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A woman's head, bowed in a dark cloak, her black hair spilling around her face, shadowing it from sight. Three traitors to the throne, two dead guardsmen, and a single medevac ship, hyperdrive-equipped, lost in the mass of vessels departing the moon of Troyes-le-Mont after the battle that had nearly toppled the ruling House of Terre d'Ange.
It had been, Melisande mused as she swirled her wine in its glass, almost too easy to escape. Were she loyal to House Courcel, she would give Ysandre her counsel regarding the game of crowns, and perhaps prevent the next conspiracy against the throne. But she was not, and it was all too likely that Melisande would be the next conspirator. And next time, she would not leave loose threads like Phèdre nó Delaunay and that Cassiline of hers dangling. Next time, she would win.
But for now, Melisande Shahrizai was hunting bigger game.
Emperor Palpatine's court was a deadly battleground, where a simple misstep in the dance of power could cause one's execution; unlike Terre d'Ange or even Skaldia, there was no real rule of law here, nothing to protect a person if she earned the enmity of one more powerful than she was. The only appeal one had, if one's enemy was too powerful, was to the Emperor's whim, and Melisande was not a figure of importance such that he would lift a finger to aid her.
Yet.
Already there were rumors about her, the woman from the Deep Core whose beauty cut like a blade and whose knowing smile hid a bloody past. Melisande allowed these rumors to form and spread; here, she did not have to play the innocent to achieve standing among the courtiers. She only needed to show loyalty to the Emperor, and Melisande was perfectly content to do so for now. The whispers that followed her only added to her intrigue. Reputation was built from rumor. And here, it was better to be feared than loved.
Love in the greater Empire was truly the only downside, she thought absently, chatting with a clump of fellow attendees at an art show to which she'd been invited by the Moff of a wealthy sector, eager to get his hands underneath her skirts. It was not like Terre d'Ange, where one could bed who one wished, so long as they were willing. Here, sex was something to be coveted and had in secrecy, and Melisande had to step more carefully than she was used to in playing the game of love.
Still, sex was a tool and a powerful weapon, even here. She smiled at the Moff, Hupo Renilo, who caught her hand and gazed at her in adoration. Much like poor Baudoin. Well, luckily enough for Moff Renilo, he would be useful only in raising her profile among the courtiers, and not for the kind of deadly games she had played with Baudoin and Phèdre.
Renilo slipped an arm around her waist and she laughed richly, allowing the touch for a handful of seconds, pressing her thigh against his, before slipping out of his grasp.
"I'm off to get some more wine," she said lightly, and his lips pressed together in dismay.
"Surely you'd like some company?" he asked.
"No, no, you're in the middle of a conversation," she said, and brushed her fingers along his cheek; gently enough, but he knew the strength behind her touch, and his pupils dilated with desire. "I'll be but a moment."
Better to leave him gasping for her cruel caress before giving it to him, Melisande judged; his submission would be more enjoyable for her if he were desperate, and of course, whetting his appetite and keeping him eagerly within her grasp wouldn't hurt.
She dawdled on the way back, looking at the paintings lining the wall of the gallery. Caught up in the game of politics, no one had taken the time to notice them, and Melisande was glad of the opportunity to have a glance. They were abstract, splatters of paint across canvas in vivid, angry colors, shapes that seemed to have one form, then change in the blink of an eye to something else. The canvases pulsed with emotion, passion, desire. Melisande, like all D'Angelines, appreciated beauty. These were perhaps not traditional art, but they were exquisite nonetheless.
She sensed someone step behind her and come to a halt a prudent two meters away; a man, she judged by the tread, and a warrior or perhaps an intelligence agent, if his subsequent stillness, careful like a predator, was any indication.
Melisande was not prey. She made no indication of hearing his approach, and waited. Sure enough, the man stepped forward again and came to her side, still a reasonable distance away.
"Intriguing, are they not?" the man asked. Melisande slid her eyes to him and had to school her face, keeping the surprise from showing.
