another repost

A Piece of Pink Ribbon
(A bit of...something…started long ago)
Maybe canon—maybe not






There was no evidence of the sun in the dark sky outside, only the increasing glow of the sinking moon offered any hint of just how close the dawn was. In the city itself he might not have noticed, but here on the outskirts of civilization, his mind bored with the revelries behind him, Etienne had let the distant moon capture his attention.

Clouds surrounded the incomplete circle, never quite overtaking it, and the silver light was creating a strange halo that mariners would have seen as a sign of bad fortune. But it had been some time since Etienne had needed to concern himself with the thoughts of sailors, and he took a sip of wine from his glass, letting it play on his tongue.

The drink was cold, though why the Marquis had bothered to spend his gold on ice when he served such a lowly choice of wines was a question that Etienne briefly considered asking the man, ruin his plans though it may. Already, the sweetness of it stuck to his teeth, and he allowed himself a grimace, catching sight of himself in the glass of the window. New, large-paneled glass windows, to impress whom, Etienne and likely all of Paris could guess, and briefly Etienne's slight frown flickered to something easier.

His reflection bore out the change in his moods, and he considered it, licking the wine from his lips and tasting instead bitter oils. Vexing, to have to replace his paint yet again for a sip of insipid wine, and he refocused his gaze on the shifting images in the glass, reflections of the dancers behind him. Some ladies attempting to mimic the movements of the ballet, he assumed, though they stumbled into a card table with shrieking laughter that pained his ears.

An insipid affair from every possible consideration, and with difficulty Etienne kept himself from yawning. He was too pale in the moon's light like this, his face and neck dusted with a shimmering mix of powder and crushed minerals, and he would remember to not wear this affectation for an evening party again. The only advantage to be gained from the look would be how weak it made him appear, and that Etienne considered, leaning his head back to study the line of his throat, the stained pink of his lips, knowing well how they looked next to something fierce and dark at his back.

The Marquis was returning, his smile no mask to his ringed, anxious eyes. With that face the man sought an elevated position. With that face he longed to orbit the sun itself and would never leave Paris, no matter that he emptied his pockets for countless parties. There were other ways to prove loyalty and honour, and his was money better spent elsewhere.

It had been stupid of him to stay here so long. His presence should have been enough to convince a greedy and foolish lord that he offered friendship and yet here he still stood, staring at the moon. The man would think he longed for more, to linger in the company people such as these, and though this too may have made his plans easier, Etienne found himself in no mood to feign interest.

It would have been easier to coax a Spanish noblewoman to suck his cock than to find something to entertain him here. 10,000 livres would be a neat sum to add to his own fortunes, but even that was not worth the headache of watching as one more dull party was ended by the sun's rising, and drunken fools fell to their carriages, to sleep until darkness came again, and another night of this. It was a wonder that they had ever managed to stand against the King when their fortunes were so easy to take now.

His faint smile fixed in place as he saw the Marquis approaching him, the man's cheeks flushed a shade that had more to do with nature than a palette. Etienne took another sip of his wine and let his mouth twist with displeasure before he set the glass down and pushed it from him, his fingers only just visible under the falling lace of his cuffs. Pink cheeks were now white and worried, and Etienne let out a sigh, a long, weary breath.

"Not to your liking, monsieur?" The man had the manner of a servant, and Etienne could not help the small frown that furrowed his brow, and turned his face away before it could be seen. The Marquis had not been so accommodating before, and Etienne wondered which rumours had met the fool's ears in the past hours, and how. He was going to have to do something both stupid and public soon, if he wished fools like this to remain ignorant of his ways and habits. Perhaps a duel; it should not be too difficult to get blood spilled in his name.

His view now was nearly the entire room, an ivory partition keeping him from seeing more of the card tables, though that mattered little. Anyone still playing now was too desperate to interest him, their monies already gone. But the ladies had paused in their dancing, indiscreet words flying loudly through the air as they turned to eye the stranger passing among them, the form and figure distinctly foreign and made only more so by the ridiculous clothing he wore.

Etienne licked his lips once more, uncaring of the paint, and pulled his hand away from the wine glass to lay it flat on the wooden ledge under the window. Silver light bounced oddly away from the red stones of his ring, leaving them dull, but he left the moon to its madness and returned his eyes to what was slowly coming nearer.

