Page 72 of A Serpent in the Garden

To my complete lack of surprise, Remy was sullen as he sank back behind the bars.

I was curious, certainly, about all of it, the asinine stunts, the identity of who Remy had wanted to ‘come down’, but unsure if I ought to acknowledge the awkwardness or else skirt the subject as diligently as I would that drunken uncle of Lord Fletcher’s. Of course it never mattered what I voiced or didn’t. He heard it all regardless.

Well, I eventually said, pulling back the sheets on the bed after a strained little interlude. I’m guessing he’s an older brother?

He’s forty-five, Remy said, cranky as a sleepy child.

He looks half that. I thought you were all ancient. Hundreds of years old.

After a stunned silence, he let out a shock of laughter. If I was hundreds of years old, why would I be working your lack of underwear into conversation? You’d be a nubile invertebrate to a demon that old. I’m not a lecher. I’m two years older than you.

I supposed that explained quite a lot about his temperament. What do you think he did to convince the guard not to talk?

He probably meant he lulled him, he said in a calm, easy voice, and I was relieved that the anger hadn’t bled back into his tone. It probably wouldn’t work that well on anyone who has succubi or incubi blood, but it’s pretty effective. You’ve seen that.

It would be a while before I forgot the way Serich had fallen under that succubus’s spell. But before my mind could wander too far into more what-ifs over Serich, a shadowy hand waved off the worry as if it were smoke.

I returned the cloak to the wardrobe and milled around extinguishing the sconces before sliding into the bed beneath the chilly pile of blankets. I had a feeling the moment I sank into a bath was the moment someone else would arrive, and I didn’t need that. It would have to wait till morning.

It felt odd, a bed. I supposed it hadn’t been long since I’d slept in one at Blathilde’s, but it had still been viciously uncomfortable beneath her old bones.

Remy seemed smug about that, that I found his bed comfortable. He didn’t comment on it but he hardly had to. I could feel it radiating through my mind, felt the twitchy smile on his lips.

It’s been a while since I’ve slept in an actual bed, I said, mostly to wipe the smirk off his face.

Serich’s rock cave didn’t do it for you?

We can’t all live like demons. I had studiously avoided thinking very much about the grotto so as not to let Remy in on any details, but even the act of thinking about not thinking about it was enough.

You try very hard not to revisit that. Not a good memory?

I didn’t say that.

You didn’t have to. You didn’t finish?

I don’t know, I said defensively, flopping onto my other side. It’s hardly your business.

You’d know if you had. It’s not exactly subtle.

I wouldn’t know what it felt like, but I remembered the way Serich’s finger had felt against me for the split-second when it had found the right spot, how it made my heart feel fuzzy and strange, my stomach pool with heat.

Oh, you poor thing, he said, latching onto the thought. You should have asked him to keep his finger there. You have to use your words if you want something.

I want you to shut up. Warmth bloomed all over my body, whether from embarrassment or the teasing in Remy’s voice or the aftershock of the memory of Serich’s finger, I couldn’t tell.

Good. I won’t, but good. You know, he said, as if struck by the sudden thought, his voice going silky, I could take control of your hand, give you what you want. You’d find out what you’ve been missing.

You’re a pig. I said it mostly by reflex, but I didn’t really mean it. It amused me when he was like this, mischievous, no undercurrent of ire, though there was no telling how long it might last. His voice in my head, a hand between my legs—it was a chillingly stimulating idea, one I felt my body responding to already, every inch burning and tightening.

Maybe so. But you’re considering it. Do you know how easy it would be, hearing all your thoughts? I would have to take my time of it in the interest of being thorough but we’d get there in the end.

I cleared my throat loudly, hoping it might bring all my corkscrewing thoughts to a crashing halt. Why don’t you tell me what you did to earn your punishment first?

He groaned elaborately, flopping back against his chair. Why do you always insist on ruining our moments?

I don’t think being forthright would ruin anything. It would make me far more inclined to follow your whims. And I seem to remember a time when you didn’t like taking control of me. I buried my face in a pillow, my thoughts in a tangle, wishing I could just blow my consciousness out like a candle. I could ask him to force my sleep but I didn’t think he’d do me that courtesy at the moment.

I would have happily granted an exception, had you asked for a favor like that, he said, the last thing I heard before a hard wave knocked me over into luxurious darkness.