Chapter Twelve

Kell stayed with them. He said he didn’t need it, but they made a place for him in the hold, a simple berth.

“What if you find a woman in a port?” Isidor said to him pragmatically.

When they arrived at Pushta, they left Soule with Kell on The Singsong and went into town to make arrangements to trade the saffron they had gotten on Nanine, wealth enough to buy The Singsong all over again, bidding on contracts for the next year. They pushed on to Bashrac, a merchant waiting for them there with goods, Kell helping them to stow the cargo, he and Winter glad for the extra hands.

“We’ll stop and unload the Dorsan wine in Alveria,” Isidor told him as they made sure the barrels were in the front of the hold, easiest to access.

In Alveria, they gave Kell his cut of the profits from the sale of the wine, since he’d put in the work. He was learning the rigging. Kell watched the wine go with regret.

By the end of summer they were far north in Caska, coming into port right at dusk one evening, Kell and Winter on the sails, Isidor at the helm, Soule at the bow, the air pleasantly crisp, far away from the southern heat. They floated into the huge port with enough speed to berth, the whole area lit up with torches, sailors spotting Soule and craning to stare, pointing and exclaiming.

Caska was a huge center of trade. The landscape was beautiful and stark, a harbor ringed in sharply rising white-capped mountains, the sky so blue and the sea like glass on a calm day, everything reflected in it, salt box structures in bright colors, tall frigates and a general air of bustling activity.

They saw The Vainglory, looking to see if Lowen was there, but he wasn’t on deck.

“There,” Isidor said, seeing it as Winter pointed.

Kell heard him and came to the rail, looking where he did.

“What?” he said.

“The Mockery. Leet and Havish are in Caska,” Isidor said.

Kell looked at his face.

“They are Siblin like you?” he asked. “You don’t like them?”

“We used to be friends with them,” Isidor answered. “They threatened Soule because she’s a siren.”

“Threaten my sister?” Kell said, standing up straighter, frowning, his eyes narrowing at The Mockery. “Why don’t you kill them?”

“We were going to, but the Siblin Council put ban between us. If they try to do violence to our anthata, it’s death for them under my knife. If we gut them, we’re banished.”

“I could kill them. I don’t have a ban,” Kell offered.

Isidor nodded respectfully.

“We thank you, but you don’t want to face Havish and Leet alone, you understand? They’ll catch you between them and tear you up.”

Kell looked thoughtful.

“Your friend is here?” Kell asked.

Isidor pointed.

“That’s Lowen’s ship, but he’s in town. Probably chasing a woman. Lowen will want to see Soule. She likes him, and he spoke for her in front of the Siblin Council when we presented her as our anthata. Will you come and meet him?”

“How does he chase a woman? He doesn’t....” Kell said, letting his question trail, looking wary.

“No. Siblin don’t do that to a woman, not ever,” Isidor said, Kell looking relieved.

“We don’t either,” Kell said, nodding.

“I mean that he persuades one to come back to his cabin and fuck him willing,” Isidor explained. “Lowen, he’s a twain. His brother Caren is dead a long time ago.”

“I thought without an anthata he can’t...?” Kell said delicately, letting the question trail again, having learned more about Siblin.

Isidor winced, leaning in.

“He can, but it’s like having sex with your clothes still on,” Isidor said. “It’s better than nothing.”

Kell eyed him.

“You are glad you found Soule, I think,” Kell observed.

Isidor laughed and nodded. Kell hesitated.

“Did you and Winter...together, both of you, before?” Kell asked.

“No. We only can do that with our anthata,” Isidor answered.

“But you chase women before you found her?”

“Every chance we got,” Isidor replied.

#

They took Soule to get clothes, Caska having a brisk market and every good and service imaginable, jewelers and leather workers, brothels and taverns. They arranged to have her fitted at a cordwainer for boots, for good shoes that fit her.

They made an appointment with a tailor, explaining the things they wanted, getting Soule clothing for now and for the colder months, Siblin-style, which were simple layers for a woman, pants and dresses to be worn as needful, much of it warm Luterian wool, which was waterproof and very expensive, everything she’d need, and a cloak, and gloves. They got her some fine clothing as well, for when they took her into port.

The tailor was happy to do business with them, even more happy once he got a glimpse of Soule, enjoying the idea of dressing her, and he offered a pretty readymade white frock in Caskian style that fit her well that she liked so they got that and Isidor carried it for her. The tailor pointed at the place across the way where a seamstress would make her undergarments, Isidor nodding politely, Winter glad, at that moment, that she didn’t speak Caskian.

The tailor seemed to slowly realize all three of them were staying with her, his hands all over her, all of them watching, the tailor aware of it, careful. They had arranged her hair to hide her ears and Isidor sat in the place for customers and sharpened his knife, which made the tailor nervous so Isidor put it away. Kell stood and looked out the door at the passing people and Winter browsed different hats as the tailor took her measurements, Soule standing on a stool. It took awhile.

