“Honeyed porridge and a selection of bisques and broths,” Tristan corrected. “Your senses were stripped, dulling your taste.”
“Iwishmy senses had been stripped.”
Tristan skilfully worked the pain from his calves, turning hard muscles to malleable jelly. Austin couldn’t help his relieved sigh as the urge to lash out receded. He would notapologise—for Tristan had stoutly refused to apologise, despite all his manhandling and persistence in feeding Austin. He beggedforgiveness,displaying a distinct lack of remorse.
“I’ve always been a bad eater,” Austin explained, eyes still shut, enjoying the massage. “My father used to—” He caught himself, swallowed. Tristan located a spasming muscle and vanquished the pain. Austin exhaled in relief and continued. “He was curious how my body might metabolise things differently from others. He’d sneak chemicals into my meals. At best, they’d leave me throwing up. Most often, my throat would be stripped raw, or I’d have burning pains in my stomach and headaches so bad I thought my brain was melting. He once put bleach into an apple—as if I wouldn’t smellthat. It’s a wonder I still have a stomach at all!”
Agitated, Austin opened his eyes. Tristan knelt before him, Austin’s feet guided onto his thick thighs.
Tristan’s massage stopped. The only thing to move were his eyes as he studied Austin’s face.
“It’s a habit,” Austin said. “Eating small amounts. I’d never get too sick then if Idideat something tainted. But when I’m already sick, and there is food…” He felt keenly the sharpness of his own smile. “You areverylucky that I lost my voice.”
Tristan considered Austin at length. “Where is this man?” he asked.
Austin dug his heels into muscular thighs, and the massage of his left calf resumed. “Dead. Supposedly.”
“Supposedly?”
“His body was never recovered.”
“You think him alive?”
Austin cast his gaze aside as Tristan’s Troop came trundling over the sands, men and women hauling rocks far too large for a normal human’s strength towards the shore. They chattered jovially, apparently unbothered by the odd task they’d been set.
If Cessair had lived, would he have slunk away and allowed Austin to inherit his fortune? Of course not. Even exposed for his crimes, Cessair’s resources were vast enough to escape the consequences. But the thought of him being gone, truly gone, sat in his heart like a lie. There had been moments a few months ago where he’d settled enough into himself that he could broach the possibility of it, but as it always did, the monster of Cessair had crept back out of the depths to torment him.
Austin realised Tristan was patiently waiting for him to speak. “His ship wrecked. He’s human, not like us.” A wrecked ship would certainly be no danger to Tristan or Austin’s life.
Tristan hummed. “My father is also only a man.” He bent his head. Austin thought for a confused second that Tristan was bowing, but then a soft kiss pressed atop his right knee, then his left. From there, Tristan angled his head to gaze up at Austin, eyes so very sharp and dangerous. “They forget when we’re young that our power will not remain lesser than theirs forever.”
Austin stared into Tristan’s eyes, unpacking that implication. “You could never have been weak enough for anyone to harm you.” How could any person, or even monster, grapple with a merman’s power? He reached, pressing his fingers to the top of Tristan’s shoulder. A plain piece of silk hid nothing. “You’re powerful. I can feel it.” He let his fingers slide from shoulder to upper arm, drawing a shiver from Tristan despite the heat in the air. “It’s a wonder you don’t burst apart at the seams.”
This close, Austin could see the ocean in Tristan’s blue eyes, feel its indomitable power.
He withdrew his hand.
“When I was a child,” Tristan began, “my father drove my brother and me into an inlet with a trapped arrow-whale. He wanted us to kill it. We”—Tristan’s chin pressed into Austin’s knee as he rested his head—“were small, and not up to the challenge. It caught me by the tail—you saw the marks it left—and would have torn my fluke off if not for Hal.”
Austin recalled the half-ring of teeth marks in Tristan’s tail. An agitated hum rose unbidden in his throat. Tristan ran an oiled, soothing hand up his calf. Tristan hummed too, but his was calming. His chest rumbled against Austin’s shins like a cat’s medicinal purr.
“Hal bargained with the whale. She would release me, and in exchange, we would dismantle the barrier trapping her inside the inlet. She found the terms agreeable. I still find shallow waters an uneasy thing,” Tristan admitted, “though I was not even a quarter of the size I am now back then.”
“You freed the whale?”
Tristan nodded.
“And what did your father do?” Austin could not help but ask.
Cessair’s moods had been tumultuous, his flashes of anger brief, yet painfully bright. Austin was the one blamed for lagging research. It was his fault the blood, marrow, or cells they took from him lacked what they were searching for. Sometimes Cessair would forbid him from leaving his room. Strip him of entertainment, appetising food, a bathroom and dignity.
Sometimes he would magic cruel behavioural tests out of thin air that simplymustbe done right that second: how does the subject’s skin respond to fire? How does the subject’s muscles respond to an electric current? How does the subject’sbrain respond to no sleep? How does the subject respond to a chair being thrown at them? A breadboard? A phone? Whatever happened to be in arm’s reach.
“He separated us.” Tristan’s voice drew Austin from unpleasant memories. “I did not see my brother for years. Hal fostered quite the distaste for injusticein that time”—this was said with an undeniable fondness—“and the fervent desire to discover the most fair method of governance.”
“Injustice,” Austin repeated.
“It is a great passion. He’ll pursue it his entire life, I know.” Tristan lifted his head from Austin’s knee, boldly pecked it, then massaged out the tiny red imprint left behind by his chin. “Are you in the mood for music? The musicians I sent for have arrived.”