"You have a new guest," he remarked to see the startled jerk of shoulders, the frown of confusion as the Marquis studied the newcomer's lean and tanned form. That more than the carefully graceful, rolling walk should have told the Marquis he faced a man who knew the sea. But doubtless the man had no knowledge of anything beyond his home, and would see only the many hues of light-coloured hair and the eyes that tended to green. They spoke of England, those eyes, and Etienne lifted his chin as they rose to find his, even in the glass.

It was not the first time, and Etienne did not bother to answer the challenge, regarding the man without even a smile, not turning to face him.

"You let anyone attend your parties, I see." He spoke to the side, watching annoyance flicker across the man's face before it was hidden away. Only then he did let his lips curve into something colder than a smile. He ignored the Marquis, as did the newcomer, but unlike the Englishman, he could guess at the Marquis' reaction to his smoothly-voiced criticism. The man had, after all, allowed an unknown peasant to enter his home.

"It is time I was leaving," Etienne added with a sideways glance, watching the Marquis' chin wobble as he fought to control his tongue. It was very likely his servants would be beaten in the morning for their carelessness, feeling all of the Marquis' dismay at such a false step in front of so infamous a guest. If Etienne had mentioned that it was probable that the peasant before them had not in fact, entered through the front entrance—or any legitimate entrance at all—it would not have made any difference.

Nonetheless, he pulled delicately at the lace on his cuffs one last time before turning to face the intruder, raising his nose as though the air around them were rancid. The heavy perfume the Marquis had chosen nearly made it true.

His gaze he kept down for the moment, noting the shining new leather boots and clean, if dull, stockings fitted tight over muscled legs. Both of which put Etienne in mind of an early musketeer or cavalier more than a sailor, or a pirate, or a thief, whichever the Marquis' unexpected guest had decided to be this evening. Overdressed spy seemed most appropriate, as there was no feathered hat or leather doublet to complete the strange ensemble and no weapon hung at the slim waist. The man's only adornment would be a bit of faded pink ribbon tied at the wrist, usually hidden by gloves, though Etienne did not search for it.

The boy had somehow managed to seem as though he had either ridden for miles with an urgent message or just come ashore after months at sea and had new clothing made to visit an old friend. Either description would mark him as out of the ordinary here and Etienne raised his eyes at last from the shoulders that somehow always surprised him with their breadth and the cloak that covered them.

The face was as brown as the clear eyes drawing up and down his form could be, and Etienne lifted his chin in a show of faint annoyance at the boy's presumption but did not look away or otherwise move to acknowledge the bold inspection. If it amused the intruder to treat him like a street whore then it was more then fair that Etienne would treat him like a piece of street filth. They both knew the truth, and perhaps that is why he permitted the trespass.

If he had worn even a scrap of any kind of green, then the peasant's eyes before him would have shown an elusive glitter of the same shade, something Etienne had noticed long ago. Far too long ago, he admitted with a twist to his lips, and flicked a glance away from the dark lashes and curving, smug lips that had doubtless helped the boy with many of his assorted ventures.

The long breath that Etienne felt burning in his chest escaped his mouth as the Marquis turned a hideous, florid face away, obviously searching for servants large enough to toss the stranger into the street and then administer a good thrashing. The twist to Etienne's lips widened into a pleased smile, and he cocked one eyebrow, waiting.

With a snort that could have come from a horse, the man opened his mouth only to shut it abruptly. Narrowed eyes studied Etienne for a moment longer before sliding over to make a show of observing their host. It was a pretense of interest at best, perhaps a remnant of manners taught to the upstart long ago by someone deserving of sainthood for making the attempt. He did not bow or bend his head the slightest degree, only sighing and turning back to Etienne, his eyes rolling in what was truly an exaggerated manner, his gaze expressing open disbelief that Etienne was even standing next to this man.

His sisters had possessed more decorum as children when faced with an unending series of horrid nannies, running to him with complaint after complaint. Etienne considered the memory of his pretty young sisters' disgraceful attempts to wheedle help from him—a trick Suzette had perfected over the years—unsurprised that the boy before him had attempted a similarly childish act, looking to him with sparkling eyes that dared him to answer.

He did not so much as twitch an eyebrow in response, merely continuing to wait as the music from far across the room plucked and teased at the edges of his mouth, reminding himself that he was not the one with a small space of time left to him.

As though realizing that, the boy swore, loudly, in possibly the worst Parisian ever spoken by an Englishman, and Etienne had the same person to thank for that as had attempted to teach this peasant manners.