“Six days,” the tailors finally said, Winter putting the hat he chose on the counter, a pretty cockeyed hat with a ribbon for around her chin, Isidor picking it up and putting it on her head and tying it, Soule looking sweet.

“Add the hat and twenty hecs and make it three days,” Isidor answered.

The man thought about it.

“It’s a big order. Four days and the hat is yours,” he said.

Isidor nodded, agreeing.

They came out, Soule still excited. Caskians were just as interested in Soule’s beauty as in every other port, although they were less startled here by her red hair. They stared, but nobody approached her, not a surprise considering who walked with her. Kell got curious looks as well, his lively braids, his skin if they noticed, but the man kept his lips over his teeth, not smiling, and nobody remarked on him.

#

Kell led them when they came out, all of them in high spirits, probably not knowing where he was going but they didn’t really have a destination, enjoying showing Caska to Soule and her brother. They ate their way through the port town, stopping to watch street performers, Soule’s enthusiasm its own pleasure, her laughter making their hearts light.

They ended up at the docks. Winter was just about to catch up with Kell and propose they go see Lowen, since they were just around the corner from the berth for The Vainglory, when they heard it, raised voices in the alley they passed.

“You fucking tusks think you can stick me—,” they heard Lowen roar, the rest lost.

“Lowen,” Isidor said to him, also recognizing his voice.

“Stay here with Kell, Soule,” Winter said quickly, he and Isidor reversing direction, running.

They found the mouth of the alley and stopped. All three of the men were too busy to notice them. Havish was on one side of Lowen, Leet on the other, their knives out, circling him. Leet had a cut on his arm, Lowen with his elbow close at his side, blood under it, trying to watch both of them, his knife in his other hand.

He and Isidor were running to Lowen when Kell grabbed Isidor’s arm, stopping him. Winter looked for Soule, who was running up behind Kell, joining them.

“The ban,” Kell said to Isidor. “Let me help your friend.”

Isidor met Winter’s eyes. Winter narrowed his own down the alley briefly, thinking hard, and then nodded grimly to Kell.

“Watch the brown-haired one,” Isidor said, pulling and reversing his knife, handing it to Kell.

Soule cried out as Kell entered the alley running, all the men at its end glancing briefly, none of them really seeing her, none of them wanting to be distracted and get stuck. Kell swept past a surprised Leet and joined Lowen, Isidor’s knife in his hand. Lowen didn’t question his good fortune, putting his back to Kell’s, his other arm still tucked.

“Who the fuck are you?” Leet said in Caskian, which Kell wouldn’t understand. “Fuck off. This is Siblin business.”

When Kell didn’t respond, Leet and Havish circled quickly, Havish the stronger fighter, taking the newcomer, stepping forward, a jab at Kell straight forward with his knife, Soule crying out in fear. Kell sidestepped it—he was fast—Havish off-balance, Kell missing the opportunity to stick him.

They were going to have to teach Kell how to fight with a knife. Or maybe they wouldn’t have to. Kell stepped, his hands locked together with the knife, twisting, his elbow smashing into Havish’s face with all his power, not inconsiderable, behind it, a solid crunch that said Havish wasn’t going to be so pretty for awhile. Havish stumbled back, crying out, his hand going to his face.

Leet had taken a swipe at Lowen, Lowen throwing himself backward, evading. When Havish cried out, Leet glanced at his brother, which gave Lowen the opening he needed. Lowen lunged, Leet only just getting out of the way, the knife slicing his shirt, a shallow slash on his side, Leet giving a brief cry of pain.

“Leet!” Havish cried, throwing himself backward again as Kell finally remembered the knife, swiping at him wide.

The brothers broke, running out of the alley the other direction, Lowen and Kell both running after them briefly and then stopping.

Lowen turned to Kell.

“Who the fuck are you?” he said in Caskian, panting.

Soule broke away from them, running into the alley, Isidor and Winter right behind her as she went, to everyone’s surprise, past Kell and straight to Lowen, throwing her arms around him. Lowen staggered a little and grinned wide, surprised, one arm coming around her, the other still tucked against his side.

“Sweet girl!” he said in Siblin. “What’re you doing in such a place?”

She looked up at him, her arms still around his neck.

“Hello, Lowen,” she said.

Lowen put a kiss on her forehead as he and Winter arrived. Winter put his hands on her shoulders, gently moving her to one side, Soule watching as he took Lowen’s arm over the man’s protests, lifting it, looking at the slash. Winter glared down the alley after Leet and Havish.

“Is it bad?” Isidor said, coming to his side, reaching, also looking, Lowen waving his hand away.

“I’m fine, stop fussing,” Lowen grumbled, wincing.

“Not deep, but it’s going to need thread,” Winter declared.

Soule went to Kell, who pulled her into his arms, his chin on her head, Lowen watching. Lowen’s brows went up, glancing at them.

“Come on,” Winter said to Lowen, putting a shoulder under him on his bad side. “We’ll get you to The Singsong.”

#

They all were on the deck. Winter sewed, Lowen sipping his flask and wincing as the thread pulled, Soule hovering. Kell watched from a small distance. Lowen glanced at Kell and then took Soule’s hand, pulling her to him.

