Chapter 9: Steam — The Key of Oslov

Volume 11: Crosscurrents and Consequences

Chapter 9 Steam

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Supervisor Lindtmerán was cooking. She was doing it right in front of Vera. First she’d washed the greens, and then she’d stripped the red-veined leaves from their stems, and now she was steaming them in a steel pot over a gas flame.“I hope this doesn’t seem too odd to you, Fir’n Under-Secretary,” the woman said conversationally, turning a dial. “I’ve always enjoyed having a certain tactile relation to my food, and since we have the greenhouses right here, why not? The rest of the meal will be standard defrosted rations, naturally.”Vera nodded, trying to look like she’d known you could use a stove for anything more elaborate than brewing hot drinks. Food came in frozen packets, and you microwaved it. Occasionally it was served to you freshly prepared at the Restaurant. Her husband liked to extol the skills of the chefs there, but she never listened to the details.Vera’s mother claimed Vera’s great-grandmother used to steam her own greens as a way of connecting with their ancestors. Vera had trouble imagining it. But this was Tilrey’s mother, ideally her future mother-in-law, so she needed to keep an open mind. It was a sign of trust that she’d been invited to dinner in the Supervisor’s private apartment, and she wasn’t going to ruin that by being uptight.“May I touch one?” she asked. “A, uh, an uncooked leaf?”With a smile, Angelika Lindtmerán separated a raw leaf from the bunch and handed it over. Vera held it in both hands, marveling at how sturdy and almost rubbery the chard was before you stewed it into mush. She traced the path of a vein away from the central stalk.The apartment was simply and decently appointed; nothing suggested that Lindtmerán was enriching herself via the black market, like some Supervisors you heard about. A wide bank of windows showed Vera only blackness, but at least she knew there was an outside. She knelt beside the table while Lindtmerán removed the pot from the stove and drained it. A few moments later, they sat face to face, each with a bowl—rice and cod with cooked greens on top, looking perfectly normal, if a little less mushy than usual.“Are you comfortable there, Fir’n? Please sit up on the couch if you prefer.”“I’m fine—well, actually. Yes, thank you, I’ll sit up there if you don’t mind.” Vera remembered their earlier conversation and hauled herself up onto the couch. Ah, that was much better. Now she just needed to broach her real reason for coming here—by tiny and careful degrees. She came from a family of politicians. She could do this.“I admit I had some concerns about traveling so close to my due date,” she said, digging into the bowl. “Especially to, uh, a working city. But your medical facility has excellent statistics.”“If I may boast for a moment, Fir’n, the infant and maternal mortality in this sector is as low as in most facilities in Redda. Our practitioners have excellent training. But I understand your concern, especially during a first pregnancy. During mine, I became so cautious, almost superstitious . . .” Lindtmerán gazed past Vera, a wistful look transforming her sharp features. “But then, my circumstances were unusual. You don’t want to hear me blather on about myself.”“Please, you’re not blathering!” Vera nearly choked on a stalk in her eagerness to hear more. “I find it helpful, actually. To compare my experience to others’. How many children do you have, Supervisor?”“Please, call me Lisha, Fir’n. I have one son about your age.”The woman raised her probing eyes to Vera’s, and for an instant Vera could have sworn she knew. But no, of course she didn’t. Couldn’t.Lindtmerán continued: “I had no more children because I lost my husband twenty weeks into the pregnancy. He was a helicopter pilot; he was killed in a snow squall. That’s why I mentioned unusual circumstances. To have so much anticipation, so much joy, and then to suffer the loss of someone I considered the love of my life—that was a great grief, Fir’n.”Vera nodded, the food sticking in her throat. Part of her was shocked to hear Lindtmerán describe her despair to a stranger, and a stranger of a different Level at that. It seemed rude to pursue the subject, possibly even rude to listen, but she couldn’t help wanting to know more. “Did you marry for love, then? If you’ll excuse my asking?”Lindtmerán seemed unbothered by the question. “Very much so, Fir’n. In fact, I was considering sanctioned celibacy when I met Ceill. He was several years younger than I, so we hadn’t known each other at school. He flew me out to inspect the outer greenhouses, and when he saw how frightened I was of flying, he found ways to calm me and make me laugh.” The wistfulness shone in her eyes again. “He was a charming man, Fir’n, one who listened and thought of others. And very handsome.”Vera could swear the Supervisor was blushing at her own mental picture. Tilrey’s father must have been very like him—the kind of man you lose your head over. Or I did, anyway. Her own cheeks warmed, and she said, “May his last moment be bright,” trying to hide her embarrassment with solemnity. “How long were you and Ceill together, Supervis—er, Lisha?”“Four wonderful years. My parents didn’t like the match because Ceill was R-1, but they wanted a grandchild, and eventually he managed to charm them into forgetting the pride of rank.” Lisha grimaced. “This must sound absurd to you, Fir’n. My parents themselves were only high R-3, but in this city, that puts a person in the governing class. They thought a lot of themselves.”“I understand.” Vera tried to wrap her mind around what the woman was saying. If Lisha and her parents were the Thurskein equivalent of high Upstarts, then a marriage between her and an R-1 helicopter pilot must have been like—well, almost like a marriage between Vera and Tilrey.No, no, not like that, because the gulf between Upstart and Laborer was much greater than any gap between Laborers could be. But still . . . maybe a little like that. In the limited experience of someone born in ’Skein, of course.Forcing the cooling rice into her mouth, Vera reminded herself of another salient difference between the two cases: Ceill and Lisha had been in love. Mutually. At least, she preferred to imagine it that way.That brought warmth back to her cheeks and tears to her eyes. She soldiered through, chewing and swallowing, hoping Lisha thought she was simply affected by the story.And she was affected. Right now she despised Tilrey for his callousness, but—to lose him forever! To know he would never see his son grow up! Just imagining Lisha’s situation made her cringe in sympathy. “I understand now why you were superstitious during the pregnancy. Such a terrible loss would lead to all kinds of new fears.”“It did, Fir’n.” Tilrey’s mother picked up the raw chard leaf that Vera had examined earlier and began delicately ripping it along a vein. “After we lost Ceill, I was terrified my child wouldn’t be safely delivered. Sometimes I was afraid to take lifts, to climb stairs, even to leave my room. It was an effort to carry on with my daily tasks.”The words fell heavy on Vera, sinking below her skin, into her flesh, to the place where she felt her child resting so protected and so vulnerable at once. She did not want to understand this Drudge’s irrational fears, but she already did, too well. Similar fears had gripped her when Tilrey tried to convince her their child was doomed to shame and misery.Why was he so cruel? His mother would never have made such pessimistic predictions. She understood the aching need to protect that was as strong as love itself. Vera cupped her belly without meaning to. She asked, needing to hear Lisha say what she already knew, “But your child was safely delivered?”