“Then get them,” Charon said, and made for the stairs.
“I thought Olly was in the cellar,” Yves said.
“I will retrieve them when I am done.”
Yves jumped up a few steps to press himself to Charon as the servant returned, dragging a young woman with him. Two more young women and a man about Yves’ age followed, holding candlesticks and a poker as makeshift weapons. They stared up at Charon and Yves as the young man tried to tug them toward the door.
“Go,” Charon said, and as one, they fled into the night. Of course Lord Marteau only employed submissives. He likely thought it would be easier to give them orders—or like some nobles, he enjoyed domming a person who could lose their livelihood if they dared to say no. Charon quietly noted this as the rage drew him further up the stairs, toward the well-furnished second floor.
“Stay here,” Charon said, and Yves dropped to the rug, looking dazed. Charon reached down to touch Yves’ hair, and the part of him that wasn’t roiling with fury ached at the fear in Yves’ eyes. “It will be better with Raul. He would not do what I will do now, but it is necessary. No one should think they can enslave you. An example must be made.”
“Charon.” Tears streamed down Yves’ cheeks and into the corners of his full mouth. “Please. Let’s find Olly and go.”
“It isn’t Charon,” he said. “Not right now.”
He turned away.
He found Lord Theodore Marteau asleep in a gaudily decorated bedroom at the end of the hall. When Lord Marteau woke to the sound of the door opening and saw him standing in the doorway, he tried to scramble to the dresser.
“Stop.” Charon’s dominance, unfettered at last, rang through the room. Lord Marteau may have been a dominant, but Charon’s power pressed down on Lord Marteau like a hammer on an anvil. “On the floor. Hands and knees.”
“You can’t?—”
“Now,” Charon said, and Lord Marteau slipped off the bed with a thump that shook the walls. Charon strode forward and placed his boot on Lord Marteau’s left hand, waited for the man to meet his gaze, and pressed down until he heard the crack of bone.
Lord Marteau’s scream echoed in the small room.
“The boy Jesse,” Charon said. “He had four broken fingers. Let us see how many you have.”
“You’re insane,” Lord Marteau gasped. “You—you whore, you filthy fucking slut, you think I—” He shrieked again as Charon raised his foot, removing the pressure from his fingers.
“Only two,” Charon said. He got to one knee in front of Lord Marteau and grabbed his right hand. Lord Marteau tried to scramble away, but Charon held him there, his grip as firm as iron. He pulled back a forefinger. “Two more.”
Lord Marteau didn’t scream on the fourth. He whined, high and keening, as he writhed beneath Charon. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“The boy,” Charon said. “Did you kill him yourself? Did you pay the guards to look away?”
Lord Marteau gaped at him, panting, sweat streaking his handsome face. “He was just a whore. There are hundreds others like them. They’d die otherwise, on the streets.”
“Laurent said he was strangled,” Charon said. He squeezed Lord Marteau’s broken fingers. “Did you enjoy it?”
Lord Marteau whined again. Charon hauled him up onto the bed by the throat, then started to tear strips off his nightshirt. “Usually, this requires a few tools. Particular ones. But I believe I can make do with what I have.”
“Why are you doing this?” Lord Marteau asked. “For the boy? Did you want him? I have others. Younger ones, if you desire them. Eager. Obedient. I’ll even let you mark them.”
“Yves,” Charon said, as he tied Lord Marteau’s hands to the bedposts. “Give me Yves.”
“Yes. He’s yours.”
“Will you let me take him?” Charon asked. He tightened the ties around Lord Marteau’s wrists, cutting off the flow of blood there. Lord Marteau wouldn’t need to use his hands for long.“Even if he struggles? Even if he hates it? If he weeps, if he bleeds?”
“Just let me live,” Lord Marteau said. “I’ll let you use him however you like. He’s pretty, isn’t he? Pleasing?”
“Yes,” Charon said. He opened the dresser that Lord Marteau had been reaching for and found a thin, sharp knife. He brought it to one side of Lord Marteau’s eye and pressed a thumb to the other corner. “Very pleasing, when he looks at you with his wide, trusting eyes. His golden hair. The freckles over his nose and shoulders. A beautiful sight.”
“Very,” Lord Marteau whispered. “He’ll be yours as soon as I’ve brought him into my household.”
“Mm.” Charon pressed the knife down, then to the side, like digging an oyster from the shell. The body beneath him thrashed and screamed, then started to sob, wet and miserable.