“Sweet girl, why don’t you get me some water to drink so I don’t have to pretend in front of you that this doesn’t hurt,” Lowen said.

When she was gone, Lowen turned to them.

“Why is there another man besides me got his hands on your anthata?” Lowen asked them bluntly in Siblin.

Isidor looked at Kell, who came over.

“Kell,” Isidor said in Dorsan. “This is Lowen. Lowen, this is Kell, Soule’s brother.”

“Her brother!” Lowen exclaimed in Dorsan, looking at him closely. “You’re a siren?”

“That’s what you call us,” Kell answered.

“Let me guess, we can’t say or understand what you call yourselves. I thank you for having my back, Kell,” Lowen said, nodding at him, Kell nodding back.

“They don’t fight you honorably, two of them when you are alone,” Kell said.

He and Winter winced a little at the reminder of Lowen’s loss. Lowen shrugged.

“Siblin don’t fight another way if we can help it,” he said, taking out his flask and upending it, sipping.

Lowen offered it to Kell, who took it, sniffing suspiciously. His brows went up, appearing pleased. Kell took a sip, and then another, returning it, grunting his approval, nodding. Lowen took it and hissed, looking down as Winter pulled another stitch.

#

Regardless of Havish and Leet, they were in Caska for a reason, and he and Winter spent the whole next day unloading the cargo they had and then beginning to load the much larger stack of cargo they would take from Caska to trade down the coast. Kell wasn’t there, agreeing to stay with Lowen on The Vainglory to ensure his safety, Lowen allowing it because he was curious, they imagined.

By nightfall, a good portion of their cargo was stowed. Isidor had just enough in him to make a meal they shared. They fell into bed on either side of Soule that night.

The next day was the same, Winter going into town to meet with one of the merchants and arranging the delivery of the last of it, Isidor nervous for him to go alone but they were unwilling to bring Soule there. Kell and Lowen showed up midday, Winter returning, Kell’s help making the work go faster.

They wouldn’t let Lowen do anything for fear he’d pull the stitches, so he spent the time with Soule, happy. He showed her what she could do on The Singsong, Lowen instructing her on maintenance and repair tasks, how to inspect her, and teasing Soule in general, flirting with her. The first time she laughed, Lowen glanced at them a little in wonder, laughing right along with her, Isidor stopping to watch them, grinning himself.

“Our anthata will be a sailor,” he said proudly to Winter, who nodded, pleased, glancing at her.

Lowen came down to the hold where they were rearranging cargo, stacking crates. Soule was on the deck with Kell, who was moving the last of the crates to the top of the stairs of the hold. When Lowen came down, Winter put down the crate he held and they both went and stood in front of him.

“Leet and Havish came for you, Lowen,” Winter said.

Lowen shrugged.

“Kill them and people get unsettled,” he said. “It’s why we have the Council.”

“You’re not going to go to the Council and that’s never stopped you before,” Isidor said skeptically.

Lowen made a face, looking away.

“I knew their fathers,” Lowen finally said. “They were rough, but they were still good men. I know you’re mad with their sons, and you have a right to be, but I have history.”

“Don’t let a history they don’t care about get you gutted, Lowen,” Isidor said, the obvious.

“Ban or no,” Winter told him. “We’d avenge you, you know that, right?”

“Of course I know it. So do they, that’s why they’re on my back,” Lowen said irritably. “They like me well enough. But if they kill me, you’ll go after them for sure, breaking ban and making it so they can come for you without consequences because you’ve tied the Council’s hands.”

“Winter! Isidor!” Soule called, coming down the stairs, both of them meeting her.

They went up past her fast, Lowen on their heels. Kell was on the gangplank. Havish and Leet were at the edge of ban distance, Havish’s face all sorts of interesting colors, his nose reset.

“Who is that?” Havish demanded to Winter, his voice raised and nasal, gesturing at Kell.

“None of your fucking business,” retorted Isidor. “Nice face, Havish.”

“He drew a knife on us, it’s our fucking business,” Leet shot back.

“You cut on Lowen,” Winter said, his voice cold.

“Hello, Leet, Havish,” Lowen said, coming from behind them. “I’m well, thank you, if you’re checking on me.”

Havish looked at Lowen, wincing, Leet looking at his feet a little.

“It’s unfortunate, Lowen,” Havish said. “We’ve got no problem with you personally, you understand, we like you, but you’re between them and us. We’re not letting this go.”

“Well now, Havish, Leet, I appreciate the clarification as to why you want to gut me, although I had guessed that,” Lowen said thoughtfully in Dorsan, leaning against the rail, peering at them, gesturing at Kell. “But you might want to reconsider in light of this man here, especially your earlier stated desire to skin Soule alive.”

Leet and Havish turned to stare at Kell again, obviously not knowing what to make of him, but at the mention of what the captains of The Mockery had said they wanted to do to Soule, Kell reacted. He straightened off the rail in surprise and then anger, his eyes narrowing and locking on the men, and he seemed to almost puff up, getting bigger, his braids swaying, breathing faster.