“Oh yes, Fir’n. Right on the date, strong and healthy and howling.” Lisha rose and cleared their dishes, as if she could tell that Vera needed space alone with her feelings.Which I don’t, of course. I’m rational. I rule my feelings, not the other way around. But Vera was grateful for the older woman’s tact. The baby was kicking now, and she stared straight ahead without blinking, willing her tears to dry and her sensible self to return. She was doing the right thing, the honorable thing. Her feelings for Tilrey had nothing to do with it.A few minutes later, Lisha returned and passed something to her. “May I show you, Fir’n?”Vera wasn’t surprised to find herself looking at a photo of Tilrey, cheaply printed on heavy paper. He wore a slate-blue school uniform, and he was no older than seventeen, much slighter than he was now. He was half ducking his head, flashing a shy smile.It made her ache to see him that way—like he’d been when they first met. Back when he spoke with a strong Thurskein burr—like his mother’s—and was nervous and half-afraid of all Upstarts, even her. Vera stroked the paper, a lump rising in her throat. He’d been so sweet that night long ago in the Southern Range, so innocent and admiring of her every word. When had things changed between them? And why?He was miserable that night, her conscience whispered to her. He was a prisoner. He reached out to you for friendship, for help, and you mistook that for something else.The photo slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the table. The baby kicked again.Vera closed her eyes tight. When she felt a tentative touch on her shoulder, she didn’t pull away.“Fir’n?” Lisha’s fingers remained where they were, the grip steadying Vera’s breathing. “I hope I’m not overstepping my bounds. Have I upset you?”This is your grandchild. It would be so easy to say it and be done. But the situation was more complicated than Vera had imagined when she and Valgund were visualizing Tilrey’s mother as a doddering old Drudge who would be “dazzled” by her unlikely connection to a Linnett. Lisha might be openly emotional and even sentimental, but she was also strong-willed and a career politician—a personality type Vera knew well. She had no doubt that everything Lisha expressed had at least a modicum of calculation behind it.If Vera didn’t tell her, the woman might start making guesses about her motives, and soon. Well, let her guess. Vera could be strong-willed, too, in ways only a Linnett could be.She opened her eyes. “You haven’t upset me. I wish you would call me Vera, though.”Lisha patted her shoulder and withdrew. “You honor me, Vera.”You don’t sound especially honored. Do you feel it? “You took me a bit by surprise,” Vera went on, starting with a small piece of the truth. “You see, I know your son in Redda.”“Do you, Fir’n—Vera?” She sounded genuinely startled. “How did you meet?”Vera wondered how much Tilrey had told his mother about his dark early years in the city. That wasn’t her story to tell. “We met some time ago,” she said. “My husband and I move in the same circles as Gersha—I mean Councillor Gádden.”Lisha knelt again facing Vera across the table. Her smile was gentle, yet it illuminated her whole face. “Councillor Gádden sometimes honors us with his presence. I think he and my son are very happy together.”The words stabbed Vera’s heart, but only for an instant. The woman was simply voicing what they both knew.Alone with the awareness of rejection, Vera had cursed Tilrey and herself. But now she felt the first whispers of resignation settling like a warm blanket on her shoulders. If Lisha could endure Ceill’s sudden death, surely she could endure the fact that Tilrey, while very alive, didn’t love her. Maybe she could even get over it . . . one day.“I think they are happy,” she said. “Very happy indeed.”*“Are you unhappy, love?” Tilrey asked, sprawled out on the metal-framed bunk in the miserable cubby of a single room that Aurinthal had given them for the night. “When you asked to come along, this probably wasn’t what you had in mind.”Gersha huffed dismissively and tugged off his functionary’s tunic. “You’ve forgotten how humble our accommodations sometimes were in Harbour. This is nothing compared with that hayloft.”“I don’t just mean that.” Tilrey peeled off his shirt and tossed it on the floor, something he never would have done at home. “I mean the sergeant’s cheek. Her accent is pure Keisha—Karkei—and even we ’Skein folk feel superior to people from there. So I’m guessing she never learned how one’s supposed to address Upstarts.”Gersha hadn’t liked the sergeant’s cheek, indeed, but he didn’t want his husband to know he could still be touchy about such things. “It wasn’t how she disregarded my Level,” he said, stripping to the long underwear he’d worn to weather the cold of the Wastes. “What do I care? But all her winking and nudging—well, I don’t like being treated like a common criminal.”Naked except for his briefs, Tilrey reached out. Gersha caught the hand and let himself be pulled down onto the bunk, the speed and strength of Tilrey’s movement waking a familiar heat and tingle in his groin.“We are criminals, sweetheart,” Tilrey said, drawing Gersha into the shelter of his arms. “Just not common ones.”It felt good here. Gersha closed his eyes against the pallid fluorescents and snuggled into his husband’s warmth. He supposed he’d become a criminal the moment he hacked Tilrey’s ankle tracker in Harbour. No, even before that, the moment he learned of Tilrey’s Dissidence and didn’t turn him in. He’d earned exile many times over. He just didn’t want to think about it.“Wouldn’t this be a terrible place to have conjugal relations?” he asked, feeling his heart begin to thud in anticipation. He couldn’t help being reminded of the little room in the Southern Hearth where they’d whiled away hours he would remember for the rest of his life.A low laugh told him Tilrey had the same thought. “The worst.”Gersha inched himself up until he could feel Tilrey’s arousal against his cleft, then eased back and began rutting against the stiff cock, the friction engorging his own erection. “I hope you don’t mean that.”“Why do you think I took off all my clothes even though I’m fucking freezing?”Gersha kept moving, squeezing his eyes shut as an eager shudder moved down his spine. “Tell me something,” he said. “Why do you always fold your clothes so neatly at home, even when you can’t wait to fuck me?”Tilrey gasped, his body answering the rhythmic motion as his arms tightened possessively around Gersha. “It’s actually your turn,” he whispered hoarsely, his hair tickling Gersha’s ear. “To fuck me, I mean. And hard.”Gersha moaned, twisting as his lips sought Tilrey’s. He felt restrained in these strong arms, but in a good way. He felt safe. And now Tilrey’s hand found his own cock and worked it skillfully through the long johns, making his whole body throb with need.When they kissed, it was sloppy and a little rough. Tilrey caught Gersha’s bottom lip smartly between his teeth and released it. “I mean it,” he hissed, tangling a hand in Gersha’s hair. “I want you to use me like I’m still your piece, Fir. Fast and hard. Get your own back for all the disrespect you endured today.”I don’t want to “get my own back.” I don’t need that. But Gersha was starting to understand that when Tilrey made this particular request, it was something he had his own reasons for wanting. He might frame it as a reversion to their old roles, but it was more than that, something that went back further in Tilrey’s past.