An alien, dressed in the uniform of the Imperial Navy. He was humanoid enough, but his skin was cerulean, his dark, slicked-back hair more blue than black, his eyes red and without pupil or iris, glowing like gemstones lit with fire. He bore high cheekbones and an arched nose, the angles of his face just inhuman enough to be disconcerting. His posture was straight, his body lithe and muscled underneath the uniform. He stood only a few inches taller than her, but he radiated a regal confidence that had only partly to do with his rank—a commodore, if Melisande was reading the rank plaque correctly, which she was. Confidence and charisma—he would have no problem enticing subordinates to follow his lead—and pride.
Melisande wanted to break him. The desire hit her like a wave and she luxuriated in it, the sudden, certain knowledge that she wanted this man in her bed, or perhaps kneeling on the floor at her feet, begging to serve her. The proud ones were so delicious when they were properly humbled.
When Melisande didn't respond immediately, his eyes moved from the painting to her face. They froze there briefly; Melisande met his gaze calmly and allowed an inviting smile to curl her lips. He noted it but did not respond in kind.
"Intriguing indeed," she said at last. She did not lace her voice with honey, like she had while pleading her innocence before the hastily-assembled court at Troyes-le-Mont. This man did not crave sweetness, she could tell already. "Passionately done, I think—these are not works made with an eye to displaying in a gallery."
"Indeed." The man clasped his hands behind his back and returned his eyes to the painting, examining it closely. "A Twi'lek artist, I believe."
"Are you familiar with their work?" Melisande could not recall seeing any information about the artist, who had chosen to remain a mystery.
The man glanced at her again, this time with a near-smile on his lips.
"No," he said. "But one can tell that this originated on Ryloth from the materials used. This shade of orange, for example, is created from the shells of the desert crabs that inhabit that world, and the texture of the paint is consistent with ancient Twi'lek formulas."
"Anyone may use a formula," Melisande observed. "And the shells of Rylothian crabs can be found fairly easily; the crabs themselves are quite a delicacy among many reptilian species."
"Indeed," the man replied. His head tilted thoughtfully as he looked at the painting. "But this artist deliberately used such materials to harken back to her home planet." A brief pause. "Yes, the artist is a woman. Female Twi'leks see more of the electromagnetic spectrum than males—you will notice the other colors used. I believe the human visual range is not too limited to view it."
"And what do you think her motivations are?" Melisande asked, stepping closer, then closer. She was intrigued.
Their arms brushed. She felt him tense, then relax.
"Anger," he said simply. "She resents the Imperial occupation of Ryloth, I believe. The grey triangles are clearly evocative of Star Destroyers."
"Too obvious," Melisande disagreed. The man arched an eyebrow at her; Melisande suspected he was not often contradicted. "The streaks of grey represent her mood—perhaps a depressive episode, intermixed with the anger."
"And the shape?" He sounded interested, his body now turned slightly toward her.
"Not Star Destroyers," she said. "Arrowheads, however abstract. They speak of violence—perhaps against Ryloth, as you said, or against the artist herself."
"An interesting interpretation," he said thoughtfully. "And a valid one. I shall have to find out who the artist is to see which of us is correct."
"Please do," Melisande said. Their faces were close; she could smell him, a spicy scent, perhaps a cologne or hair product. She gave him another slow smile, and this time, he reacted. A slight inhalation, but still noticeable to her. "I'm Melisande Shahrizai."
"Commodore Thrawn," he said. His fascinating eyes had narrowed slightly; he recognized her name. Those rumors at work.
Over his shoulder, she could see Moff Renilo making his way through the crowd toward her, looking perturbed. She'd left him alone too long.
"I'm afraid I must go," she said, brushing his arm with her fingertips. His eyes flickered but he did not otherwise react; both disappointing and exhilarating, for she very much wanted to make him flinch, and was pleased something so minor would not make him do it. "I look forward to your communication regarding the artist, Commodore."
He inclined his head. "My lady."
