Chapter 89: Rum, Rivers, and Restraint

The negotiations wrap by early afternoon, and the otter-kin chief pumps Lucien’s hand so hard he nearly dislocates it, practically vibrating with excitement over everything the trade route promises, and doubly so over the news that the Shadowfang tribe has finally, officially been brought to heel.

“No more fees. No more threats on the water,” the chief says, wiping at his eyes with the back of one paw. “You’ve no idea what that means to us.”

Lucien just grins, entirely too pleased with himself, and claps the man on the shoulder.

What delights him considerably more, though, is the discovery that otter-kin throw themselves into celebration with the same single-minded enthusiasm they apply to everything else. Any excuse serves, a trade deal, a sunny afternoon, the simple fact that Tuesday exists, and their excuse of choice always seems to circle back to the same jug of amber, home-brewed rum they guard with the fierce, possessive pride of a dragon guarding its hoard.

Lucien takes one sip and very nearly weeps.

“This,” he announces, holding the cup up to the light like he’s appraising a fine vintage, “is the single greatest thing I’ve tasted on this entire continent. I need this shipped to every corner of it. The Ashlands. The tribelands. Kingdoms that haven’t even opened their borders to me yet.”

The brewers, thrilled beyond words, load an entire case of it onto his carriage before he even asks.

That night, the whole village spills out onto the riverbank for a proper party, bonfires crackling along the water’s edge, drums and fiddles tangled together in something loud and joyful, sparks drifting up into a sky gone thick with stars. Lucien throws himself into it with characteristic abandon, dancing, drinking, laughing with anyone who’ll have him, which turns out to be everyone.

Kamiko and Serenith get swept up in it too. It takes surprisingly little convincing, just a cup of rum and Lucien leaning close to murmur that a halo tends to put a damper on properly letting loose, before Serenith reluctantly reaches up and slips hers free, tucking it away into a fold of her robe.

“Just this once,” she warns him, wagging a finger.

“Mortal for a night,” he says, delighted, already pulling her toward the fire.

Off to the side, away from the noise, Brina sits curled by a smaller fire she’s claimed for herself, mind wandering somewhere far away, most of the roads it keeps taking lead straight back to Lucien.

Kamiko spots her there, drags her bodily up by the arm, and shoves a full cup into her hands.

“Enjoy yourself,” she orders, “and stop staring off into the distance like a heartbroken poet. Whatever’s got you like this, drink it away.”

Brina’s gaze drifts, entirely without permission, toward the water’s edge, where Lucien is dancing waist-deep with a knot of laughing otter-kin, splashing and soaked through, shirt long since abandoned somewhere on the bank. Water beads and drips down the hard lines of his chest, curls through his hair, catches the firelight every time he throws his head back laughing, and somewhere in the middle of it all he lets an otter-kin girl half his size clamber up onto his shoulders, roaring with laughter as she nearly topples them both into the current.

Her heart does something complicated and unwelcome in her chest.

She downs her drink in one go and holds the empty cup back out toward Kamiko. “Another, please.”

Later that night, or perhaps early morning by then, the party finally burns down to embers and scattered, snoring bodies. Lucien stumbles back to one of the carriages and collapses inside to sleep it off, and Serenith, curled up on the roof above him, drifts somewhere close to sleep herself when a flicker of movement catches her eye.

A shape, small and hesitant, creeping toward Lucien’s carriage door.

She’s halfway through sitting up to call out when a stray beam of firelight catches the shape’s face.

Brina.

Serenith claps both hands over her own mouth and goes utterly still, watching as Brina slips inside without so much as a knock.

Inside, Lucien wakes to a firm poke in the ribs. He groans, cracks one eye open, and finds Brina perched on the bench across from him, wringing her paws in her lap.

He blinks, grins, and hops upright at once, tugging his shirt straight and smoothing his hair with quick, apologetic hands. “Sorry, sorry, wasn’t expecting company. Give me one second to look presentable.” He settles back, smoothing invisible wrinkles from his sleeve. “How can I help you?”