“I was rather disrespected,” Gersha managed to articulate between two ferocious kisses. “Not just by the sergeant, but by you. You kept butting in front of me and taking control of the situation.”He made his voice querulous and theatrically offended. This was a test. If Tilrey took the reproach seriously and put a halt to the lovemaking, then Gersha would immediately drop his role and tell the truth: He wasn’t the least bit bothered by Tilrey’s taking control, not anymore. If anything, today had proved (once again) that Tilrey could handle these situations better than he could.Did Tilrey know he felt that way? He hoped so. He could handle a little role-playing as long as they were clear on reality.Tilrey groaned with palpable excitement. He worked Gersha’s cock harder, bending to nip his shoulder. “I did take control, Fir, and that was wrong. I always ruin things when I take control.”You don’t, and we both know it. But Gersha was starting to understand the game, even though Tilrey’s clever motions kept fraying his thoughts to ribbons. Lowering his voice to a growl, he said, “You need to be put in your rightful place, lad.” And then, feeling devilishly inspired: “We both know where that is—under me, getting the fuck of your life.”Tilrey went still, trembling with eagerness or fear or both, his stubbled cheek rough against Gersha’s neck. Gersha was all ready to start apologizing when his husband spoke up again, somehow meek and demanding at once: “Show me, Fir. Show me my place.”That was hot, hotter than he wanted it to be. Gersha took a deep breath, gathering his strength. Then he rolled backward, trapping Tilrey under him. Ignoring Tilrey’s surprised grunt, he twisted so they were face to face, pinning Tilrey’s arms above his head. The slightest hint of reluctance or resistance, he promised himself, and this would stop.No need to worry. Tilrey let his head fall backward and his back arch, his hard cock stabbing Gersha’s hip. “Please, Fir, take me.” He closed his eyes.Gersha was almost ashamed of how eagerly his own cock responded to the show of submission. But the way Tilrey shivered and squirmed under him was . . . intoxicating. “Are you sure you want a hard fuck?” he asked, keeping a firm grip on Tilrey’s wrists. “Are you sure you can take it?”“I don’t break, Fir.” Another delicious wiggling motion. “Unless you want to try to break me . . .”Green hells, Gersha’s heart was pounding madly, and his skin felt itchy-tight. Where the fuck was the lube? “Stay right there,” he ordered, releasing Tilrey so he could get up and search the neat little bag of toiletries he’d brought.It wasn’t so neat by the time he returned to bed. Tilrey remained where Gersha had put him, on his back with his hands clasped above his head. At Gersha’s approach, though, he rolled over and spread his thighs, raising his hips invitingly. “Hurt me, Fir,” he said in a low, throbbing voice. “Show me who’s in control.”Gersha was shaking so much he could barely twist the cap off the tube. He dropped the cap and let it roll away. His finger trembled as he worked the lube inside Tilrey, trying to be gentle even as Tilrey bucked his hips to take it faster.“Be careful.” Gersha smacked an ass-cheek as lightly as he could. “We’re going at my pace, in case you’ve forgotten.”“Yes, Fir. Of course, Fir.” Tilrey was up on all fours, his head still drooping submissively. “But I can take your cock any time. I want you.” He broke off, writhing again, as Gersha’s second finger penetrated him. “I’ll be still and quiet for you if you like. I promise.”“I don’t want still and quiet.” Gersha worked both fingers in and out before gingerly adding a third. Each quiver from Tilrey woke an echo in his own body. His pulse was hammering, his nerve endings raw, his cock desperate for stimulation. If he moved too rashly, rutting up against that muscled flank, he might come at once with minimal contact.Control. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them. He focused deliberately not on the prostrate body beneath him, all sinews and pale-gold skin, but on the iron bed-frame and the bleary lighting. What a horrible, degraded place for lovemaking this was. Except this wasn’t lovemaking, was it? It was punishment. Or perhaps the exact opposite: He was giving his husband a gift.Trying to believe that, he withdrew his fingers with a wet sucking sound and mounted Tilrey, not letting his erection bump prematurely against that beautiful ass. He got a brutal grip on his cock and lined himself up, threading the fingers of his free hand in Tilrey’s hair to press him down. Control him. Control yourself.“Please, Fir.”Gersha ploughed into him with a ragged stroke, deeper than he’d intended. The heat and tightness felt so good that he went still inside Tilrey’s body, eyes squeezed shut, willing himself not to end this before it properly began.When he returned to himself, Tilrey was frozen under him as if in pain. Gersha opened his mouth to apologize, but something had hold of him. Instead of withdrawing, his hips began thrusting of their own accord—in and out, finding a rhythm, driving his cock a little deeper each time.Tilrey grunted harshly and then relaxed, his knees braced and his hips rising to take the breach. “Green hells,” he breathed into the pillow. “Break me open. Have me.”What the fuck am I doing? But the small voice inside Gersha was no match for the tempest of stimulation on his nerve endings. When Tilrey reared up under him as if to throw him off, he forgot his promise and shoved his husband roughly back down. The passage tightened around his cock, and he cried out and thrust ruthlessly until his balls were flush against that taunting ass. “How’s that?” he managed.Tilrey was clutching the pillow, knuckles white. His face was contorted, but he said, “More. Please.”Like a parachutist stepping from the plane, Gersha was past the point of no return. He drew back and thrust again and again, finding a punishing rhythm that dried up his breath in his throat. The room was a blur of light and shadow, nothing real except the iron vise of need on his cock, narrowing and narrowing until he thought his head and heart would burst from the pressure.And then he let go and released the warm gush of his orgasm, bracing himself on the bed with both hands, pressing his lips to Tilrey’s shoulder and tasting the marine tang of skin.For a long time he floated, dimly aware that his body had gone limp, his cheek pillowed against a ridge of muscle. The reckless pulse in his temples had quieted, and a delicious drowsiness spread over him like the warmth of a sauna. It would be nice to turn over and be cradled in Tilrey’s arms, but his waterlogged body wouldn’t budge. The surface under him was hard and soft at once, rising and falling, the gentle motion rocking him to sleep—And then he was sitting bolt upright. Something had woken him—a jerk or twitch. He rolled off Tilrey, contrite as he realized how cramped his own muscles were. “I’m sorry, love. That was rude of me.”