Chapter Text
“So, you want a prison break, a blood heist, and assassination help just to get you out of here?” She asked flatly.
Lucanis observed how she shifted her weight. Leather stretched just enough to accommodate, tightly hugging every dip and curve of her body. The bandolier across her chest carrying baubles filled with alchemical explosives. She rested one gloved fist on her jutting hip, around the slim dirk that was sheathed there.
The corner of her mouth twitched playfully—a gesture that loosened the furrow of his brow by an increment.
“I’ll owe you," he replied.
“I’m sure we’ll owe each other before this is all over.”
. . .
Smells like cherries. And clover.
A crow from House de Riva. Sent around the same time an opportunity presented itself for Lucanis Dellamorte to strike out against his captors in the Ossuary, carving out an exit strategy and leaving a trail of Venatori corpses in his wake. Punch-drunk on he and Spite’s shared desire for violence before realizing they had to turn back for his blood.
For Calivan.
Spite pointed out her scent as soon as they got close enough to pick it up; sweet and earthy, like a good cup of coffee.
Lucanis nearly groaned aloud at the thought (it'd been a long time since he had his favorite drink) as Rook spun round behind him to parry an incoming blow, each of them fluid in their movement. He inhaled deeply through his nose when she slid past his front—a swath of her hair gliding by mere inches from his face—and felt pleasure strike low in his belly.
There and gone, as they fought undead and armored skeletons. But their style in open combat was as intimate as dancing, aware in a way that made it seem as though the two of them were longtime partners.
. . .
When she smashed the massive vial of his blood, Spite howled in feral admiration. And soon after, as they stood over Calivan’s corpse—satisfied upon completion of a contract long overdue—Lucanis wondered why he’d never met her before.
. . .
It occurred to him that Rook made light of most situations, no matter how serious, when she interrupted a discussion between the mages about his predicament with Spite. Just as he felt tension growing between his shoulder blades about it.
“You’ll have to kill me,” he replied.
Bellara and Neve looked at each other, giving the macabre statement the breathing room it deserved, before Rook sundered the silence with a joke.
“Well… That’s awkward.”
Oh, I like her. She’s fun. Spite growled.
It stood next to her, manifested as an apparition of his likeness, outlined in purple with empty glowing eyes and a wide, surly grin. Suddenly, it lurched forward unimpeded—and (thankfully) unseen by the rest—through the table toward him, making demands like a hunched gremlin: I want to talk to her!
Lucanis ignored the request without so much as a glance in the demon’s direction, watching present company as they continued their conversation—right up until Spite lashed out against its host hard enough to cause a nosebleed.
That effectively stunned them all into silence, until Rook spoke first: “What did he do that for?”
“Throwing a tantrum when he doesn’t get his way.”
She also turned out to be the only one immediately willing to respect his wishes—trusting him—ushering the mages out to give him space as requested.
. . .
“I don’t think you understand how dangerous this situation can be—for Lucanis. For us,” said Neve.
The trio lingered outside for a time, among the floating ruins around the Lighthouse. Colors drained into a manufactured twilight, acting as the only thing that helped them maintain a healthy sleep schedule while living in the Fade. Almost all, thought Rook, seeing the dark circles under Bellara's eyes, but it didn't take away from her cheery disposition as she looked from her to Neve, and back again, adding, "Neve's right...sorry."
“Or… I’m confident in our capabilities should things at any point get out of hand," countered Rook.
. . .
Several hours passed—long enough that she felt sure no one would see her—returning alone, moving swift and silent across the open space. Traipsing the crumbling concourse as if she were back home, scaling rooftops in Treviso, and casting long shadows as she padded barefoot across the dining hall. Anticipation prickled her skin in gooseflesh despite the warmth, and she smiled to herself, imagining the exact look on his face as she opened the pantry door.
He sat on the edge of a thin, creaking cot, scratching circles into the open margins of a journal, looking pensive before she broke his reverie. His face clean, with no trace left of the nosebleed from earlier.
“Came to check on you,” she said quietly.
“Rook." He looked up in surprise, then closed the book and set it on a small table beside the cot.
“I’m fine.”
She'd never fully appreciated the liquid smooth cadence of a Trevisan dialect up until then. “As you said,” she smiled, lingering just past the door after pulling it shut. Her expression softened, slightly amused, but not mocking.
He stood and took a few steps closer, then stopped as if distracted—curiosity beggared her to ask if Spite said something, but she didn’t—with several strides of space still left between them.
"Manos firmes." She pointed to his hands, relaxed and ready to be used at the same time, instantly recognizable, as part of the harsh training regimen they both underwent to become Crows.
"Ah" he chuckled, "Yes."
His body language was a mimicry of hers, except she wore decidedly less clothing at the moment—a simple white shift that stopped just above her knees—but that didn't appear to rattle his cage in the slightest. It turned her on.
He said, “Are you having trouble sleeping? I can make a pot of coffee.”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“Really? How can you tell?”