“We don’t know you,” Havish said warily to Kell in Dorsan, taking Lowen’s hint. “Walk away and we’ll leave you be.”

Kell whole body seemed to ripple, his braids lively.

“I don’t walk away ever, Havish,” Kell rumbled from deep his chest. “I come for you soon, for your brother. Soule is my sister.”

Kell began breathing deeply, seeming to get even bigger, flexing, his face expressionless, the slits on his neck on both sides gaping wide for a brief moment before they closed, showing scarlet, the brothers seeing it.

The brothers’ faces registered shock.

“You’re a screecher?” Havish accused, his eyes narrowing back.

“Do I look like I screech to you?” Kell demanded hoarsely, stepping forward, his eyes lighting with rage, the slits on his neck opening twice more, flashing scarlet. “Do I look like I fear cowards who threaten the life of a woman, who fight dishonorably against a single man? The moment you are on open sea in your little boat, you are mine. There is nowhere you will be safe. I will board your ship and wrap my arms around you and take you to the depths with me and your small knives will mean nothing.”

Kell smiled at them, showing all his teeth. Isidor’s brows went up. There were quite a few of them and they looked sharp. Not even when they fought him had Kell looked this fierce. Havish reared his head back, looking like he was reconsidering everything he thought they knew in light of new information just received, Leet appearing just as abruptly thoughtful.

“We can’t touch her,” Havish protested. “We’re under ban.”

Kell walked to Lowen and put his hand on his shoulder.

“I am not,” Kell said nastily, smiling at Lowen, all his teeth out, Lowen blinking, Kell looking at Havish and Leet. “I like Lowen. If something happened to him, I would miss his company and his liquor.”

Kell’s meaning was clear. Lowen glanced at Kell, seeming a little surprised. He prudently took out his flask, tipping it, handing it to Kell, who did the same, handing it back. Soule came to Lowen’s side, leaning on him. Lowen smiled down at her and put his arm around her. Havish and Leet saw her, glaring at her.

Kell moved into their line of sight, glaring back, and made a sound that had all their hair rising, a deep, long fluttering exhale, guttural, his gills opening again and vibrating with his inhales, the source of the sound.

“Don’t look at her,” he spat.

Havish went red in the face in the part that wasn’t purple from Kell’s elbow, but they averted their eyes.

“This isn’t over,” Havish said, he and Leet turning around and going back the way they came.

Kell vibrated again, still furious.

“I will fight with you, Lowen, if you want to go kill them now,” Kell said, glaring after the captains of The Mockery.

Lowen nodded to him respectfully.

“I appreciate that, Kell, I do,” Lowen said, putting the cap on his flask and replacing it in his pocket. “We’ll see if what you said doesn’t back the sails off those hot tusks some.”

#

They took Soule to town for the festival.

Caska was far north, but it was a major port, bustling, and people who lived here were lively, sometimes rough, every kind of perversion available if you had money to pay for it. It wasn’t particularly civilized, but it was fun.

Isidor had his top hat on, brushing off his Siblin waistcoat, Winter doing the same. Soule had on the pretty white dress that went to her ankles, gathering tight all down her waist and off her shoulders, showing the tops of her breasts and her figure, curving around her round bottom sweetly, her lack of underwear apparent and not bothering them one bit, her firm tits jiggling very pleasantly, her nipples poking out under the thin cloth.

She twisted two pieces of hair back away from her face with the clip they had gotten her, so pretty, leaving the rest free behind her, falling all the way to her hips in long waves of dark silky red, her cheeks flushed with excitement, her skin that color that was so striking, that made you want to touch her. She looked so beautiful that Lowen just stopped on the deck, staring at her.

“Lowen,” Isidor said after a moment.

“Lowen,” Winter followed after another moment.

Lowen looked at them blankly and then made a face.

“It’s a good thing there’s four of us, boys,” he said cheerfully, holding out his arm, Soule coming and taking it, smiling up at him, Lowen smiling right back at her. “Sweet girl, you’re the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen in my life, and I’ve had a long one.”

They headed for the part of the city that was always lit, always busy, the Autumn festival being celebrated and the place very full, music and liquor and sly people who would pick your pockets and fights likely to break out and people laughing and the whole street loud and filled with celebration.

Kell went first, the man cutting his way through the crowd, then he and Winter flanking Soule in the center of them, Lowen riding their wake. They made for the hall in the center of the chaos where there was drinking and dancing.

Soule heard the music before they arrived, becoming excited, going on her tiptoes to see, her cheeks flushing more, her step light. Isidor suddenly laughed for no reason in particular, just feeling good, earning a glance from Kell, who shifted his eyes to Soule knowingly, and then he laughed himself. Isidor realized she was humming to the music, so low he almost didn’t know she was doing it, but they felt it. By the time they got there, Soule was practically dancing and they were all drunk on her singing.

They stopped in front of the musicians, Soule getting appreciative glances from the men playing, who grinned and pushed each other’s shoulders. Soule smiled back, the men losing their place for a moment, and then the music picked up its pace and suddenly Soule was humming along, her voice reaching out all around her, everybody’s heart getting light. People began to dance in the huge hall, more drawn to her.

