The instant they returned to their quarters, Ilya grabbed Dracen by the collar and pulled him into a passionate kiss. His tongue probed between Dracen's lips, and he tasted Dracen's vaguely spicy warmth, and he felt Dracen's scent intensify, the musk rolling off him in great waves. It made Ilya's head spin, and he'd have loved to press himself against Dracen's body and savor his energos' scent and strength forever.

Too bad Dracen had other ideas. His hands closed around Ilya's wrists and pulled them away. "Ouch," he said, wincing slightly. "Be careful, I think I bumped my leg."

"Fuck that." Ilya reached for Dracen's Thandemar sash and began tugging it loose.

"You don't need to, Ilya. The servant—"

"Fuck the servant. I'm your ministra."

"You know," a crooked smile spread across Dracen's face, "you're so cute when you submit."

"Shut up." At last Ilya got the sash off, and he busied himself unbuttoning his energos' formal jacket. He had to stand on his tiptoes to reach Dracen's collar.

Once he got Dracen down to his shirtsleeves, Dracen returned the favor, helping Ilya shrug off his outermost robe and undoing the complicated knot of his sash. Ilya breathed in relief when the heavy layers of silk fell away. Ten years he'd spent as a court ministra and he still hated the restricting costume. But it was just the smallest of sacrifices he'd made so he could be with Dracen.

Leaning on his walking stick, Dracen headed to the plush armchair in the center of the reception room. When he sank into the velvet, Ilya climbed into his lap and pressed his head against Dracen's chest, enjoying the feeling of his energos' hard muscles beneath his shirt. Dracen's scent enveloped him, comforting as a blanket.

For a while, Dracen didn't say anything, just gazed at the ceiling and stroked Ilya's hair. But Ilya knew his mind was on the Circle meeting.

"Your information network was right," Dracen said at length, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. "Lord Pavos and Lord Basquiale did attempt to connect you to the attempted assassination."

"When are my spies ever wrong?” Ilya idly traced the bony jut of Dracen's collarbone with his fingertip.

"I'm sorry I couldn't defend you better. You know that the others can be quite...set in their ways."

"Tch." Ilya shook his head. "Shut up, Dracen. I don't want to hear this. You did the best you could."

"I still feel bad," Dracen said softly. "It's my duty to protect you."

"Whatever. I don't need protection from the likes of them."

It had hurt, nonetheless, to hear those idiots, pampered fools who'd never so much as set foot outside the richest districts of Azed Court, carelessly heap blame upon him while he could not fight back. Not that it was anything new to him; after all, he made a convenient scapegoat. Ten years ago his and Dracen's bonding had created perhaps the greatest scandal of Queen Hyderia’s reign. Dracen's parents had all but disowned him. Who ever heard of such an insane match—the Thandemar heir with a gang boss from the Red District? Not even the Queen had believed Ilya to be a proper magus. They'd forced him through a humiliating battery of tests before finally relenting.

Besides, the bond spoke true. They could not deny it. Smirking in satisfaction, Ilya traced the mark beneath Dracen's left sleeve. He didn't need sight to know exactly where every curving line belonged or how they came together to form the intertwined tiger and raven.

In response, his own bond-mark prickled. Dracen hummed contentedly.

"So what do you think? I wish I'd been able to get my hands on the knife. Perhaps if you analyzed it..."

"I don't think it would do any good," Ilya said. He frowned, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, before adding, "Dracen, you weren't able to inspect the assassin's corpse before Pavos, right?"

"You already know I wasn't." Dracen shook his head. Some of his hair had come unslicked, spreading in pale lines across his forehead. "What are you trying to say?"

"Those kinds of knives sell for about a quarter-crown a piece in the Red District black market. Maybe that's where our would-be assassin got his. But at the same time, it'd be pretty damn easy to get a palace servant to go out and buy one..."

Dracen stiffened. "You think it was a setup?"

"It's got 'setup' written all over it," Ilya said dryly. "Maybe our assassin really was Ranshanese. Maybe he was working alone. Or maybe he was hired by someone within the palace, and that same someone planted a weapon in a shoddy attempt to connect him to me."

"Pavos wouldn't dare attack his ally Basquiale, though..."

"Unless it was meant to fail."

"How?" Dracen looked sharply at Ilya. "If it weren't for Lord Knight, you know the assassination would have succeeded.”

"Lord Knight." Ilya tapped Dracen's chest. "Yes, our dear Lord Kestrel Knight. What's his part in all of this?"

"Ilya, if you're saying you think he's in league with Pavos and Basquiale—"

"I'm saying that there are connections here, Dracen. I'm saying the whole picture looks pretty damn fishy. Lord Knight is an unbound energos. More than that, he's a bastard who trained as a soldier. How powerful can he be? Enough to throw a grown man out of a window?”

"You're right," Dracen said, "the picture doesn't quite add up."

Dracen’s praise made warmth bubble in Ilya’s chest. Encouraged, he went on. "Here are the facts. Lady Mia Shanneray died more than a month ago. She died after meeting with Lord Pavos, according to my spy. Now her mysterious bastard son has been called to court. And he's gotten involved in an attempted assassination on the prince's bonded."

"Do you think it's all connected? You could be reading into it too much..."

"I could be," Ilya conceded. "But I think we need to keep an eye on Lord Knight. It's crucial. He's absolutely at the center of all this.”

"Is that your judgment, Ilya?" Dracen lowered his head so face was only inches from Ilya's, his serious eyes filling Ilya's vision.

"Yes," Ilya said, reaching up and pressing his fingertips to Dracen's cheek. "It is."

Dracen breathed out. "Then I'll trust you. Put a spy on Lord Knight as quickly as possible."

His words sparked through Ilya's veins, and when Ilya breathed in all he tasted was Dracen's overpowering musk. An order, he'd been given an order.

"As you wish," he said, "Master."

He didn't call Dracen that often. But now seemed as proper an occasion as any.

Dracen smiled. Then he wrapped his fingers gently around Ilya's wrist, or rather, his jet-inlaid cuff. "We'll do this together, Ilya. We will survive. And we will ensure Senero's survival."

"If it's you, Master," Ilya said, letting his eyelids drift shut, "I have no doubts."