Chapter 170 - One Hundred-Seventy: Dual-Knife

//CLARA//

"Did the authorities find out?" A cold knot of panic tightened in my chest. "Do they know you’re running the syndicate?"

Casimir just stared at me, a single dark brow raised. A slow smile crept onto his face. Something flickered in his eyes, slightly being offended as if the very question insulted his intelligence. As if I actually believed he would allow himself to be that sloppy.

"Do you think I would let myself be caught that easily?"

"You know it’s not like—"

"No." He cut me off with a definitive shake of his head. "The good inspector was merely asking a few routine questions regarding the ambush. And the exact... nature of the casualties left behind."

"Well, at least that’s the least of our worries now."

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, nodding slowly.

"We found something."

I stepped forward until his desk pressed against my hips. "Gary and I went up to Aunt Cornelia’s room to look for the ball archives. You know, just for references."

My fingers curled into a fist.

"We found another set of footprints in the dust near her cedar chest."

I looked up, meeting his impenetrable dark gaze. "I think it belongs to the intruder from the other day. Someone was actively searching her quarters."

Casimir didn’t say a word. He simply gave a slow, calculating nod.

Without breaking eye contact, he reached down and pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk. When his hand emerged with a long, slender object.

It looked like an expensive, ornate accessory. A smooth cylinder of polished redwood, intricately inlaid with swirling gold filigree. A decorative gold metal partition divided the center.

"It’s beautiful."

"It’s deadly." He placed it in my palm so I could feel the weight of the smooth wood. "I had it made specifically for you."

I turned it over in my hands. "What is it?"

He took it from me, his fingers finding the golden seam. "Watch."

He twisted.

The redwood split cleanly along the gold partition, the smooth mechanism separating into two distinct halves. Each half became a handle, and from each handle extended a blade.

I gasped.

Two knives emerged from it. The first was slim and sharp as an ice pick, its needle-point gleaming in the winter light. The second was thicker, with a wicked curve at the tip that formed a crescent shape, almost like a small scythe.

"Two blades," I breathed.

"Two deaths," he added. "The slim one is for close work. A quick thrust between the ribs, and they won’t even have time to scream."

He turned the curved one over in his fingers. "This one is for cutting. Rope, leather, throat. Whatever needs to be opened."

He reassembled them with a single, fluid twist. The two handles locked back into place, the blades disappearing into the redwood casing until it looked like nothing more than an elegant accessory again.

"It looks like one of those dangling fan accessories."

"You mean a chatelaine?" He corrected smoothly, though a brief flicker of confusion crossed his brow before melting into amusement.

"Yes, those. One of those."

"That’s the point. Every lady of status wears one at her hip. You can carry it anywhere without raising suspicion."

He reached for my waist, fitting the casing into the folds of my skirt, securing it to the hidden loops of my dress.

"I don’t know how to use it."

"Then I’ll teach you." His hand closed around my wrist. "But first, I want to show you what it can do."

I didn’t have time to ask what he meant. He pulled me closer, his other hand finding the knife at my waist. In one fluid motion, he brought the cold, scythe-like edge up to my face.

The freezing steel grazed against my cheekbone, terrifyingly close but agonizingly careful not to hurt me.

He dragged it slow... so slow... down the line of my jaw, tracking the curve until the tip rested precisely over the center of my throat.

Right where my pulse was beating wildly against the metal.

He stared at my face, his thumb rubbing the back of my neck, his breathing growing heavier. Then, as if testing the absolute perfection of the craftsmanship, his wrist flicked.

The blade caught the high collar of my dress.

With one smooth, effortless downward jerk, the edge sliced through the fabric. The razor-sharp steel tore through the layers of my bodice, splitting the front of my clothes cleanly down the middle.

The fabric burst open.

I was rendered half-naked from the waist up. The frigid, biting winter air of the study hit my bare skin. My breasts were fully exposed, my nipples immediately pebbled and aching in the cold.

Casimir’s eyes caught the sight, and whatever restraint he had left went up in absolute flames.

"Casimir—"

"You have no idea," he rasped out, "how much control it took not to break that inspector’s fingers when he looked at you. When he smiled at you like—"

"He—"

He didn’t let me finish. He bent down and kissed me.

The knife was still in his hand, the blade cool against my hip. He didn’t release it. He kept it pressed against my skin as his mouth claimed mine.

He pushed me back against the desk. Papers scattered. An inkwell tipped. I didn’t care.

The knife—its smooth redwood handle—slid beneath the torn fabric of my dress, pressing against my thigh. Then higher.

I gasped. The wood was cool, polished silk-smooth, sliding against my skin as he moved it up.

"Trust me." He whispered against my ear. "This is part of it. Part of learning."

I nodded, breathless.

He pressed the handle against my slick, aching cunt. The wood was warm, coated in my own wetness. I felt the carved filigree catch against my clit as he slid the smooth redwood back and forth over the aching bundle of nerves.

I moaned.

"Look at you," he murmured. "Not pulling away." His thumb found my clit, circling, while the handle pressed deeper. "You trust me."

"With my life."

His eyes darkened. He pushed the handle inside me.

I cried out, my head falling back against the desk. The smooth redwood slid deep, stretching me open, the carved filigree dragging against my slick inner walls. I could feel every ridge, every curve of the polished wood as it filled me.

The same handle that held two blades. The same weapon that could kill.

And he was fucking me with it.

"Casimir—"

"Shh."

He bent down, his mouth latching onto my breast. His tongue flicked my nipple before he sucked hard, drawing the peak deep between his lips. I arched into him, my hips grinding down against the handle.

"You’re so beautiful like this. Taking the weapon I made for you. Taking everything I give you."

I was babbling. Incoherent. The wood was thick inside me. He twisted it slightly, and the curve of the handle hit something that made my vision white out.

"Look at you," he said, pulling back just enough to see my face. "My wife. My wife, with a knife inside her."

I laughed, a breathless sound of pleasure, and rolled my hips to the hilt.

"You and your twisted fucking mind," I gasped. "Damn, I love you."

He kissed me again, hard and bruising, his tongue forcing its way into my mouth while his hand moved the handle in a punishing rhythm. I could feel myself climbing, could feel the pleasure building, the pressure coiling—

He pulled the knife out.

I whimpered at the sudden emptiness. But before I could protest, he had unfastened his trousers, had gripped my hips, and was sliding inside me in one long, deep thrust.

I cried out, my hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer.

"Feel that?" His breath was hot, uneven, his forehead pressed to mine. "Feel the difference?"

"Yes—"

"The knife is sharp. Cold. It cuts. It takes." He thrust deeper, driving me against the desk. "But this—this is yours."

"Yes," I sobbed. "Yes, Casimir—"

His hand found my clit, circling, pressing. His mouth moved back and forth between my nipples, playing, sucking, nipping them until they became raw while he fucked me senseless.

I heard the knife drop, but the sound was swallowed by his name on my lips.

I felt him swell inside me, his cock growing heavier and thicker. I came first, my body convulsing around him. He followed moments later, burying himself deep, his release spilling into me as he groaned against my chest.

We stayed locked together for a moment, our hearts slowing.

Finally, he pulled back. His thumb traced my jaw, brushing away a strand of hair that had stuck to my lip.

"You’re bleeding."

I looked down. The knife must have caught my inner thigh before it fell. It was just a scratch, a thin line of red welling up from the skin.

I laughed softly. "I didn’t even feel it."

He kneeled and kissed the spot, his tongue tracing the blood, cleaning the wound.

"Next time," he said, "I’ll teach you to throw it."

I smiled, my head still spinning. "I can’t wait."