They were abruptly in the midst of a huge crowd with Soule in its center, more people joining, the music carrying them along, Winter actually grinning. Isidor pulled her into a dance. Soule no longer singing because she was laughing instead, which made everyone even lighter, watching his feet and catching on. He twirled her until Winter took her, dancing with her, and Isidor went and got her something to drink.

When he got back, Lowen had her and Kell was watching their feet, taking her after Lowen and showing his teeth to a sailor with a long mustache—Caskian—who tried to take her instead, who retreated reluctantly, his eyes on her. Isidor retrieved her from Kell when the dance was done, several men disappointed again. Isidor pulled her away and gave her the cider he’d brought, Soule’s breathing finally slowing, her eyes shining, thirsty.

Isidor looked at her face, just happy, leaning down and kissing her full mouth, soft. She tasted so good that he didn’t stop, the sweetness of the cider on her lips, just her, pulling her closer, his hand going to her round ass. Isidor broke it when Winter arrived behind her, pulling her hair up in back and kissing her throat, damp with sweat, blowing on it, Soule sending him a glance over her shoulder that had Winter’s eyes narrowing. Winter’s hand spanned her ribs, not quite cupping her breast but the shape of it showing to anyone who cared to look.

“You boys better take her somewhere,” Lowen said, showing up beside them.

Isidor looked up. Soule hadn’t just drawn a crowd with her singing. She’d drawn men, the whole area full of hot eyes and speculative glances sent her way. Someone shoved someone else near them, jostling Lowen’s elbow, whose ale rocked, disturbing his sense of the natural order in the world.

“Get the fuck off of me,” Lowen roared in Caskian at his neighbor, guarding his ale, his lips drawing back from his teeth.

Isidor looked for an exit, things getting too crowded for safety, grabbing her hand, Winter behind her. They made it out of the hall and were just walking down the street when they found themselves facing a man who turned into two and then three and finally four, long mustaches, blocking their path. Caskian sailors. Isidor recognized the first one who had tried to dance with Soule. Isidor slowed, giving them a grin.

“Hello,” Isidor said in Caskian, friendly. “Let us through, would you?”

“You two can go, but the woman’s not done dancing,” the first Caskian returned, just as friendly-seeming, his eyes crawling all over her. “My friends and I want a turn cuddling the little firehead. Are you Caskian, lovey? What’s your name?”

“She’s not and she doesn’t speak your language,” Winter replied, hardly overly friendly even when he was feeling so. “Let us through.”

Caskian sailors should know better. He and Winter were Siblin, and it didn’t matter that it was four against the two of them. The fourth man’s eyes dipping to Soule’s Tal, suddenly wary.

“I didn’t know she’s their anthata, Hec—,” the fourth man said.

“That just means she enjoys taking more than one man at a time,” Hec said thickly, still staring at her. “Look at that mouth. I want to dance with her a little, maybe get some kisses. What do you say, lov—.”

The man stopped, Isidor’s knife at his throat, the blade lengthwise, Winter pulling Soule behind him.

“Listen to your friend. She’s our anthata, you stupid Caskian fucker,” Isidor breathed, feeling himself going cold, all his senses alert, keen.

The man had frozen. Isidor addressed the other men without looking at them.

“Let us through or I’ll skin him so fine he’ll twitch with a breeze.”

The man called Hec swallowed, his eyes going to the others. The Caskian sailors stepped back, the fourth man walking away altogether, the other two fading. Isidor studied the man under his knife, considering.

“Isidor,” Winter said.

Isidor removed the knife with a small motion, turning and gathering Soule up, passing him. They were down the street before the man yelled in surprise and then pain. Half of Isidor’s mouth turned up, his eyes slanting back to watch the man holding his hand over his left ear, looking at the ground at his feet. He bent and picked something up, looking at it in his hand, yelling again.

Winter sighed beside him.

Kell stepped out of the shadows behind them, looking at the man and then at Isidor, Isidor feeling his good spirits returning. Kell eyed him, his brows going up.

“What did they want?” Soule asked, also looking back.

“You,” Isidor said cheerfully, grabbing her hand. “But they can’t have you because you’re ours.”

Isidor grinned at her, Soule smiling at him, sweet, Isidor’s mood lightening more, his eyes lingering on her mouth. Soule’s smile turned shy, arousing him, stopping her and pulling her to himself, kissing her slow, taking his time. He broke it, breathing, Soule flushed. Isidor looked around for the kind of place he wanted. Soule turned to look back at the man again.

“What’s wrong with him?” she said.

“He didn’t listen well,” Winter answered, Isidor pulling her along, Winter glancing at him.

They entered the crowded tavern straight in, Soule’s hand firmly in Isidor’s, people moving out of the way, seeing they were Siblin, a small space forming around them, all sorts of eyes following Soule.