Brina doesn’t answer right away. She just sits there, working her jaw, before finally managing, “It’s been seven days now. Right?”

It takes him a second. Then it clicks, midnight came and went hours ago, and his punishment lifted with it.

His grin spreads slow and wide. “You’re right. I almost forgot.” He presses a hand to his chest. “Thank you for the reminder. Honestly didn’t think I’d survive it, but turns out having something worth waiting for was all the motivation I needed.”

He shifts closer on the bench, and Brina flinches, just slightly.

He freezes at once. “Hey. You okay?”

She nods, quick and a little too hard. “Just nervous.”

Something in his expression softens, all the usual smugness draining out of it. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. I won’t lie to you, I find you absolutely adorable, and I’d love nothing more than to have every inch of that impossibly soft fur pressed against me. But only if you actually want that too.” He takes her paw gently in his. “Do you? Really want this?”

She looks up at him, eyes gone wide and golden as twin moons, innocent and open and very, very drunk, and nods.

Lucien cups her face gently between both hands, leans in until their lips are almost touching, and murmurs against her mouth, “I’ll treat you like the treasure you are.”

Outside, watching the whole scene unfold through a gap in the curtains, Serenith shakes her head, thoroughly unsurprised, already certain she’s about to witness Lucien smooth-talk his way straight into Brina’s fur.

Instead, his hands settle on her shoulders and start to knead.

Slow, careful circles working down along her spine, coaxing every knot of tension loose one by one, his thumbs finding pressure points she didn’t even know she carried stress in. Brina melts under it almost instantly, breath going soft and unsteady, and when she reaches fumbling for his belt he simply catches her wrist, guides her gently onto her stomach instead, and settles his weight lightly across her thighs, both hands returning to their steady, deliberate work along her back.

Her eyes flutter, roll, her limbs going slack beneath him one muscle group at a time.

Within ten minutes, she’s snoring softly into the cushion.

Serenith watches the entire thing with growing, baffled disbelief.

Lucien climbs out of the carriage a moment later, stretching, and finds her waiting, arms crossed, halo-less brow furrowed hard.

“Couldn’t help watching me work, could you?” he says, entirely too pleased with himself.

“It’s a job,” she snaps. “I don’t do it willingly.”

“Of course.” He nods, solemn.

“What happened in there?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. Gave her a massage. She passed out.” A fond little smile. “Adorable, really.”

“That’s exactly my point.” Serenith throws her hands up. “You’re free of your punishment. She came to you, drunk, ready and willing, and you just walked away?”

“I gave her a massage.”

She slaps his arm. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

He smirks at her. “Didn’t realize you missed watching me pleasure a woman quite this much. Should I go check if she’s still up for it?”

The look she gives him could curdle fresh milk on contact.

He laughs, holding both hands up. “Kidding. Obviously.” He folds his arms behind his head, gaze drifting toward the dying fires. “She was drunk, Serenith. Taking advantage of a woman who can’t properly say yes isn’t something I do. Ever.”

Serenith blinks, something shifting behind her eyes. “Oh. I didn’t realize.”

He smiles, easy and warm. “My mother’s ghost would cross dimensions just to haunt me if I did.”

Serenith’s mouth falls open. “You actually had a mother?”

Lucien turns, pouting. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know, I suppose I always pictured you simply materializing out of a boardroom somewhere. Fully formed. Already smirking.”

He chuckles at that, though something more solemn settles briefly over his face. “No. I was a child once too. Had a mother and everything.”

Serenith giggles, shaking her head. “I genuinely cannot picture you as an innocent little boy.”

He sighs, wistful, gaze drifting out over the water. “I wasn’t, really. Not like the other kids.”

“What do you mean?” she asks as they wander down toward the river’s edge, the last of the firelight rippling gold across the water.

Lucien glances sideways at her, smiling. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Yes,” she says, and means it, something genuinely curious creeping into her voice. “I really would. What kind of childhood produces a man like you?”

“Sure,” he says. “You just have to wait seven days.”

Serenith’s mouth drops open. Then, despite herself, she pouts.

“Fair.”

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