Seconds of silence that allowed her to catch on to the fact he was trying to flirt. "Cute." She smiled.
"I thought so." He returned it, added by a certain air of relief, and that was attractive in its own way. For Rook, endearment felt out of place next to lust, but it was small and manageable.
An easy thing to be ignored.
. . .
The body was small compared to its previous existence—presumably, based on what could be remembered about a time before being violently thrust into the mortal prison who called himself Lucanis. Surely, the only reason for such introspection came from being trapped in such confined space. In sharing a body with its original soul still attached.
Pure Spite had nothing better to do but find traces of familiarity from its host.
A fleeting recollection of passion, gone as fast as snowflakes landing on hot skin, drowned out by the body’s needful mechanisms as Rook approached them. Lucanis’s heart quickened, beating like the wings of a caged bird. His senses sharpened.
He waited.
For what? Rook?
They bristled together, like they were being primed for a fight, except there’d never been a time where a fight involved so much blood pooling below the waist. What an impossible ache. Not entirely foreign. Indeed, there had been stirrings down there before, but it paled in comparison. Quick as it happened any other time, Lucanis had always managed to push back, to will it away. He tried now and failed.
Rock hard, pulsing like an artery. Fitted trousers grew tighter.
Spite liked Rook for her boldness. It liked watching her draw closer, slinking like a cat, slow and methodical, looking for a leg to rub against.
Entirely without fear. Unlike the others.
“What are you doing?” Lucanis murmured, tracking the movement of her hands as she got in close and slotted them neatly into place at his sides, stroking deft fingers over his lateral muscles.
She leaned her head back, golden hair sliding away over her shoulders, leaving the alabaster column of her throat exposed and brazenly undefended.
“What am I doing?”
Considering the circumstances leading up to it—a year spent in prison, suffering torture wholly unique from anything he'd experienced up until that point in his life, only to be flung straight into a new contract (per his verbal agreement; he knew that)—he'd been left with little room to process things. To recover.
To partake in all the needs he might've liked to upon getting out.
Had it been someone else in Rook's place (anyone else, really) he might not have asked. But in this case he had to. And Spite slipped back, blessedly silent, watching for general lack of understanding, as Lucanis exhaled sharply.
“Why?”
. . .
Rook took the last half-step closer and pressed their bodies together, brushing the tip of her nose alongside his, hovering close so their breath intermingled. She felt the reverberation of his heart thrashing. The presence of his hands suspended as he searched her face for an answer—thought perhaps she saw a flicker of purple in the recesses of his dark eyes.
Too fast to tell for sure, and she smiled without answering.
. . .
Lucanis grabbed with both hands. One caressed the back of her head, fingers tangled in her silky hair, while the other bracketed her jaw firmly in place.
It caused a hitch in her breath, but otherwise, Rook kept perfectly still. He looked as though he'd been given a gift, but he didn't know what to do with it. For me? What's the occasion? She thought, scoffing, hooking her nails in at his sides to combat the trembling in her legs.
"I could break your neck," he murmured pointedly, as if to help her take such things into consideration.
"You could—" But Rook's greatest weapon had always been the one between her legs. She wet her bottom lip with such flourish that it produced a small salacious noise, tracking his gaze at the same time, sharp as a blade. There was power in that, as she offered him the pleasure of watching her next words take shape.
"Touch me."
He grunted as if he'd been punched in the gut.
"Mierda."
. . .
They collided with the wall, kissing and groping like a pair of feral adolescents at first. But only at first. Their bodies understood the language of each other, much like their innate ability to align in a fight, and acclimated quickly. When to lick. When to bite. When to breathe.
Strong hands slid down the length of her back, over the curve of her ass, fingers stretching to grab—devouring the sound she made when he guided her legs around his waist—before Lucanis navigated crates of produce on the floor so he could hastily deposit her upon a half-shelf used for storing truckles of cheese.
And, as time passed, it didn't end there.
The sensation of her confident, nimble fingers left him punch-drunk. How she undressed him, handling buttons and clasps with the same unfettered precision she had for stroking his cock. Working him into a frenzy of aching need, undulating the pressure of each digit with blooming, rosy cheeks—suggesting the act itself was enough to bring about her own climax—right before guiding him to thrust inside her.
He couldn't walk by the red leather settee against the far wall (in full view from where he took his coffee in the mornings in the kitchen) without the reminder of kneeling in front of it, paying homage to her honeyed arousal. Ever the prodigal student, learning quickly how to make her squirm with his head clasped between her thighs, muffling any distractions.
Every shiny tumult of her hair brought him right back to burying his face into it, hugging tightly with both arms as he fucked her from behind in his room while their comrades slept.
Every flirty glance over her shoulder came with the image of her fucking him back.
All of it comprised a series of journal entries he never wrote down that made him acutely aware of the fact Rook had become a dominating presence among his every waking thought. Of which, Spite wasn't much help in that regard either.