“No worries. I didn’t want to wake you.” Tilrey rolled over, wincing, then sat up and stretched. “You should be resting up for tomorrow.”His husband’s cock had gone soft, Gersha saw with another pang of guilt. “I didn’t even—” He reached for it, meaning to finish the sentence with meaningful action, but Tilrey batted his hand away. “It’s okay.”“It’s not, though. You know how I feel about that.”“Oh, I know how you feel, Fir.” Tilrey leaned against the wall with a yawn, his use of the honorific half-sarcastic now. “Come over here and get me off, then, if you insist.”He took the sting out of the words by extending his arms. Gersha settled himself in Tilrey’s lap and let himself be cradled the way he’d wanted earlier. He rutted his hips until Tilrey groaned, his cock demonstrating an answering hardness. Then Gersha slid himself sideways, got a businesslike grip, and began to pump Tilrey with unhurried strokes, easing his husband toward completion.“Was that what you wanted?” he asked between Tilrey’s long, shuddering breaths. “I mean, did I do it right? Toward the end, I lost control. I didn’t really want to hurt you.”“You didn’t hurt me.” Tilrey’s hips moved in sync with Gersha’s hand, one arm twined around Gersha’s waist. Gersha smelled sweat-damp hair. Tilrey added, “I’m not—”“Breakable. Right. That’s what you always say. Be honest, though.”The next stroke made Tilrey’s whole body quiver. He closed his hand over Gersha’s moving one, their slick fingers sliding together. “It hurt, and it was good. I liked how you took control. And then lost it. I like that feeling of being broken, being made to take it. Does that bother you?”A few hours ago, Gersha might have said yes. But right now—well, right now he just tightened his grip on the hot, engorged flesh. “Making you happy could never bother me.”For a few minutes there were no words, only the gasps and grunts of their joint exertions. Then Tilrey found release, back arching and neck straining, the warm seed spattering Gersha’s chest as well as his own.As his husband’s breathing leveled off, Gersha eased himself out of Tilrey’s arms and went to find a warm cloth to clean them both. When he returned, Tilrey had rolled onto his side. He twitched at Gersha’s gentle touch but didn’t open his eyes.“Mmm,” he said as Gersha lay down beside him. “You asked about my clothes before—why I always fold them, even in the heat of passion.”Gersha had forgotten. He nestled back against Tilrey’s collarbone, protected by the arms that reached out to hold him fast. “So, why do you?”Tilrey planted a kiss on his forehead. “Malsha taught me to do that. He said folding one’s clothes is a way to show respect for the people who manufacture and launder them.”Gersha laughed and then decided it wasn’t funny. “And this was the same man who thought nothing of tossing a missile at Harbour.”“He had an odd mind.” Tilrey nuzzled Gersha’s curls. “Has. I don’t know for sure if he’s still alive, though I imagine so. Anyway, he told me that once, and I never forgot it. That was true of a few too many things.”The words made a vertiginous space open in Gersha’s chest. He felt tender and furious at once, his hands fisting on nothing, as he thought of the old sadist giving Tilrey orders, molding his young mind.But if Tilrey wanted to talk about Malsha now, maybe that was good for him. Gersha tried to think of something neutrally supportive to say, but all that came out was “If he is still alive, I’d like to strangle him.”It was Tilrey’s turn to laugh now. “You’re gorgeous when you’re angry, love. But will you promise me you’ll try to keep your temper with Artur?”Gersha had been doing his best not to think too much about the man they’d come here to meet. Artur Threindal was an exile, an outlaw, formerly a henchman of Malsha’s and now of Colonel Thibault’s. He didn’t sound particularly redeemable. “Of course not,” Gersha said gruffly. “I wouldn’t jeopardize the mission. But . . . will Threindal make me angry?”A large hand stroked his curls back from his forehead. “Not on purpose. Artur knows how to treat Upstarts with deference, and he will know you’re high-named. He may even recognize you. He didn’t spend all those years in the Sector and Malsha’s company for nothing.”Gersha felt a prickle of foreboding. A thought made his throat close: “Did you and Artur—?”Long ago, Malsha had tried to set up a threesome with Gersha and Tilrey, as Gersha remembered all too well. It hadn’t gone anywhere, of course, but—Artur Threindal had been Malsha’s secretary. Maybe the Magistrate had shared his kettle boy with him. And back then, Tilrey hadn’t been able to refuse anyone.“Shh. Sweetheart.” Another soothing touch. “You aren’t seriously jealous of someone I haven’t seen in ten years?”Gersha hid his burning face against Tilrey’s chest. “I’m not jealous, I swear. I know you’ve been with . . . plenty of people. By choice and not. I guess I’d just like to know before we’re face to face with him. Was he a lover? Or was he someone who hurt you?”“Neither.” Tilrey patted Gersha’s flank. “Artur was a good friend to me, or as good as he could be. Someone who taught me the ropes, you could say. He fucked me once, but that wasn’t his idea any more than it was mine.”Gersha blinked, trying not to let the words sting. He couldn’t imagine being ordered to give his body to someone, even a friend, while the person who’d given the order just sat there and watched—had Malsha watched? Probably.Tilrey went on: “The thing is, when Artur looks at me, he won’t see what you see. He’ll see what I was, and he may sound patronizing when he talks to me. That’s why I ask you not to take offense.”“I won’t lose my temper.” Gersha reminded himself he’d spent years watching his colleagues treat Tilrey poorly—and what had he done about it? Not enough. His fists clenched. “But I hope, Rishka—well, I hope you won’t just stand there and let Threindal treat you like someone you aren’t anymore. I know how good you are at letting things slide off you, but you don’t have to. Green hells, what you managed in the Southern Hearth with Ranek . . .” He sighed in mingled admiration and exasperation. “You have power, sweetheart. Why not own it?”Realizing the words might be taken as a condemnation of what they’d done tonight, he reached for Tilrey’s hand and brought it to his lips. “I mean, except when you choose to give up the power, of course. I understand that. Well, I’m starting to.”Tilrey’s body had tensed, but he released the tightness in a sigh. “Old habits, Gersha. I have a lot of those. Like folding my clothes.”“I know.” Gersha was uncomfortably aware of his own old habits—pulling rank, bridling at disrespect, being inflexible. “I don’t mean to reproach you,” he murmured, curling himself tighter into the warmth of his husband’s arms. “You’re in charge of this expedition, love. Whatever you need to do, you do.”Tilrey’s hand moved in Gersha’s hair. “No, you have a point. When we were in the Southern Hearth, the whole equality thing was hard for me, too. I feel more comfortable when I can fall back on being deferent. And Besha also has a point—if I’m going to be part of this revolution, I need to stake out my place in it. That’s the only way I can be sure you’re protected.”He kissed Gersha’s brow and said with gentle irony, “For your sake, love, maybe I can learn to speak up for myself.”