An unsuccessful attempt, if one considered that the boy knew them well enough but only seemed to bother when the mood struck him, or when he found they could be useful. Which meant of course that his little display now was intentional, as Etienne had suspected it was even if the Marquis was a man to naturally object to, all of this a ploy, possibly to hurry along Etienne's departure.

Despite the urgency that this would imply, Etienne stood where he was, pushing out a long, slow breath to let the Marquis know just how unacceptable he found the situation. If the Marquis had been a different sort of man, he might have directed a quick—yet barely hidden—expression of longing at him as well, speaking silently of a need to be alone. It would doubtless have been answered with great haste.

But all of Paris knew of the man's devotion to his mistress, so Etienne did not, sending his gaze carefully back to the peasant and blinking rapidly to find eyes that no longer sparkled staring steadily at him. The frown that marred the smooth forehead seemed nearly as childish as a pout, but a darting glance to the lips revealed them to be in an unamused line, full even when pressed together.

It was no wonder he had been so sought after by wicked men, with a mouth like that.

His chin lifted, and the boy's followed.

"A word?" The short words were left without a title of respect attached, and Etienne allowed himself a smile, hearing the murmur of voices above even the music now, the strings echoing through his blood, heating it as wine had never done, making his voice too loud.

"If I were you, I would take precautions against such a man sneaking into my home again." Etienne perhaps angled his head in the direction of the flustered nobleman, but his eyes he left where they were. The warning was near to a slap in the face, as though the boy before him were going to ravage this man's wife and pale daughters—something they would undoubtedly enjoy. And his insult was rewarded with a small frown on the handsome face, a brief tightening at the full at mouth before an irritated glance to the side, which said clearly that the Marquis' guest had already beheld the women of the house.

The urge to laugh was almost overwhelming, and Etienne directed his gaze elsewhere to enjoy the pleasure of the small victory, swinging his eyes back up at the sudden easy flow of Parisian, as clearly spoken as if Louise or Suzette themselves had been before him.

"And before I got a chance to introduce myself…." The false regret had not been learned in any schoolroom, and if Etienne had made himself hide his enjoyment of this, then the boy would not have dared, making a show of his straight, even teeth, the strong column of his throat as he threw his head back and laughed softly.

If he thought to tease with that then his efforts were wasted when Etienne moved his gaze. His amusement was that of a child, and they were wasting time with this display.

The Marquis had stepped away, leaning to speak into a footman's ear, and Etienne turned back to the man at last, putting out a hand, palm up, a habit useless now, when the Marquis had been given hints of the truth. This must end, and soon, if he was to excuse himself without any questions. A note would have more discreet, but the boy had chosen this way, revealing the child he still was.

It was not curiosity that had brought him here, and the least that could be said for him was that he did not pretend that it was. Beyond that, the boy was as foolish as those who claimed him.

Etienne was in no need of rescue.

A blur of colour startled him into almost taking a step back, a hand going to his side though he wouldn't have been able to use even a small blade in this place. His head went up at the quick movement, eyes wide at the strong brown hand reaching for him, the hand that dared to touch his own, warm fingers trailing across his palm as the hand was just as quickly withdrawn. Once gone, there was only the faint itch where a length of cheap pink ribbon had been drawn across his skin, and Etienne raised his eyes, not daring to look down to that hand or that wrist with its lover's token.

There was a skill in the delicate touch that the nimblest thief would envy, that should have been surprising in the blunt, calloused fingers, leaving only the impression of pressure and warmth in his empty hand. If not for the ribbon, he might have thought it a creation of his mind, but he had no need of such dreams any more than he desired a savior.

His mouth remained closed, his tongue hiding behind his teeth like a frightened woman behind a door. He was left to hope that his expression remained as frozen, his mask of irritation good enough to show to the Marquis; the man's round horrified eyes growing rounder with the realization of what this insult given in his house, to this guest, could cost him, never knowing that the cost would have been the same.

It would mean death of course, for the peasant foolish enough to render such an offense as laying hands on a noble, perhaps a crippling beating at the very least. Under that penalty, it was a wonder that anyone should have done it—or not done more. That, combined with the man's foolishly daring act of walking into this home should have also warned a smart man that this visitor was either mad or a man above the ordinary. Mercy or sense were required, and the Marquis possessed neither, something that Etienne could have learned without ever having to attend his dull party.