That night, she made Renilo weep with combined pain and pleasure, wielding her whip as effortlessly as dear Isidore wielded his sword. The game was enjoyable enough—Melisande certainly got her pleasure, as Renilo, face teary and red, paid homage to her—but Melisande's mind was elsewhere.
Melisande's mind was on Commodore Thrawn.
She had heard the name before, though she had not associated it with the alien officer of whom she'd also heard rumors. Thrawn was something of a mystery, his origins unknown, his patron the Emperor himself. He had risen through the ranks more quickly than a person ordinarily would have, Melisande discovered a few days later, having pulled on the strings of her connections to gain more information on him; even Humanocentrists begrudgingly admitted he was a competent officer.
More than competent, Melisande thought as she pored through the data her single contact in the Navy had compiled for her. She was no military leader, but she could recognize strategic genius when she saw it.
Commodore Thrawn bore watching. She did need more allies in the Navy, after all.
And it would be so very delightful to break him to bridle, too.
Lady Melisande, the message began,
I have done some research into the backstory of the artist at the Phech-ro Gallery, and you were correct in your assessment. Her name is Yail Nukolo, and she has told me her art is inspired by living as an alien in the Empire, and the trauma she has experienced in the process. She did not intend the grey triangles to be Star Destroyers. An interesting person; she has lived on Coruscant for decades, yet longs for Ryloth. It appears she interfered in a clan war using her Imperial Navy contacts and was then banished. An irrational reaction, when Naval forces could have quelled the violence easily, but Twi'leks are known to be stubborn.
She cited the Bothan artist Ilysk Ty'rrel and the Human poet Kausine Rayvan as inspiration. I have attached holos of Ty'rrel's artwork for your perusal, should you be interested. He is an impressionist and quite talented, if rather typical of Bothans. Rayvan's poetry may also be relevant; it is primarily love poetry, and I am aware of the D'Angeline reputation. If it is true, perhaps it will interest you.
Commodore Thrawn
Commodore,
I thank you for the response. It is of no surprise to me that Yail Nukolo misses Ryloth; we exiles all miss our homeworlds, do we not?
Ty'rrel's artwork did not especially impress me. It lacks passion, and we D'Angelines do enjoy our passions—you are quite correct about our reputation. Rayvan's poetry, on the other hand, was exquisite. Few poets off-Terre d'Ange can capture that same mixture of intellectual passion and eroticism. If you enjoyed that, there are several D'Angeline poets I can recommend to you—de Lumière, for one, should you be interested in the mingling of love and science, Leucenaux's Eluine Cycle and related marginalia for D'Angeline history, which of course concerns itself with love, and a Caerdicci poet as well: Felice Dolophilus, who writes with some eloquence of his love for his Domina and the dance of dominance and submission.
Please do let me know what you think.
Warmly,
Melisande Shahrizai
Lady Melisande,
You have interesting taste in poets. Leucenaux was educational, and de Lumière instructive. Between that and my study of D'Angeline artists, I have a better grasp of the D'Angeline people. I had thought your preoccupation with sex and romance was a weakness, but I see from your literature that your people perceive it to be a strength. Can you explain this for me?
Commodore Thrawn
Commodore,
Sex and romance are merely human manifestations of that which D'Angelines hold to be sacred: love. But love can take many forms; not only love of a person, but love of the land itself, love of a symbol, love of the gods. It is from love that D'Angeline monarchs draw their strength, and for that love that D'Angeline warriors guard our borders. So they say, though those stories have not been translated into Basic.
Tell me, Commodore, what do you love?
I note you did not mention Dolophilus. How did you enjoy his work?
With interest,
Melisande Shahrizai
Lady Melisande,
Many would say that question is inappropriate, given the length of our acquaintance. I will answer it if you answer this: why did you betray your queen?
Dolophilus was interesting. I wonder what you were trying to say with the recommendation.
Commodore Thrawn
Dear Commodore,
I see you have done your research on me. You match the inappropriateness of my question with one of yours. That said, I will grant you an answer: I did it for love. Of what, you might ask? I leave that to you to decide.