“I hope this doesn’t seem too odd to you, Fir’n Under-Secretary,” the woman said conversationally, turning a dial. “I’ve always enjoyed having a certain tactile relation to my food, and since we have the greenhouses right here, why not? The rest of the meal will be standard defrosted rations, naturally.”

Vera nodded, trying to look like she’d known you could use a stove for anything more elaborate than brewing hot drinks. Food came in frozen packets, and you microwaved it. Occasionally it was served to you freshly prepared at the Restaurant. Her husband liked to extol the skills of the chefs there, but she never listened to the details.

Vera’s mother claimed Vera’s great-grandmother used to steam her own greens as a way of connecting with their ancestors. Vera had trouble imagining it. But this was Tilrey’s mother, ideally her future mother-in-law, so she needed to keep an open mind. It was a sign of trust that she’d been invited to dinner in the Supervisor’s private apartment, and she wasn’t going to ruin that by being uptight.

“May I touch one?” she asked. “A, uh, an uncooked leaf?”

With a smile, Angelika Lindtmerán separated a raw leaf from the bunch and handed it over. Vera held it in both hands, marveling at how sturdy and almost rubbery the chard was before you stewed it into mush. She traced the path of a vein away from the central stalk.

The apartment was simply and decently appointed; nothing suggested that Lindtmerán was enriching herself via the black market, like some Supervisors you heard about. A wide bank of windows showed Vera only blackness, but at least she knew there was an outside. She knelt beside the table while Lindtmerán removed the pot from the stove and drained it. A few moments later, they sat face to face, each with a bowl—rice and cod with cooked greens on top, looking perfectly normal, if a little less mushy than usual.

“Are you comfortable there, Fir’n? Please sit up on the couch if you prefer.”

“I’m fine—well, actually. Yes, thank you, I’ll sit up there if you don’t mind.” Vera remembered their earlier conversation and hauled herself up onto the couch. Ah, that was much better. Now she just needed to broach her real reason for coming here—by tiny and careful degrees. She came from a family of politicians. She could do this.

“I admit I had some concerns about traveling so close to my due date,” she said, digging into the bowl. “Especially to, uh, a working city. But your medical facility has excellent statistics.”

“If I may boast for a moment, Fir’n, the infant and maternal mortality in this sector is as low as in most facilities in Redda. Our practitioners have excellent training. But I understand your concern, especially during a first pregnancy. During mine, I became so cautious, almost superstitious . . .” Lindtmerán gazed past Vera, a wistful look transforming her sharp features. “But then, my circumstances were unusual. You don’t want to hear me blather on about myself.”

“Please, you’re not blathering!” Vera nearly choked on a stalk in her eagerness to hear more. “I find it helpful, actually. To compare my experience to others’. How many children do you have, Supervisor?”

“Please, call me Lisha, Fir’n. I have one son about your age.”

The woman raised her probing eyes to Vera’s, and for an instant Vera could have sworn she knew. But no, of course she didn’t. Couldn’t.

Lindtmerán continued: “I had no more children because I lost my husband twenty weeks into the pregnancy. He was a helicopter pilot; he was killed in a snow squall. That’s why I mentioned unusual circumstances. To have so much anticipation, so much joy, and then to suffer the loss of someone I considered the love of my life—that was a great grief, Fir’n.”

Vera nodded, the food sticking in her throat. Part of her was shocked to hear Lindtmerán describe her despair to a stranger, and a stranger of a different Level at that. It seemed rude to pursue the subject, possibly even rude to listen, but she couldn’t help wanting to know more. “Did you marry for love, then? If you’ll excuse my asking?”

Lindtmerán seemed unbothered by the question. “Very much so, Fir’n. In fact, I was considering sanctioned celibacy when I met Ceill. He was several years younger than I, so we hadn’t known each other at school. He flew me out to inspect the outer greenhouses, and when he saw how frightened I was of flying, he found ways to calm me and make me laugh.” The wistfulness shone in her eyes again. “He was a charming man, Fir’n, one who listened and thought of others. And very handsome.”

Vera could swear the Supervisor was blushing at her own mental picture. Tilrey’s father must have been very like him—the kind of man you lose your head over. Or I did, anyway. Her own cheeks warmed, and she said, “May his last moment be bright,” trying to hide her embarrassment with solemnity. “How long were you and Ceill together, Supervis—er, Lisha?”

“Four wonderful years. My parents didn’t like the match because Ceill was R-1, but they wanted a grandchild, and eventually he managed to charm them into forgetting the pride of rank.” Lisha grimaced. “This must sound absurd to you, Fir’n. My parents themselves were only high R-3, but in this city, that puts a person in the governing class. They thought a lot of themselves.”

“I understand.” Vera tried to wrap her mind around what the woman was saying. If Lisha and her parents were the Thurskein equivalent of high Upstarts, then a marriage between her and an R-1 helicopter pilot must have been like—well, almost like a marriage between Vera and Tilrey.

No, no, not like that, because the gulf between Upstart and Laborer was much greater than any gap between Laborers could be. But still . . . maybe a little like that. In the limited experience of someone born in ’Skein, of course.

Forcing the cooling rice into her mouth, Vera reminded herself of another salient difference between the two cases: Ceill and Lisha had been in love. Mutually. At least, she preferred to imagine it that way.

That brought warmth back to her cheeks and tears to her eyes. She soldiered through, chewing and swallowing, hoping Lisha thought she was simply affected by the story.

And she was affected. Right now she despised Tilrey for his callousness, but—to lose him forever! To know he would never see his son grow up! Just imagining Lisha’s situation made her cringe in sympathy. “I understand now why you were superstitious during the pregnancy. Such a terrible loss would lead to all kinds of new fears.”

“It did, Fir’n.” Tilrey’s mother picked up the raw chard leaf that Vera had examined earlier and began delicately ripping it along a vein. “After we lost Ceill, I was terrified my child wouldn’t be safely delivered. Sometimes I was afraid to take lifts, to climb stairs, even to leave my room. It was an effort to carry on with my daily tasks.”

The words fell heavy on Vera, sinking below her skin, into her flesh, to the place where she felt her child resting so protected and so vulnerable at once. She did not want to understand this Drudge’s irrational fears, but she already did, too well. Similar fears had gripped her when Tilrey tried to convince her their child was doomed to shame and misery.

Why was he so cruel? His mother would never have made such pessimistic predictions. She understood the aching need to protect that was as strong as love itself. Vera cupped her belly without meaning to. She asked, needing to hear Lisha say what she already knew, “But your child was safely delivered?”

“Oh yes, Fir’n. Right on the date, strong and healthy and howling.” Lisha rose and cleared their dishes, as if she could tell that Vera needed space alone with her feelings.

Which I don’t, of course. I’m rational. I rule my feelings, not the other way around. But Vera was grateful for the older woman’s tact. The baby was kicking now, and she stared straight ahead without blinking, willing her tears to dry and her sensible self to return. She was doing the right thing, the honorable thing. Her feelings for Tilrey had nothing to do with it.

