Page 47 of Besieger
Delicious,the voice came once more.
Emerick jerked away, dazed, saliva dripping down his chin. Body sleek with sweat.
“What was that?”
“Mmmm?”
“What you just said… I...” Emerick could not focus; he was on the verge of a climax, desperate for it. Silvio kept him firmly in place, pressed down against the mattress, pushing more of himself inside, thrusting, in and out.
“You want me totalk,Rico?” Silvio chuckled and clicked his tongue. “Do you find me wanting?”
TheComtelooked up at the mirror, part of the glass lay shrouded in shadow, the rest danced in the candle light. It loomed down on them, reflecting their entangled forms, a mass of limbs and sweat, blood and semen. Silvio’s face was buried in Emerick’s shoulder, hidden, teeth biting down playfully until they weren’t. When theMarquisfinally lifted his head up, the glow of the candles bathed his face and his eyes flashed lighter; the green had paled to grey. Emerick blinked and the eyes looking down at him had their familiar and green shade again.
Later, where there was nothing to distract him, Emerick pondered the All Father’s gift. There was nothing extraordinary about the mirror. In fact, if Silvio had not pointed it out, Emerick would never have known that the glass in the middle came from the Berlin Coven. Silvio had ordered the mirrors on both sides to be cut in the same size and furnished them in identical gilded frames. The three mirrors were indistinguishable from one another; yet the one in the middle reflected the whole of the bed, leaving no place for theMarquisand theComteto hide as they reposed.
Emerick slid his hand down the smooth cold surface, his nerves aflame, expecting to hear the voice of the All Father fromthe other side of the thing… and was met only with the silence of his own reflection staring back at him.
“Ridiculous,” he laughed out loud.
If Ingenuar wanted to spy on his brood, he would have to do it like any other vampire—by getting into their heads and commanding them. He would certainly not be glorifying Emerick as he did it; the All Father did not leave tributes at the same dais as theMarquis.
That was Silvio’s voice… if even… Emerick had been too engulfed in the pleasure of the act. Even if his lover had said something in the heat of the moment, the words had slurred with the rest, melting down the glass, fogged by Emerick’s breath.
A perverse part of him revelled in the attention. If asked which time he held most dear, Emerick would name those first years in the tower. They were like children, drunk on the infinite pleasures that youth and time offered. Their hunger never sated. They were reborn, Silvio, especially. The robes of a count were cast aside for the mantle of marquis, and Emerick loved it; loved the spectacle, the mirrors, the riches, the servants, the lovers they shared. In time he had learned to cherish even the grotesquery of their home, and, despite himself, he even loved the outfits fashioned by Silvio’s tailors, spilling from the wardrobe and into their bed. All for Silvio’s amusement and pleasure.
But most of all, he loved the blood. From his mouth to Silvio’s, and back, returned tenfold.
They were not meant to be alone. The tower was designed to house other vampires, to be their safe haven, the French court of the undying and any creature of the night who called.
Word had quickly spread of how Silvio had declined his maker admission to the French Coven, and it brought morevampires to their door. Visiting cards and letters kept arriving and piling on theMarquis’desk.
René left a stack of unopened letters and a newspaper on the writing-desk, and turned around the room, unsure of what to do next. Emerick watched the hall boy fidget nervously with the sleeves of his livery, before finally taking pity on the youth and nodded towards the blouse laid over the chair.
“Help me put that on.” TheComtemade a circular motion with his finger before resuming the fastening of his breeches. “An easy task,n’est-ce pas?”
The mortal glanced at the shirt then at Emerick’s bare chest, and mumbled unintelligibly before hurrying over.
The blouse was transparent, made of lace and tulle, with billowing sleeves tailored tight around and up the wrists with the help of dozens of tiny buttons. It had a high collar; buttons at the back of the neck kept it all in place. Emerick was not teasing when he asked for help dressing. The breeches were a tight fit of black velvet, he scarcely managed to put them on, breaking out in a cold sweat as they pulled and worked the fabric over his hips, one leg at a time. He had considered putting on riding boots but then dismissed the idea, he was not planning on going out tonight, and the clothes were enough of a prison as it was. He settled for a pair of velvet slippers with white embroidery.
Emerick felt trapped; the tightness of the clothes suffocated him. It highlighted each and every line and curve of his body. His torso felt more exposed than if the shirt had been unbuttoned, his entire chest was visible under the lace.
Did Silvio get my measurements wrong?
It was not possible. His bodycould notchange, neither could his measurements.
This had to be deliberate. When he walked, the fabric of the trousers dug in and rubbed against his skin, making him want to shake it off, like a wet cloak. The material felt ready to rip at the slightest bend or sudden move.
“You look divine, my lord,” his attendant’s voice trembled with awe, his cheeks flushing from the effort of doing up all the buttons.
“Truly, René?” Vexed as he was, Emerick still found the energy to goad the servant. He liked René, ever since their first meeting in thethermae—an eager-to-please youth who still struggled to adapt to his station. “I know it is unusual, but you will grow used to dressing me.”
The flush on René’s face deepened, his mind abuzz, eyes fixed upon his master’s chest. How indecent it looked—exposed yet veiled. The way René’s lower lip quivered from the effort to hold back a retort, his tongue moving eagerly behind the teeth.
Emerick dismissed him and made his way downstairs, finding Silvio in the drawing-room across from the library. TheMarquiswas mulling over the latest correspondence from Monsieur Corbin, something about the vineyard and where the surplus vintage should be disposed of. Silvio had arranged for a consignment to be sent on to Berlin, a gift for the All Father—that he might toast to their health.
“Your tailors’ eyesight must be failing,” TheComtesaid, as he strode through the room, acutely aware of how the muscles of his legs moved, the fabric clinging to his hips and buttocks. It barely left anything to the imagination. “Look at how wrong this ensemble is!”
“Oh, no. The clothes are as they are meant to be,” Silvio’s gaze slid down Emerick’s body. His eyes twinkled with eagerness, before he turned his attention back to the ledger, his quill scratching numbers and dates.