He closed his eyes as the Marquis began yelling, indecorously shouting across the room for more footmen, straining to be heard when the musicians did not cease their playing.

It was not his lips that curved upward in sharp amusement, could not be even with the Marquis' lack of dignity. This act was not his work, and no favours had been done him with this display.

Etienne opened his eyes and turned them away from the grin of triumph, not knowing or caring about what victory the boy thought he could claim from this. The Marquis' destruction was hastened, and a spectacle had been made of him in such a way that others would connect the event in their mind to the public offense given to Etienne Saint-Cyr, and there were already too many whispers.

That grin remained fixed in his mind's eye, as though Etienne's thoughts now were exactly what gave the boy so much pleasure.

Whatever had they seen in the whelp, to save him from the gutter when so many others could have been better trained?

Etienne's hand, still outstretched, fell to rest at his hip, one foot angling out carelessly to show his heavy, gold-lined slipper. Then he licked his lips, parting them as though he considered speaking. His painted whore's mouth drew the eye, even the cunt-loving gaze of the Marquis, and for that Etienne did smile, feeling how they each pulled in breath, how they stared.

But the boy knew the trick, and better than most. If Etienne were to mention where he had learned it, most would never believe him. It was not a skill of a man, especially a man of his blood. Perhaps that was why he had learned it so well.

The Marquis turned and Etienne pulled in a long breath of his own, closing his mouth and twisting his lips before glancing pointedly to the empty place in front of him, allowing himself a cruel smile when the Marquis visibly jumped to see the boy gone.

There were a few unconcealed giggles from the ladies dancing, making no secret of their interest in the strange scene, and if the Marquis had forgotten them, Etienne had not. An audience was always present, lurking in the shadows of the mind, ready to pounce on the first missed step, the line spoken out of turn, hungry for the taste of humiliation, the sweetest meat seasoned with hidden tears.

The man was making apologies now, choking on words that in his youth he would never have needed to say, begging forgiveness on rumor alone from the scion of a fallen house, unable to even chase a criminal from his home. He would never catch the boy, and the footmen had no heart for the chase. He was an ugly fat fool with too much money and too little dignity.

He was about to be relieved of both, begging or no. But his life was still his, and his daughters, and there were families who had risen back to glory with less. It was a struggle worth the price, even if others with their sparkling green eyes did not agree.

There was a sudden pounding at his temples, a sickness behind his eyes and Etienne tried to shake away the ache, the weight dragging at his bones that reminded him of the hour, urging him to bed. Soon he would be an old man, bent double while young nursemaids helped him to rest.

The image was amusing enough to add some strength to the smile he tossed in the worried fool's direction, and then Etienne was moving, gliding easily through clumsy, drunken dancers without interrupting a single step. The Marquis' eyes were on him as well as any number of others, sharp and considering, but he kept his stride slow, pausing at the doorway, catching another glimpse of himself as the footman swung open the wide, mirrored doors.

It was perhaps only the late hour that made him think so of his age. Not yet thirty and younger-seeming in the smoky room full of guttering candles. Perhaps it was time to think of his nursery, something possibly worth mentioning, he decided, quickening his step.

The twist to his lips was his alone, and if he shared it through the mirrors with the Marquis, the man could think what he would. Not even the king himself could begrudge him this smile, and with it he escaped into cool, quiet halls.

He allowed himself a soft breath as well, sighing as the music faded away, leaving only the click of his slippers on the floor and the hushed swing of doors being opened for him.

The Marquis was easily prodded into foolish behavior, which would simplify taking his fortune from him. But he had been left with a badly-drawn portrait of Etienne Saint-Cyr, and that would have to be remedied. Etienne Bertrand Michel Moreau du Saint-Cyr was a wastrel son of a murdered man, a fool and a cocksucker, a drunken fop. That is all the man needed to know of him, and with enough evidence, other stories of him would fade to nothing. He must never wonder why the King would tolerate such a man, must never get the chance, not if he wished to live.

A note perhaps, praising the Marquis' choice of music which had in fact been tolerable, or an invitation to his home, either here or in the country. The country would require a longer visit, and Etienne fought the urge to grimace as he left the house and stood out in the night air.

The man must not find him too distant, not a man like that. He sought to elevate his position and was most eager to buy his way into the king's graces. He thought the Saint-Cyr name a good stepping-stone, pretending for now not to know of the unsavory rumors. Or perhaps he was truly ignorant. It was not likely to matter much, in the end. Etienne would allow the man to orbit him, would smile just enough to offer hope of teaching the man how to ascend higher, and offer guidance on the best manner to spend that vast fortune his ancestors had been smart enough to accrue.

