin to all the colors of an autumn forest. Amber, copper, ash. And I thought: I must have him in the sun again. I must paint the sea in his eyes."

"What sea?"

"It's there, in the right eye. There's a hint of storm in it. A little thunder, a little lightning."

Her palm aligns to his cheekbone. Thumb edging his notched lower-lip. Testing the waters.

"A little darkness, too," she whispers.

His teeth, closing gently around her thumb, make her jump.

"Is that what you'll paint?" he says. "My eye?"

"All of you. The way you move. The way you look at me." Her voice hoarsens. "Everything."

"And the selling price? What'll that be?"

"I'm a Medarda. We don't sell. We stake our claim."

"Hmmm." His tongue laves the pad of her thumb. "So I'm a resource to be hoarded."

"Not hoarded. Admired. Like a rare cut of onyx." Her palm, drifting, finds his belly: a supple stretch of bare, bony muscle. "I'd frame you in gold. For posterity. And my own pleasure. I'd never let a soul see it."

Idly, he rolls over. "A dirty secret, hm?"

"A private delight."

Mel, turning too, curls against him. She is, by default, a cuddler. He, by design, is not. But sometimes, default outstrips design. The trick, she's learnt, is the timing. Sometimes, the tide's high, and he's gone. Other times, it's a low ebb, and he'll let her cling.

Today's her lucky day. His arm encircles her: proprietary. His lips brush the crown of her head: possessive. Their legs entwine: a lazy braid. Nestled against his chest, Mel listens to the cadence of his heart. There's the urge, as the minutes melt together, to slip beneath the surface.

Sleep, and wake, and start the morning all over again.

"I wish," she sighs, "you were a painting."

"Silent, and easy to put away?"

"Easy to hold." Her palm starfishes his chest. "Easy to keep in place."

His hand covers hers. "Is that why you married me?"

"Not the only reason."

"But a factor." His thumb, caressing, is calloused. "A gilded box for a beastly thing."

Mel tips her head up. "What?"

"Beneath the layers of oils, pigment, and gold leaf, that's the only painting of me you'd have." His hand imparts a squeeze. "That's all I'd become. Your caged monster."

"I—"

Before she can marshal her expression, she sees him take it in. His hand drops hers.

"Our hour," he says, peeling himself away, "is nearly up."

"But—"

"Come along."

With a twist, he's unfolded to his feet. His silhouette, a pale-skinned apparition, is framed by the skylight.

Mel, head full of sea and sharks and shadows, rises too. Her legs wobble. Little aftershocks still pulsing from her core. Her updo's unspooled in a halo of loose curls. The rest of her is unmoored. And the tide, without her knowledge, is creeping in.

She has to keep up, or drown.

"Tell me," she says, steadying herself, "what's this surprise of yours?"

"Nothing too grand." His hair curls in silver-threaded vines over his temples. He smooths it back. "Just a small show."

"A show of what?"

"You'll have to see."

"Silco—"

His good eye is a searing blue. "Afterward, Mel."

Mel stares. This, she knows, is no mere excursion. She's caught a whiff of blood.

She could stop him, and demand answers. Demand to know the plan, and the terms. She could threaten, or cajole, or plead. She could throw a fit, and storm out. She could even, as she's done before, try to dissuade him. He'll listen to her. He'll even bend, sometimes.

But not now. His course is set, and those fins are in motion.

And yet…

And yet, there's something. Something in the way his good eye tracks her. Something in the way his hand lingers on the small of her back. Something, behind the fierce, hard lines of his face, that tells her the world won't end.

That, if it does, it's not the end of their world.

"I don't suppose," she says, a touch tart, "you'd tell me why we're rushing."

The corner of his mouth hitches. "To make a grand entrance."

"Without the benefit of a script?"

"You're a better performer when you improvise."

Mel, shaking her head, kneels to scoop up her underthings. One stocking laddered; the other split at the seam. She gives them up for lost. The rest of her is a disheveled wreck. She'll need to wash, and redo her makeup, and re-tame her hair. She'll need a different dress, and a pair of heels that won't wobble.

All before the hour slips away.

"Give me a moment," she says, turning toward the door. "I'll need to—"

Unexpectedly, he enfolds her. His scent is different now: not the usual cool smoke, but a warm, salty musk. Arousal, savoringly spent. The evidence of their coupling is all over him, too. A wet stain, glistening across his abdomen. Her lipstick, smearing his throat. Her scratches, furrowing his shoulders.

Mel, eyes dipping, inhales. She is sated, physically. And yet there remains, always, a residual fascination.

And, like Mal de Mer, it will always, inevitably, return.

Like all else between them.

"I meant it," he says. "I want you to see my world. I want you to understand what I've fought for, and why. Because the alternative is to live the rest of my life a painting in my wife's house."

"Not my house," she corrects him. "Our home. There's a difference."

"Only to an exilee."

"That's who I am, Silco."

"You are not." Cupping her chin, he holds her stare. "If Noxus has cast you off, the last thing you should call yourself is exiled. Exiles are people without a place to go. You've built yours. You've built a city." He tucks a curl behind her ear. "You've made the whole damn place shine."

"And I want to keep it so." Her hands find his chest, smoothing the scratches. "Keep you so."

"You can't keep me, Mel. Not in a portrait. Not on a ring. Not in any gilded cage. I am who I've always been: the man you'd never have met, if he'd not cracked the ground open beneath your complacent feet, and let all his monsters out." His voice is hard. His eyes, harder. "And monsters can't be caged. Only fed."

Stung, she drops her hand. "I'm not trying to cage you."