A few minutes later, Lisha returned and passed something to her. “May I show you, Fir’n?”

Vera wasn’t surprised to find herself looking at a photo of Tilrey, cheaply printed on heavy paper. He wore a slate-blue school uniform, and he was no older than seventeen, much slighter than he was now. He was half ducking his head, flashing a shy smile.

It made her ache to see him that way—like he’d been when they first met. Back when he spoke with a strong Thurskein burr—like his mother’s—and was nervous and half-afraid of all Upstarts, even her. Vera stroked the paper, a lump rising in her throat. He’d been so sweet that night long ago in the Southern Range, so innocent and admiring of her every word. When had things changed between them? And why?

He was miserable that night, her conscience whispered to her. He was a prisoner. He reached out to you for friendship, for help, and you mistook that for something else.

The photo slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the table. The baby kicked again.

Vera closed her eyes tight. When she felt a tentative touch on her shoulder, she didn’t pull away.

“Fir’n?” Lisha’s fingers remained where they were, the grip steadying Vera’s breathing. “I hope I’m not overstepping my bounds. Have I upset you?”

This is your grandchild. It would be so easy to say it and be done. But the situation was more complicated than Vera had imagined when she and Valgund were visualizing Tilrey’s mother as a doddering old Drudge who would be “dazzled” by her unlikely connection to a Linnett. Lisha might be openly emotional and even sentimental, but she was also strong-willed and a career politician—a personality type Vera knew well. She had no doubt that everything Lisha expressed had at least a modicum of calculation behind it.

If Vera didn’t tell her, the woman might start making guesses about her motives, and soon. Well, let her guess. Vera could be strong-willed, too, in ways only a Linnett could be.

She opened her eyes. “You haven’t upset me. I wish you would call me Vera, though.”

Lisha patted her shoulder and withdrew. “You honor me, Vera.”

You don’t sound especially honored. Do you feel it? “You took me a bit by surprise,” Vera went on, starting with a small piece of the truth. “You see, I know your son in Redda.”

“Do you, Fir’n—Vera?” She sounded genuinely startled. “How did you meet?”

Vera wondered how much Tilrey had told his mother about his dark early years in the city. That wasn’t her story to tell. “We met some time ago,” she said. “My husband and I move in the same circles as Gersha—I mean Councillor Gádden.”

Lisha knelt again facing Vera across the table. Her smile was gentle, yet it illuminated her whole face. “Councillor Gádden sometimes honors us with his presence. I think he and my son are very happy together.”

The words stabbed Vera’s heart, but only for an instant. The woman was simply voicing what they both knew.

Alone with the awareness of rejection, Vera had cursed Tilrey and herself. But now she felt the first whispers of resignation settling like a warm blanket on her shoulders. If Lisha could endure Ceill’s sudden death, surely she could endure the fact that Tilrey, while very alive, didn’t love her. Maybe she could even get over it . . . one day.

“I think they are happy,” she said. “Very happy indeed.”

“Are you unhappy, love?” Tilrey asked, sprawled out on the metal-framed bunk in the miserable cubby of a single room that Aurinthal had given them for the night. “When you asked to come along, this probably wasn’t what you had in mind.”

Gersha huffed dismissively and tugged off his functionary’s tunic. “You’ve forgotten how humble our accommodations sometimes were in Harbour. This is nothing compared with that hayloft.”

“I don’t just mean that.” Tilrey peeled off his shirt and tossed it on the floor, something he never would have done at home. “I mean the sergeant’s cheek. Her accent is pure Keisha—Karkei—and even we ’Skein folk feel superior to people from there. So I’m guessing she never learned how one’s supposed to address Upstarts.”

Gersha hadn’t liked the sergeant’s cheek, indeed, but he didn’t want his husband to know he could still be touchy about such things. “It wasn’t how she disregarded my Level,” he said, stripping to the long underwear he’d worn to weather the cold of the Wastes. “What do I care? But all her winking and nudging—well, I don’t like being treated like a common criminal.”

Naked except for his briefs, Tilrey reached out. Gersha caught the hand and let himself be pulled down onto the bunk, the speed and strength of Tilrey’s movement waking a familiar heat and tingle in his groin.

“We are criminals, sweetheart,” Tilrey said, drawing Gersha into the shelter of his arms. “Just not common ones.”

It felt good here. Gersha closed his eyes against the pallid fluorescents and snuggled into his husband’s warmth. He supposed he’d become a criminal the moment he hacked Tilrey’s ankle tracker in Harbour. No, even before that, the moment he learned of Tilrey’s Dissidence and didn’t turn him in. He’d earned exile many times over. He just didn’t want to think about it.

“Wouldn’t this be a terrible place to have conjugal relations?” he asked, feeling his heart begin to thud in anticipation. He couldn’t help being reminded of the little room in the Southern Hearth where they’d whiled away hours he would remember for the rest of his life.

A low laugh told him Tilrey had the same thought. “The worst.”

Gersha inched himself up until he could feel Tilrey’s arousal against his cleft, then eased back and began rutting against the stiff cock, the friction engorging his own erection. “I hope you don’t mean that.”

“Why do you think I took off all my clothes even though I’m fucking freezing?”

Gersha kept moving, squeezing his eyes shut as an eager shudder moved down his spine. “Tell me something,” he said. “Why do you always fold your clothes so neatly at home, even when you can’t wait to fuck me?”

Tilrey gasped, his body answering the rhythmic motion as his arms tightened possessively around Gersha. “It’s actually your turn,” he whispered hoarsely, his hair tickling Gersha’s ear. “To fuck me, I mean. And hard.”

Gersha moaned, twisting as his lips sought Tilrey’s. He felt restrained in these strong arms, but in a good way. He felt safe. And now Tilrey’s hand found his own cock and worked it skillfully through the long johns, making his whole body throb with need.

When they kissed, it was sloppy and a little rough. Tilrey caught Gersha’s bottom lip smartly between his teeth and released it. “I mean it,” he hissed, tangling a hand in Gersha’s hair. “I want you to use me like I’m still your piece, Fir. Fast and hard. Get your own back for all the disrespect you endured today.”

I don’t want to “get my own back.” I don’t need that. But Gersha was starting to understand that when Tilrey made this particular request, it was something he had his own reasons for wanting. He might frame it as a reversion to their old roles, but it was more than that, something that went back further in Tilrey’s past.

“I was rather disrespected,” Gersha managed to articulate between two ferocious kisses. “Not just by the sergeant, but by you. You kept butting in front of me and taking control of the situation.”

He made his voice querulous and theatrically offended. This was a test. If Tilrey took the reproach seriously and put a halt to the lovemaking, then Gersha would immediately drop his role and tell the truth: He wasn’t the least bit bothered by Tilrey’s taking control, not anymore. If anything, today had proved (once again) that Tilrey could handle these situations better than he could.