It was not altogether a lie. Louis would be most appreciative of the Marquis' monies. He might even honour the family for their generous gifts someday, if he remembered. If not, Paris was full of old vines withering under the new sun's glare.

Jacques was jumping down from his carriage before the horses had fully stopped, landing without a sound at the door as though anticipating precisely where he would be needed. A trace of a limp today, which meant rain tomorrow, if Jacques was to be believed. A simple warning—even one about the weather—was not to be taken lightly, and so when Jacques raised his head and met his gaze for a moment, Etienne nodded and did not scold as some might have.

It was dark inside the carriage of course; it must have served the boy well. Etienne did not attempt to search the shadows as he stepped inside and slid to the opposite side. He settled onto the thickly-padded cushion as Jacques closed the door behind him, adjusting the lines of his coat without raising his gaze.

"A note would have been better. In the future, you will remember that." He spoke quietly, dropping one hand down to the small ledge under the cushions, passing his fingertips over the sheathed dagger though not enough to draw attention to it. The boy knew enough secrets.

"Sent to suck this one dry too?" The body slid forward with an ease that spoke of too much time spent hiding in dark places, the moon coming through the windows to fall on the slender figure lounging insolently with one booted foot on the dark, pricey satin, his back against the padded wall.

One arm was resting across the bent knee, the pose too deliberate to be chance, and Etienne used the darkness to study the strong, spread legs, and the space between them.

The boy had spoken with triumph in his voice, as though he had spent his time out here searching for wit and thought his choice of words very clever. It did not disguise the way he stared, even in the dark of the carriage.

Etienne moved with no warning, pressing forward until his fingers were at the boy's throat and squeezing hard. The boy's head came up, his eyes wide and bottomless in the lack of light, and then the rosy lips parted. Etienne leaned in until that last free breath was his, the heat nearly enough to melt the paint at his mouth.

There was no liquor at those lips, no glossy paints. They should have appeared innocent, but the curse that slipped past them was low-born and common, the kind of thing he would have learned from his bastard care-giver.

He did not bring up his hands, perhaps knew he did not need to, or only did not want to. He had not worn gloves, and his hands, though quick and slender, were strong, rough with various labors. They would be warm and so calloused Etienne would feel it against his skin as they tracked through white rice-powder and forced his away.

If he were to raise them. But the boy breathed hard, let Etienne taste his breath, and did not move. The interior of the carriage was too dark, even with their bodies and faces so close, for Etienne to see into the man's eyes, but he knew they watched him.

He had learned the courage and defiance elsewhere. It was often easy, with a strength of a man, to forget having ever been helpless, though he did not think the boy had. That Etienne had not seen a weapon did not mean there was not one, just as the way the man held himself motionless now did not mean he could not fight.

His hand was also bare; Etienne could feel the quick pulse pounding hard under his thumb, it did not not flutter with fear as it should have. The blood was hot even through skin, thrilling next to the faint rasp of stubble that he had not expected.

He should have and his own carelessness mocked him.

He allowed himself a small inward breath, flicked his eyes from the mouth to the shadowed throat. The smooth curves of his fingernails would leave marks in the flesh if he pushed harder, and for a moment, Etienne imagined it, thin white moons along the veins, pushing out when the man swallowed. The clouds outside could never touch them.

He exhaled, narrowing his eyes and making certain his gaze stayed even with the green eyes so carefully watching him. He felt his leg, his thigh pressed along the heat of another, strong and muscled. A man's, though the boy did not act it with his foolish displays, his actor's gestures that he thought were clever.

Etienne had no use for the past, and no future worth thinking of. He inhaled the air they did not share, then squeezed harder.

"Never touch me without my permission." It was more a hiss than a whisper and he clenched his teeth to keep back more. He did not...with others he had no say, but with this boy he did, and he would ram that truth between those lips.

He was a spoiled youth, too stubborn and willful, trained too well in using his beauty to get what he wished. If those stupid enough to claim him would not put him in his place, then Etienne would.

That others had tried, that when the boy finally did lift his hands to circle Etienne's thin wrists a length of ribbon tickled him, was meaningless. It was Etienne's nails marking him, and the boy's skin dark like the night itself capturing his hands.