"You are. Not because you wish it, but because you believe it's best. 'Keep him distracted, and he'll be content. Keep him close, and he won't wander. Keep him in sated, and he won't have his way.'" His mouth, a bare inch from hers, crooks. "It's not a bad plan. Twenty years younger, and I'd be putty in your hands. But a cage, whether it's built of caresses or chains, is still a cage. And I'm not your Golden Boy, Mel. I don't have his heart, or his dreams. I've only ever had my own. And I am can smell the fear on you, whenever I go chasing after them."

"I'm not—"

But she is, and they both know it. The buried horrors of her past, and the hidden hungers of her present. How, with a touch, he resurrects them all, and bares her down to the bone. How, if she missteps in their two-quotient dance, he'll do the same to her city. He'll bleed them both dry, and then he'll be gone. Leaving her to pick up the pieces.

Alone, again.

She whispers, "Why marry me, if that's how you felt?"

"Because the alternative is a war neither of us would win." He exhales, and the heat of it fans her lips. "We understand each other. We want each other. So we'll compromise. We'll take, and we'll give. But not a single thing more. Not for diplomacy, or duty, or anything else." His thumb traces her jaw. "This, between us, is ours."

Mel, blinking hard, is suddenly, absurdly, near tears. "And the rest?"

"The rest is fair game."

"And that's not an act of war?"

"No," he says. "It's a choice."

"I—"

"You chose me," he says. "Why?"

"Because—"

The sunlit air congeals between them. Past dopplers queasily through the present. She sees Jayce, his eyes full of hurt. Jayce, who'd asked her, Why him?

She sees Elora, a hand on her heart. Elora, who'd pleaded, What does he mean to you?

She sees Ambessa, a shadow looming. Ambessa, who'd warned, Where does his loyalty lie?

Where, Mel thinks, does mine?

She knows. She's known for a while. But to breathe it into words is to give it life. It's too dangerous. The undertow is stronger than she'd expected. If the current claims her, the last thing she wants is to go under. The last thing she wants is him cutting her loose.

Except he's not.

He's keeping her close.

"Do you know," he says, "why I chose you?"

"Silco—"

"Let me tell you." His cool palms cradle her hot cheeks. "Because you, with your pretty dresses and painted smiles, have always known the price of survival. You, who've swum in the currents of compromise, even as you watched the ships of war sail in. You, whose eyes see farther than the rest, and yet whose hands are never far from a pen." His thumb caresses her mouth. "You, Mel. Nobody else."

And that, in its simplicity, is her answer. It is also, she thinks, the sum of her truth.

And he, whatever else, has always valued his sums.

"I won't ask why you chose me," Silco says. "I'll ask, instead, for something simpler."

"What?"

His stare is a strange thing. An uncanny glint of dark and light.

"Trust me," he says. "For today, if not tomorrow."

"What makes you think I don't?"

His lips shape a small sly smile. "Because you've no reason to."

Mel falls silent.

"We've a bargain between us. A marriage. But you've never been tied to something you couldn't shape, or bend to your will. You're a Medarda, after all. You stake your claim. And if you'd chosen a different man, a more pliant one, you'd not have any of this—" He strokes a stray curl from her temple, "—Mal de Mer. Now I need to know: is it well and truly gone? Or do you still feel it? That pull. That dread, when I'm elsewhere, that I'll never return. That one day, I'll wake up, and decide to take everything? Because if you do, and if that's where you'll stay, I'll let you go." Wryly, "I'll even help you pack your trunks."

Her lips part. His thumb touches them, silencing.

"If it's not," he finishes, "then a single word will suffice. Yes, or no."

The moment is a knife's edge. His scrutiny is a physical paring-down. It makes her feel—not naked. Transparent. All her veils gone. Herself laid bare, and every secret exposed.

For a heartbeat, she nearly breaks. Nearly blurts her deepest fears. The ones he'd promised, in his last letter, to keep safe. To let her believe, however desperately, that it was all worth the gamble. That he, and she, and they, could be—if not happy, then something close.

But there is no close.

There's only the tide, and her choices.

"Yes," she whispers.

"Say again?"

"Yes." Her palms, flat on his chest, curl. "I trust you."

A pause, so brief she nearly misses it. Then the scarred corner of his mouth lifts. "I will hold you to that."

He leans in, and kisses her. It's not tender, but it is true. She tastes the currents, the tides, the undertow. She feels, she fears, she knows:

If she lets go now, she'll drown.

The danger, strangely, is freeing. It's a leap, not a fall. A choice, not a compromise.

It's her, and him, and the rest be damned.

Breaking off, he whispers, "One thing."

"What is it?"

"Change out of the chiffon." Detaching, he looks her lazily up and down. "It won't survive."

"Survive you?"

"Survive the day." He's already moving toward the bath, stripping his clothes. "You've plainer dresses in the armoire. Choose something durable."

"Durable?"

"Something—" he glances over his shoulder, "—you wouldn't mind never seeing again."

The door swings shut. The roar of running water begins.

Mel, perplexed, stands in the sunlit parlor. It's not yet midday, and she's already jelly-legged. Mal de Mer—or just the man. The aftermath is a slow, sticky, aching throb. Reality takes its time sluicing back.

And when it does, there is nothing to do but meet the tides.

Sealegs, she thinks, aren't enough.

Sometimes, the only choice is to swim.

Fortunately, she's never been afraid of the deep-end.


Dear gentle readerlings, if you enjoy this tale and pairing, please consider leaving a comment! It really means a lot and keeps the story going - especially for such 'niche' rarepairs and all the mischief they (and the author) get up to!