. . .
Rook had always wandered the Treviso Market with quiet anticipation. For all its activity, there existed only the pleasant susurration of a crowd. Even now, it was a pocket of peaceful commerce, yet to be marred by the Antaam occupation. On warm nights, mist rolled in from the bay and hung like a film over the eyes. That evening, it made the market a picturesque impressionism, with its decorated merchant stalls and colorful assortment of patrons.
"Smell this." Lucanis held a potted plant, a sprig of green with an angular stem and serrated leaves.
"What is it?" She could smell it already, sweet and faintly minty, but made a show of partaking anyway for his pleased expression.
"Spearmint for Harding," he said, changing hands to pay the vendor. "It's supposed to calm bad dreams."
"Just by smelling it?"
"It's good in desserts, too."
They wandered to the side of the stall, clearing off for potential buyers, as Lucanis allocated the other items he'd bought—bones for Assan, fresh fruit and ground peppers—trying to make room for the awkward bulk until Rook laughed and volunteered to carry it.
"Is there anything else?" She asked.
"Mm" he nodded. "Wine glasses for Emmrich and fresh fish for Bellara."
"Bellara wants fish?"
"For a Dalish dish she wants to make."
"Ah..." Rook poked thoughtfully at the spearmint a moment before Lucanis—having wandered several paces—called her attention back; "Are you coming?"
"Actually… I'll find you!"
. . .
"A wyvern tooth dagger?" Lucanis admired the details carved into the handle; tested the weight and balance in his hand.
"You can't buy something for everyone and not get yourself something," said Rook.
"I was obsessed with wyverns as a boy… Caterina would never let me have one."
Rook smiled shyly; tried to show some reverence at his mentioning the First Talon, whose death was still too fresh for her to know the right thing to say.
Finally, he added: "Thank you."
. . .
It had only been a rude whisper of a thought at first, like a fly buzzing too close to his ear—annoying, but easily brushed off—when he caught sight of the way Rook looked at his cousin, as they approached the table together. It persisted, however, surmounting to a crescendo of white noise disrupting all thought when she made Lucanis laugh.
"I think you're shaming me, but I'm ordering the choco-chico thing," she said.
Innocent enough banter to anyone who didn't know them very well, but intricacies hidden in the seemingly mundane were not lost on Illario and introduced a sour taste in his mouth, though his ego refused to examine it close enough to see the shade of green.
"So" she continued, looking across the table at him. "Have we done enough 'three crows in a coffee shop chatting about nothing' to bore the spies?"
"Just about," he replied. "The most persistent one gave up when Lucanis started getting all romantic about roasts."
"It's a very good roast."
Too untroubled. Too content. Enough to make Illario pay attention as things progressed, enduring condescension, because it fed Lucanis's ignorance to the man he had become. Being underestimated was now a useful tool. Sometimes, it doubled as a weapon.
"We're compromised. There's no other way Zara could even touch Caterina. You need your eyes here. In Antiva." Lucanis jabbed the table with his index finger to illustrate his point.
"Zara would never be foolish enough to stay. Not with you out for blood."
"Of course she would. If the Crows protecting her are here."
Illario looked at Rook, counting off the seconds to avoid exceeding beyond something neutral, and returned to his cousin. "You're being paranoid."
"I am not paranoid!"
Lucanis commanded silence from the table without any need to raise his voice—his tone was low and even throughout, though Illario swore he saw his eyes wink purple.
"She came after me. She came after Caterina. She will come for you, too."
Illario exhaled sharply and shook his head in concession. "If it'll make you feel better, I'll clean house, all right?" He said, pushing back from the table. "Leave this to me."
. . .
"Psst—"
Rook stepped beside Illario outside the cafe with her hands on her hips, peering up to examine his profile—admiring the way his hair swept like a bird crest with not a single strand out of place. His eyes stitched under a frown. His jaw tight.
She cleared her throat and tried again: "Y'know... It's okay to let him care about your safety."
"I never mentioned it the last time I saw you… When you were going to the Ossuary," he said after a long pause, turning toward her. Always looming. "You look good."
"It was a high priority situation," she replied, spotting a glimmer of confusion that begged clarification. "Saving Lucanis?"
"Ah"
"Ah…" Rook deflected and mocked him, and somehow neither were seen as unkind. But when he leaned down to further encroach on her space, she retreated a half-step. And it triggered an emotion in his gaze.
"I see," he purred, lips closed in on her cheek. Such was all the information either of them needed as to the nature of their relationship at present, but it didn't stop him. Not entirely.
Hard to say what prevented her from rejecting him further—guilt or defiance or something else she'd never be able to name—as he pressed a kiss at the corner of her mouth, so she simply closed her eyes.
"I would be careful with my cousin, Rook," he said, and she watched him straighten out. "There are moments now where I question which one is talking. Him or the demon."
"Everything is fine," she replied slowly, studying him. "I'm fine."
"It's okay to let me care about your safety."