Did Tilrey know he felt that way? He hoped so. He could handle a little role-playing as long as they were clear on reality.

Tilrey groaned with palpable excitement. He worked Gersha’s cock harder, bending to nip his shoulder. “I did take control, Fir, and that was wrong. I always ruin things when I take control.”

You don’t, and we both know it. But Gersha was starting to understand the game, even though Tilrey’s clever motions kept fraying his thoughts to ribbons. Lowering his voice to a growl, he said, “You need to be put in your rightful place, lad.” And then, feeling devilishly inspired: “We both know where that is—under me, getting the fuck of your life.”

Tilrey went still, trembling with eagerness or fear or both, his stubbled cheek rough against Gersha’s neck. Gersha was all ready to start apologizing when his husband spoke up again, somehow meek and demanding at once: “Show me, Fir. Show me my place.”

That was hot, hotter than he wanted it to be. Gersha took a deep breath, gathering his strength. Then he rolled backward, trapping Tilrey under him. Ignoring Tilrey’s surprised grunt, he twisted so they were face to face, pinning Tilrey’s arms above his head. The slightest hint of reluctance or resistance, he promised himself, and this would stop.

No need to worry. Tilrey let his head fall backward and his back arch, his hard cock stabbing Gersha’s hip. “Please, Fir, take me.” He closed his eyes.

Gersha was almost ashamed of how eagerly his own cock responded to the show of submission. But the way Tilrey shivered and squirmed under him was . . . intoxicating. “Are you sure you want a hard fuck?” he asked, keeping a firm grip on Tilrey’s wrists. “Are you sure you can take it?”

“I don’t break, Fir.” Another delicious wiggling motion. “Unless you want to try to break me . . .”

Green hells, Gersha’s heart was pounding madly, and his skin felt itchy-tight. Where the fuck was the lube? “Stay right there,” he ordered, releasing Tilrey so he could get up and search the neat little bag of toiletries he’d brought.

It wasn’t so neat by the time he returned to bed. Tilrey remained where Gersha had put him, on his back with his hands clasped above his head. At Gersha’s approach, though, he rolled over and spread his thighs, raising his hips invitingly. “Hurt me, Fir,” he said in a low, throbbing voice. “Show me who’s in control.”

Gersha was shaking so much he could barely twist the cap off the tube. He dropped the cap and let it roll away. His finger trembled as he worked the lube inside Tilrey, trying to be gentle even as Tilrey bucked his hips to take it faster.

“Be careful.” Gersha smacked an ass-cheek as lightly as he could. “We’re going at my pace, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Yes, Fir. Of course, Fir.” Tilrey was up on all fours, his head still drooping submissively. “But I can take your cock any time. I want you.” He broke off, writhing again, as Gersha’s second finger penetrated him. “I’ll be still and quiet for you if you like. I promise.”

“I don’t want still and quiet.” Gersha worked both fingers in and out before gingerly adding a third. Each quiver from Tilrey woke an echo in his own body. His pulse was hammering, his nerve endings raw, his cock desperate for stimulation. If he moved too rashly, rutting up against that muscled flank, he might come at once with minimal contact.

Control. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them. He focused deliberately not on the prostrate body beneath him, all sinews and pale-gold skin, but on the iron bed-frame and the bleary lighting. What a horrible, degraded place for lovemaking this was. Except this wasn’t lovemaking, was it? It was punishment. Or perhaps the exact opposite: He was giving his husband a gift.

Trying to believe that, he withdrew his fingers with a wet sucking sound and mounted Tilrey, not letting his erection bump prematurely against that beautiful ass. He got a brutal grip on his cock and lined himself up, threading the fingers of his free hand in Tilrey’s hair to press him down. Control him. Control yourself.

“Please, Fir.”

Gersha ploughed into him with a ragged stroke, deeper than he’d intended. The heat and tightness felt so good that he went still inside Tilrey’s body, eyes squeezed shut, willing himself not to end this before it properly began.

When he returned to himself, Tilrey was frozen under him as if in pain. Gersha opened his mouth to apologize, but something had hold of him. Instead of withdrawing, his hips began thrusting of their own accord—in and out, finding a rhythm, driving his cock a little deeper each time.

Tilrey grunted harshly and then relaxed, his knees braced and his hips rising to take the breach. “Green hells,” he breathed into the pillow. “Break me open. Have me.”

What the fuck am I doing? But the small voice inside Gersha was no match for the tempest of stimulation on his nerve endings. When Tilrey reared up under him as if to throw him off, he forgot his promise and shoved his husband roughly back down. The passage tightened around his cock, and he cried out and thrust ruthlessly until his balls were flush against that taunting ass. “How’s that?” he managed.

Tilrey was clutching the pillow, knuckles white. His face was contorted, but he said, “More. Please.”

Like a parachutist stepping from the plane, Gersha was past the point of no return. He drew back and thrust again and again, finding a punishing rhythm that dried up his breath in his throat. The room was a blur of light and shadow, nothing real except the iron vise of need on his cock, narrowing and narrowing until he thought his head and heart would burst from the pressure.

And then he let go and released the warm gush of his orgasm, bracing himself on the bed with both hands, pressing his lips to Tilrey’s shoulder and tasting the marine tang of skin.

For a long time he floated, dimly aware that his body had gone limp, his cheek pillowed against a ridge of muscle. The reckless pulse in his temples had quieted, and a delicious drowsiness spread over him like the warmth of a sauna. It would be nice to turn over and be cradled in Tilrey’s arms, but his waterlogged body wouldn’t budge. The surface under him was hard and soft at once, rising and falling, the gentle motion rocking him to sleep—

And then he was sitting bolt upright. Something had woken him—a jerk or twitch. He rolled off Tilrey, contrite as he realized how cramped his own muscles were. “I’m sorry, love. That was rude of me.”

“No worries. I didn’t want to wake you.” Tilrey rolled over, wincing, then sat up and stretched. “You should be resting up for tomorrow.”

His husband’s cock had gone soft, Gersha saw with another pang of guilt. “I didn’t even—” He reached for it, meaning to finish the sentence with meaningful action, but Tilrey batted his hand away. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not, though. You know how I feel about that.”

“Oh, I know how you feel, Fir.” Tilrey leaned against the wall with a yawn, his use of the honorific half-sarcastic now. “Come over here and get me off, then, if you insist.”

He took the sting out of the words by extending his arms. Gersha settled himself in Tilrey’s lap and let himself be cradled the way he’d wanted earlier. He rutted his hips until Tilrey groaned, his cock demonstrating an answering hardness. Then Gersha slid himself sideways, got a businesslike grip, and began to pump Tilrey with unhurried strokes, easing his husband toward completion.