They found a booth in the back, a candle on the table, low light, a nice long tablecloth. Perfect. Winter sat, then Soule, and finally Isidor. Isidor looked around them with just his eyes. Men were still glancing, a good portion of the attention in the room on her, although the men were circumspect about it, given he and Winter were Siblin and she was obviously their anthata.

There were four other women in the room serving drinks and food, men teasing and flirting, three of the women looking cheerful about it, taking their money that was offered, the fourth looking a little bored. One of the women came and leaned against Winter’s arm. She was a young Caskian, pretty enough, her ample breasts flowing up out of her bodice, giving Winter a smile. She glanced back at the other woman who was serving. They’d been talking about him and Winter, Isidor could tell.

“We don’t get Siblin in here much,” she said to Winter, flirting with him.

Before he had an anthata, Isidor would have taken this one back to The Singsong with him, maybe her friend as well. She had heard about Siblin and was curious. She wanted to try rough pleasure. It was so obvious even Winter must have picked up on it.

“Don’t touch him,” Soule said.

The woman moved away from Winter, giving Soule a startled glance. He and Winter turned to her, surprised, but Soule wasn’t looking at them. Her eyes were locked on the woman, her breathing getting faster. She narrowed her eyes.

Isidor realized they’d never seen Soule close to another woman before, not ever. She was reacting. She didn’t like the other woman at all.

“Two bottles of red wine, please,” Winter said quickly, pulling out coins and putting them on the table, the woman swiping them up and leaving.

Isidor was thinking about Soule’s teeth as his anthata glared after her retreating form. Soule suddenly made a small growling noise, entirely her, a delicate rumble. Isidor met Winter’s eyes, both of their brows going up, Isidor grinning.

“Are you well, my beauty?” Isidor leaned in to ask her.

Soule turned to look at him, her honey eyes a little distant.

“Yes,” she said, looking away, her eyes seeking the woman again.

The woman returned with the wine and two glasses, assuming Soule wasn’t going to drink, leaning over and showing Isidor the deep plunge between her large breasts, what was expected. The woman straightened, surprised, when Soule made her noise again. Winter reached to give her more money.

“We’d like some food, if you would, and a third glass,” he said to the woman, who took the money gingerly under Soule’s watchful eyes.

“You’re our anthata, Soule,” Winter assured her when the woman was gone. “We don’t desire her.”

Soule sent a resentful glance the woman’s way.

“I know,” she said. “She just makes me angry.”

“Well, now we know,” Isidor said. “It’s a good thing we don’t see many other women, my beauty.”

“Yes,” Soule agreed, taking a sip of her wine.

Isidor looked at her, grinning again, feeling a wave. She was so beautiful. And strange, Soule was always going to be that as well. She looked at him and his eyes went to her mouth, leaning in to kiss her, her lips soft, tasting of the wine. Winter turned her toward himself and kissed her as well, many more Caskian eyes on her now, Siblins and their anthata, their ways known. Isidor’s hand dropped onto her knee under the table, rubbing as Winter broke the kiss, Winter’s arm coming around behind her so she was resting against his shoulder.

The woman brought food quickly, distracted, the tavern filling with more people, getting louder, their corner dim and quiet. Soule watched her carefully, relaxing when she left. The food was good, hot, a fish stew with carrots and herbs. Isidor ate with one hand, the other still on her knee, reaching and refilling their glasses. The woman came and took their plates when they were done as Isidor began bunching her dress under his hand, raising the hem.

Winter looked at him, Isidor meeting his eyes. Winter looked appraisingly at the room, his breathing deepening, and then his eyes flickered agreement. Soule didn’t notice until it was over her knees, looking down and putting her hand on his, stopping it, looking at him.

“We’re staying here, anthata,” Winter said, turning his head toward her, his eyes roaming her breasts. “And we’ll touch you as we like.”

He reached out, touching her nipple over the thin cloth, rubbing it. It was no more than what the men in the room were doing with the other women, but Soule’s cheeks flushed, squirming on the bench a little, glancing nervously around the room. That squirm said she liked it. Isidor resumed pulling her dress up under the table, her pale thighs coming into view and then the red hair, the contrast so pretty in the light, both their eyes on her. Isidor leaned in.

“Spread your legs,” he said softly.

“Isidor—,” she protested, glancing around them again.

Isidor watched her breasts as her nipples hardened, a small smile on his mouth. Winter reached and explored her erect nipple and then pinched, Soule swallowing a yelp. Isidor leaned in again. Winter’s fingers went to the other, rubbing, the threat clear.

“I’m going to make you come in front of all these men,” Isidor said softly in her ear. “It’s up to you how much they know about it.”

They were watching, too. They hadn’t missed Winter playing with her nipples, men sending long glances their way. You couldn’t keep your eyes off Soule once you saw her. But when she was aroused she was like nothing else. Winter leaned back, watching as Isidor moved his hand under the table, now touching her inner thigh, nobody else in the room any wiser.

“Spread your legs, Anthata,” Isidor breathed as Winter begin to pinch her nipples sharply, Soule jumping with every one.