Etienne tightened his grip for another moment, waiting for the noise of pain that never came, and then he relaxed his hold enough to allow breath, feeling the shuddering sigh across his cheeks, on his eyelids when he blinked.

The boy was frowning slightly, the brows drawn in thought and Etienne could have pressed his forehead to his to smooth the lines there if he wished. "Ben…" he whispered the name and felt the shaking force held back in the hand that came up to rest over his, held him still for too long of a moment with no effort at all.

The frown disappeared until eyes that far too often were as clever as the boy imagined simply watched him, would turn any colour Etienne wished to make them in the changing light. He was being studied.

Etienne pulled back at the realization, hiding his scowl though it was perhaps already too late, Ben's smile was also deliberate for all that it was real. Etienne had no doubt that the pleasure could have been hidden if the boy had wished to hide it. It would have been as easily done as vanishing before the Marquis' eyes. The boy was smart, but he still knew nothing.

Etienne looked down to readjust his cuffs, pursing his lips thoughtfully as he considered the effect his show of ill-humour had had on his clothing. It would be an odd request to make of a tailor, sleeves that did not rise and wrinkle should he strangle another man. Not that it was the man's place to question him.

He had a slight smile of his own as he raised his head once more; fixing his eyes for a moment on the pale crescents he had left in the brown skin.

He would speak to the tailors in the morning.

James would not be pleased to see marks on his boy, and that amusing thought nearly made him laugh. He allowed his lips to crack until his smile revealed teeth, arching one brow at the brat that had been sent for him and looking up as he did.

His own breath was strangled from him, trapped and burning in his chest to catch sight of the fires that raged for him. They did not slink from the shadows, they swallowed the darkness whole, light and heat where there had been nothing before. Brighter than the light outside, the sun finally arriving to vanquish the moon and let it rest.

And the smile. That smile. The meaning made his gaze slide away, his cheeks stinging with an unfamiliar flush. The forgotten feeling of having made a mistake sent a jolt to his heart, made it hammer for a moment against his ribs.

He had given the boy something he had wanted.

Etienne licked his mouth, tossing his head as his memory whispered back his words to him, what he had said in his moment of careless temper.

It meant nothing. He knew the names of his servants too, as Suzette had named her gaggle of lapdogs. Did he think Etienne had never heard the incessant whining of James Fitzroy after his adopted street filth?

Nonetheless he felt his mouth tighten—the late hour making him tired and his mind slow.
He sat against the cushions and thought he would change them to new colors, something brighter in the dark. He had never cared to be left to the shadows, even with his hands free and a weapon close.

As though they had no fear of the dark, childish or otherwise, the green eyes stayed on him, perhaps content to wait, perhaps confused. But the man did not move for now, and it was nearly enough of a victory to make Etienne forget the momentary triumph that had sparked in Ben's eyes, were Etienne to ever forget any trespass against him.

He had not given his permission, and would not, unless the boy had something real to offer, something of value for Etienne to take, and destroy. That was his work, and his sole talent, if he did not count fucking.

He adjusted his cuffs for a moment longer and then directed his gaze out the window, at the vague stirrings of dawn and gathering thunderclouds. He let the silence linger, did not bother to waste time with questions of direction or what was so urgent to have taken him from his work.

Jacques would know their destination—no doubt some low-class inn where the boy would be comfortable—and the boy could suffer in quiet for his rudeness. Etienne would know their business soon enough.

But his eyes left the window, and the fading piece of silver in the sky, and went to the man once again leaning indolently against the cushions on the bench in Etienne's carriage. There was always an audience, ready to see him fail, eager to see him step wrongly. Those sharp, ever-changing eyes on him were no different.

The words and glares for his actions were meaningless, as they always were, for it was no angel, no sainted Fitzroy staring back at him, and breath so hot did not offer redemption. Etienne Saint-Cyr sought no redemption in any case, and had no need of gentle tokens.

He would not slip again. The cost was too high, and to echo that thought the last of the moonlight passed over the ragged bit of pink knotted at the brown wrist. The moon battled off the oncoming storm in vain, glowing brighter as it was taken at last. Without the dawn for rescue the world grew dark, and Etienne let out a breath and turned away, longed to close his eyes.

He started when there was motion, blinked with heavy eyes and looked, reaching out before even fully awake, before even knowing that he had slept. The carriage was stopping, and Ben was at the window, and Etienne undisturbed, until Ben turned back to him, his grin bright and too knowing.