I am certain a man of your intelligence understood the message I sent by recommending Dolophilus. Perhaps next time you are within holovid transmission range, we can discuss it at length.
Sincerely,
Melisande Shahrizai
Lady Melisande,
Suggesting the holovid conversation was wise. I found it most edifying. I should be back in range within a standard month.
I have thought about what it is you love, and my conclusion is that you are a dangerous woman to know. My answer to you, since you so politely answered my question: I fight for what I love. You may be the judge of what that is.
Attached please find the Caamasi artwork we discussed. I will be curious to hear your thoughts on it.
Commodore Thrawn
Thrawn,
Tell me, was it the conversation you found edifying, or the part where I ordered you to take off your clothes?
You don't need to answer; I know. Write down your fantasies every time you touch yourself and send them to me until we speak again. You have my word I will not share it.
Your conclusion is not incorrect, yet I note that you continue to correspond with me. Having done my own research on you, I daresay you are not the safest man to know either. Or do you pretend that the razing of Oben never happened?
The holos of the Rainbow of Sunshine Festival are lovely; I did not expect such ferocity and passion from such a peaceful species. It does make one wonder about the character of the Caamasi—perhaps there is a spark of darkness in the heart of their people to allow for such a glimpse of a being's full emotional spectrum. One does mourn the loss of Caamas.
With affection,
Melisande Shahrizai
Lady Melisande,
This has been a difficult message to compose. I find that I resent your order and your presumption, and yet I relish it at the same time.
You should know that the Empire is not Terre d'Ange. If you do share this message, know that it will reflect as poorly on you as it does on me.
I fantasize about you. I do not often take the time to pleasure myself, but when I do, you play the starring role. Initially, they were simple thoughts, you in my bed, you shaking in pleasure astride me with your hand around my throat. As I learned more about your people and the scions of Kushiel, my eyes were opened to sharper desires: dreams of ropes and chains, of bruises and weals, of flechettes, but more specifically, of your voice murmuring cruel things into my ear and your hands stroking me to the apex of pleasure as you make of me a slave.
I remember the scent of you. Amber and honey, with a sharp note I couldn't identify. Your gloves were real leather. I imagine their touch on my skin regularly. I want to put my mouth on your throat, on your thighs. I want to feel your hand clenched in my hair as you direct me where I need to go, entirely under your command.
Is that enough, my lady?
Thrawn
My dear Thrawn,
You must not know me as well as you should if you think that is enough. What could be enough with a man such as you besides your complete and utter surrender?
But it was delicious. You say you do not pleasure yourself often; well, I do, and most recently it was to thoughts stirred by your message. I licked my own wetness from my fingers and wondered how you would like the taste.
I am right, I think, when I say that you have never so much as toyed with the sharper pleasures in life? Your desires are inchoate, incoherent; I can help you refine them. You speak of the implements of pain and bondage, but that is not where your primary interest lies. Those are toys used to enhance the experience, and you recognize them as such. You know the true lure of the game: power.
I see you, Thrawn. You walk the delicate line one must when one both desires power and desperately wants to give it up. You are a commodore of the Imperial Navy, a promising officer with a meteoric career, and yet you seek sweet torment and the luxury of submission in my arms. I can give that to you.
All I require is your obedience and your desire to serve. Will you give me that?
Melisande Shahrizai
P.S. No comments on the darkness in the Caamasi?
Lady Melisande,
You have my obedience, and you more than have my desire. My "complete and utter surrender," as you say, is another story. If you seek to break me, I wish you the joy of it. You won't succeed.
I apologize for neglecting the Caamasi. I was distracted. Perhaps we can discuss it in our next holovid call.
For when we next meet in person: my signale is Copero.
Yours,
Thrawn
Thrawn did not trust Rufaan Tigellinus.
The man behaved well enough, even appearing friendly to Thrawn, despite his reputation as a vowed Humanocentrist; he had told Thrawn that his skills were such to overturn even Tigellinus' entrenched bigotry.