“Was that what you wanted?” he asked between Tilrey’s long, shuddering breaths. “I mean, did I do it right? Toward the end, I lost control. I didn’t really want to hurt you.”

“You didn’t hurt me.” Tilrey’s hips moved in sync with Gersha’s hand, one arm twined around Gersha’s waist. Gersha smelled sweat-damp hair. Tilrey added, “I’m not—”

“Breakable. Right. That’s what you always say. Be honest, though.”

The next stroke made Tilrey’s whole body quiver. He closed his hand over Gersha’s moving one, their slick fingers sliding together. “It hurt, and it was good. I liked how you took control. And then lost it. I like that feeling of being broken, being made to take it. Does that bother you?”

A few hours ago, Gersha might have said yes. But right now—well, right now he just tightened his grip on the hot, engorged flesh. “Making you happy could never bother me.”

For a few minutes there were no words, only the gasps and grunts of their joint exertions. Then Tilrey found release, back arching and neck straining, the warm seed spattering Gersha’s chest as well as his own.

As his husband’s breathing leveled off, Gersha eased himself out of Tilrey’s arms and went to find a warm cloth to clean them both. When he returned, Tilrey had rolled onto his side. He twitched at Gersha’s gentle touch but didn’t open his eyes.

“Mmm,” he said as Gersha lay down beside him. “You asked about my clothes before—why I always fold them, even in the heat of passion.”

Gersha had forgotten. He nestled back against Tilrey’s collarbone, protected by the arms that reached out to hold him fast. “So, why do you?”

Tilrey planted a kiss on his forehead. “Malsha taught me to do that. He said folding one’s clothes is a way to show respect for the people who manufacture and launder them.”

Gersha laughed and then decided it wasn’t funny. “And this was the same man who thought nothing of tossing a missile at Harbour.”

“He had an odd mind.” Tilrey nuzzled Gersha’s curls. “Has. I don’t know for sure if he’s still alive, though I imagine so. Anyway, he told me that once, and I never forgot it. That was true of a few too many things.”

The words made a vertiginous space open in Gersha’s chest. He felt tender and furious at once, his hands fisting on nothing, as he thought of the old sadist giving Tilrey orders, molding his young mind.

But if Tilrey wanted to talk about Malsha now, maybe that was good for him. Gersha tried to think of something neutrally supportive to say, but all that came out was “If he is still alive, I’d like to strangle him.”

It was Tilrey’s turn to laugh now. “You’re gorgeous when you’re angry, love. But will you promise me you’ll try to keep your temper with Artur?”

Gersha had been doing his best not to think too much about the man they’d come here to meet. Artur Threindal was an exile, an outlaw, formerly a henchman of Malsha’s and now of Colonel Thibault’s. He didn’t sound particularly redeemable. “Of course not,” Gersha said gruffly. “I wouldn’t jeopardize the mission. But . . . will Threindal make me angry?”

A large hand stroked his curls back from his forehead. “Not on purpose. Artur knows how to treat Upstarts with deference, and he will know you’re high-named. He may even recognize you. He didn’t spend all those years in the Sector and Malsha’s company for nothing.”

Gersha felt a prickle of foreboding. A thought made his throat close: “Did you and Artur—?”

Long ago, Malsha had tried to set up a threesome with Gersha and Tilrey, as Gersha remembered all too well. It hadn’t gone anywhere, of course, but—Artur Threindal had been Malsha’s secretary. Maybe the Magistrate had shared his kettle boy with him. And back then, Tilrey hadn’t been able to refuse anyone.

“Shh. Sweetheart.” Another soothing touch. “You aren’t seriously jealous of someone I haven’t seen in ten years?”

Gersha hid his burning face against Tilrey’s chest. “I’m not jealous, I swear. I know you’ve been with . . . plenty of people. By choice and not. I guess I’d just like to know before we’re face to face with him. Was he a lover? Or was he someone who hurt you?”

“Neither.” Tilrey patted Gersha’s flank. “Artur was a good friend to me, or as good as he could be. Someone who taught me the ropes, you could say. He fucked me once, but that wasn’t his idea any more than it was mine.”

Gersha blinked, trying not to let the words sting. He couldn’t imagine being ordered to give his body to someone, even a friend, while the person who’d given the order just sat there and watched—had Malsha watched? Probably.

Tilrey went on: “The thing is, when Artur looks at me, he won’t see what you see. He’ll see what I was, and he may sound patronizing when he talks to me. That’s why I ask you not to take offense.”

“I won’t lose my temper.” Gersha reminded himself he’d spent years watching his colleagues treat Tilrey poorly—and what had he done about it? Not enough. His fists clenched. “But I hope, Rishka—well, I hope you won’t just stand there and let Threindal treat you like someone you aren’t anymore. I know how good you are at letting things slide off you, but you don’t have to. Green hells, what you managed in the Southern Hearth with Ranek . . .” He sighed in mingled admiration and exasperation. “You have power, sweetheart. Why not own it?”

Realizing the words might be taken as a condemnation of what they’d done tonight, he reached for Tilrey’s hand and brought it to his lips. “I mean, except when you choose to give up the power, of course. I understand that. Well, I’m starting to.”

Tilrey’s body had tensed, but he released the tightness in a sigh. “Old habits, Gersha. I have a lot of those. Like folding my clothes.”

“I know.” Gersha was uncomfortably aware of his own old habits—pulling rank, bridling at disrespect, being inflexible. “I don’t mean to reproach you,” he murmured, curling himself tighter into the warmth of his husband’s arms. “You’re in charge of this expedition, love. Whatever you need to do, you do.”

Tilrey’s hand moved in Gersha’s hair. “No, you have a point. When we were in the Southern Hearth, the whole equality thing was hard for me, too. I feel more comfortable when I can fall back on being deferent. And Besha also has a point—if I’m going to be part of this revolution, I need to stake out my place in it. That’s the only way I can be sure you’re protected.”

He kissed Gersha’s brow and said with gentle irony, “For your sake, love, maybe I can learn to speak up for myself.”

Chapter End Notes

This was a tough chapter, but I liked writing it. People growing, changing, talking about their feelings, AND having sexytimes—that’s my jam. :) Hope you enjoyed it, too.The name “Ceill” is pronounced with a hard C, like those kale greens that Lisha enjoys. Yes, I am mentioning this because the name will come up again. ;)

Chapter End Notes

This was a tough chapter, but I liked writing it. People growing, changing, talking about their feelings, AND having sexytimes—that’s my jam. :) Hope you enjoyed it, too.

The name “Ceill” is pronounced with a hard C, like those kale greens that Lisha enjoys. Yes, I am mentioning this because the name will come up again. ;)