Soule gave another nervous glance and inched her legs open. Winter leaned back to watch. Isidor slipped his hand between her legs, nothing anyone could see. He began stroking the outside of her pussy lips gently. She was already swollen open, becoming slick. She liked this game, liked that he was doing this to her, liked that he was doing it to her here. Soule’s breath stuttered.

“You’re Siblin, are you?” a thick man approached their table to say, a flagon of ale in his hand.

Isidor grinned at the man, his hand still stroking her under the table, her cheeks getting very pink.

“We are. You’re Caskian?”

The man shrugged.

“I am now, though I was born in Alveria,” he said as Isidor kept stroking, pressing now. “My name’s Cleet.”

“I’m Isidor and this is Winter,” Isidor said, friendly, slipping one finger into her slit, already wet, running it up and down her soft pussy lightly, Soule making a small sound, her breathing fast. “And this is our anthata, Soule.”

The man turned his attention to Soule, obviously the reason he’d approached them.

“I thought maybe you were Alverian with that red hair,” the man said to her like an idiot.

Soule’s cheeks were still flushed.

“She doesn’t speak Caskian,” Winter said.

The man’s eyes dipped to her breasts, her nipples so hard they could probably be seen from across the room. When she met the man’s eyes, Isidor touched her clit. Soule spread her legs wider and made a husky sound, low, nothing the man could see, as Isidor began to run his fingers all over the swollen, slick nub, Winter able to see everything he did. Soule made another small helpless noise and took up her glass, drinking. She set it down as Isidor lifted her little clit, pinching a little. Her mouth parted, her eyelids getting heavy, her breathing very quick.

Cleet was gazing at her face, lost in looking at her—it happened to Isidor still, he understood that—the man’s own breathing deep. Cleet finally realized, blinking. He stood up, shifting his pants.

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Soule. Isidor, Winter,” the man said, again like an idiot.

“Have a nice night, Cleet,” Isidor smirked, tapping her clit, Soule drawing a fast breath in, squirming, her little pussy slippery and silky.

Isidor withdrew his hand as the man walked away, putting it back on her knee, Soule releasing her breath and closing her legs. She shivered hard. Winter reached, cupping her breast, pinching her nipple sharply again, Soule jumping, the men in the tavern watching without seeming to. Soule spread her legs again, nothing the men could see. Winter sat back again as another man wandered over to them.

This one was more talkative, introducing himself right away, sitting down with his ale. Isidor’s hand moving steadily up her inner thigh as the man chattered on. Soule’s breathing was quick just with the anticipation, her breasts trembling in the bodice, the man stealing glances.

“I’ve heard they’re going to open trade in the Southron parts inland,” the man nattered on, stealing another glance at Soule’s nipples as Isidor played with her little nub.

Soule squirmed, her cheeks so pink. She liked this. They certainly did.

“Are you warm, Soule? Would you like some cider?” their visitor said to her boldly.

Her breath stuttering as Isidor pinched her clit lightly in his fingers, tugging rhythmically.

“She doesn’t speak Caskian,” Winter said.

The man’s eyes were on her face and then dipped to her breasts. He looked up to find Isidor watching him, a small smile on his mouth. The man stood up quickly, nodding, saying all the polite things.

Soule released a shaky breath when he was gone, Isidor’s hand moving back to her knee. Winter reached and rubbed her nipple again, then the other, Soule giving a soft cry of pleasure. She was sensitive, very aroused, very wet, her legs still spread. Winter leaned back again, his arm behind her.

By now more than one man in the room knew their game, but nobody was objecting. The next to visit their table were two men, Caskian. Land traders, by the look of them. Soule saw them and her eyes went to Isidor, who smiled at her slowly. The men were well mannered, sitting, nodding to Soule. They struck up another meaningless conversation as Isidor once again touched her thigh, Soule jumping a little, the men pretending not to notice.

Isidor ran his fingers to her wet pussy, slipped two fingers in her tightness, curling them. Soule was panting lightly as Isidor withdrew and pressed in, her mouth parted, her thighs shivering over and over, her breasts trembling she was trying so hard to stay still. His thumb rubbed long strokes on her clit, slipping over the slick nub firmly.

“Have you been to Bashrac, Soule?” one of the men said, enjoying himself entirely, knowing exactly what was happening, watching her.

“She doesn’t speak Caskian,” Winter said.

She met the first man’s eyes, her pussy pulsing under Isidor’s fingers, and then met the other man’s eyes, her pussy pulsing again. The men saw it in her face. Her mouth looked swollen. Her cheeks were already flushed, but the flush extended to her chest, the tops of her breasts, the men following it with their eyes, a light pink you almost couldn’t believe against that skin, her breathing very fast.

Under the dress, her nipples would flush red. They rose and fell with her sharp breaths, hard as pebbles. The two men leaned forward as Soule’s thighs began to shake, both of them breathing heavily, watching her.

“Isidor—,” she said, hitching.

“Yes, my beauty?” Isidor said, turning to her.

He was still rubbing her clit, the erect, hard nub under his fingers, feeling her pulsing, her pussy flowering open as she neared her pleasure. He slipped two fingers into her, fucking her with them, his anthata’s pussy swollen and wet and so ready.

Her head fell back on Winter’s shoulder behind her, Winter turning his face into her hair, his eyes shifting down to Isidor’s fingers on her pussy as her breasts rose and she arched a little, biting her lip, her legs spreading more, whimpering with the beginning of her pleasure.

It was suddenly on her, no way for her to stop it. She went rigid, arching, her breasts rising, her legs spreading more, straining against his fingers, one of Winter’s hands slipping over her mouth, his other going to one nipple and then the other over her dress, squeezing, making her come harder. She cried out behind his hand, muffled, her eyes half open and seeing nothing, her pussy lively under Isidor’s fingers, around them.

“Good girl,” Winter said low.

Soule still came, sending wave after wave through him, that way she had, gone with pleasure, her whole body moving in Winter’s arms, under Isidor’s fingers, her breasts heaving as Winter pinched her nipples again, Soule breathing fast through her nose.

She finally slowed, Winter releasing her mouth. Her breathing was staggered, long stuttering breaths. The men stood up, the evidence of their enjoyment obvious. They both had small appreciative smiles.

“It was very nice to meet you, Soule,” one of the men said politely, both of them nodding to them, turning to leave, Soule looking down at the table.

“Are you ready to leave, little siren?” Winter said to her.

Soule nodded, her cheeks so pink they seemed glow. Isidor was ready to leave, very ready, his own pants tight, but his waistcoat would cover it. Winter stood, tossing coins on the table, gathering Soule up, Isidor behind them, leaving through the back door, keeping a wary eye out for any who seemed inclined to follow them.

They brought her to the park. They found a private spot under the trees, neither of them willing to wait anymore. Winter turned to her, his hands going to his pants.

“Get on your knees, Anthata,” Winter said, aroused, his cock hard when he lowered his pants.

Soule knelt in front of him, Isidor coming to Winter’s side and pulling out his own cock. They both brought their cocks close to her mouth. She turned her head, her tongue coming out, licking Winter all up his shaft and swirling around his head. She shifted just a little to the side and Isidor got her attentions next, both of them stroking themselves, watching her do this.

Soule would suck their cocks and enjoy it every time. It aroused her. Isidor had a theory that it fed her other hunger fast, since it aroused them so much when she did it, and also that she liked it because she had their pleasure in her mouth, which was another kind of hunger too similar not to put the two together in her mind.

But Isidor hadn’t ever forgotten about her teeth. He and Winter hadn’t talked about it. It made putting his cock in her mouth even more arousing. Isidor grunted, sharp pleasure, as Soule pushed his cock between her lips, slipping her mouth over the head of it repeatedly and then drawing him slowly in, her tongue lively. She drew him in deeper, her hand moving on him, Isidor rocking lightly, lost in the sensations. She drew him out of her mouth and turned to Winter, Isidor watching, touching himself.

Winter was impatient, Isidor saw, too aroused to go slow. He’d liked Isidor’s game in the tavern. Winter grabbed her hair and began to thrust himself into her throat, rocking in long strokes, grunting with every one. Isidor wanted her pussy, his eyes going there. Winter released her, sitting down in front of where she was kneeling, bracing himself on one arm behind him, his legs spread, his knees up. He reached, grabbing the back of her head and pulling her mouth to his cock, thrusting in again, his hips coming off the grass.

Soule had been kneeling and this put her ass in the air and that was all the invitation Isidor needed. He knelt behind her and slowly lifted her dress as she took Winter into her throat, his brother grunting, bunching it at her shoulders. He kneed her legs apart and looked at her pink glistening lips. Isidor put the head of his cock against her swollen heat, teasing both of them, pushing the head in and withdrawing.

He finally couldn’t wait anymore. He thrust into her tightness, slick because she liked Winter’s cock in her mouth. She jutted when he did it, meeting him. Isidor smacked her ass, her pussy pulsing around his cock, doing it again because it felt good.

Isidor leaned forward, fucking her hard.

“If I thought I could do it without them trying to touch you,” Isidor panted, “I would strip you and put you on the table and spread your little pussy open for them.”

Soule shuddered on him, Isidor’s thrusts getting urgent. Winter came first, holding her, letting her breathe in between, spending himself in her throat, crying out, followed by a long series of grunts. Isidor put his fingers back on her clit. He pinched her, her thighs shaking. Winter gave a final thrust, holding there, Soule swallowing around him. Winter slowly pulled out of her throat. Free, Soule cried out, splaying under Isidor, beginning to come, her back arching.

Isidor pulled his hand from her and collapsed on top of her, pushing her under him, his hand turning her head to the side on the ground, her legs spread wide, wedging himself against her round ass, fucking her savagely.

She was coming under him, trapped, crying out high, squirming, taking his cock deep. Isidor leaned down, grunting and panting, running his tongue all around the peak of her ear, Soule crying out sharply when he did, a helpless sound, her pussy throbbing and pulsing. Isidor thrust twice more and came, flexing, everything pleasure, his voice ringing through the park.