I consider you a friend, he said once, his hand on Thrawn's shoulder. I hope you don't take what I may have said in the past too personally.
Of course not, Thrawn had responded, and he did not slap Tigellinus' hand away, as he was tempted to do.
A friend. Thrawn knew better. Humans rarely could tell where he was looking, so he never missed the disgust that flitted across Tigellinus' face when he thought Thrawn could not see. His lips would press together and downturn; his body would flinch away from Thrawn when Thrawn entered the room. He was planning some great humiliation, Thrawn knew, something significant enough to merit the time he'd put into this game.
Fortunately, this would play directly into Thrawn's hands. He had a plan, and Tigellinus would be the perfect dupe to execute it.
But tonight, he tired of Tigellinus' practiced patter and his charm. He had come to this party for one reason, and one alone.
"Oh, but I have someone for you to meet," Tigellinus said, abandoning his previous topic—the current pirate activity on the Outer Rim, which both he and Thrawn, a newly-minted admiral, were now in charge of handling. "Melisande, dear!"
Dear. He probably thought he had her wrapped around his finger. Thrawn could almost pity the man. Melisande didn't care for him, though she claimed he had his uses. In this, she and Thrawn were in agreement.
Thrawn schooled his face as the crowd parted for Melisande, gliding toward them with a dancer's grace. She wore red tonight, bright as blood with a low-cut bodice and voluminous skirts, black gloves reaching to her elbows. He did not much care about her dress, though; he was focused on her face, inquisitive and keen as a blade, her twilight eyes focused and intent.
She met his eyes as she joined them, the faintest dimple of a smile appearing then receding. Their correspondence had continued for the past two years, though they had never been in the same room again—until now. Melisande ran in different circles than he did; Thrawn had come late to the game of politics, and he was not especially talented with the courtiers' dance she plied with such skill. There was time for that yet.
He watched the way she looked at Tigellinus, a cool look surfacing in her eyes before it was replaced by her usual sparkle. Thrawn wondered how she would dispose of him when he was of no more use, and if she would allow Thrawn to assist.
Melisande was much more vivid in person, without the flickering light of the Holonet dimming her beauty; the aura of command surrounding her had Moffs and admirals turning their heads.
It gave Thrawn with thoughts inappropriate for this venue. He forced the hunger from his expression and kept it smooth and placidly interested.
"This is Thrawn," Tigellinus said, waving a casual hand in Thrawn's direction. The omission of his rank was pointed; Thrawn's shoulders tightened, then relaxed. "Recently promoted to admiral. He likes art. So does she," he added to Thrawn.
"Indeed?" Thrawn said, straight-faced. She gave no sign of recognizing him; what was she getting out of this charade? "A pleasure to meet you. And your name?"
Amusement in her eyes, quirking the corners of her mouth. Tigellinus looked at her with a measure of pride, and Thrawn understood; better to stroke his ego and let him think he'd introduced Melisande to this curiosity, this alien officer, entertaining her in the process.
"Melisande Shahrizai," she said, and extended a hand. He took it and bowed in the D'Angeline manner; she had sent him protocol manuals for this very situation. He brushed his lips across her cool knuckles, wondering if his touch was feverish from her perspective, wondering if she too was thinking of him stripped naked, his body ready and waiting for her exploration.
"My lady," he said, and straightened. Tigellinus' eyebrows arched.
"Such manners, Thrawn," he drawled. "I'm impressed."
On cue, his comlink chirped. He pulled it from his belt and turned away. Melisande raised an eyebrow in question at Thrawn, who inclined his head in a small gesture of acknowledgement.
"Melisande," Tigellinus said, rejoining them, "I have Navy business to attend to. I'm sure you'll be well entertained with Admiral Thrawn."
The slightest edge of an insult to his rank. Thrawn was used to it.
"I'm sure," Melisande agreed. "Do let me know if you'll be back tonight."
"Of course." Tigellinus squeezed her hand and departed. They watched him go in silence for a moment.
"He is pushing for a promotion," Thrawn said quietly as Tigellinus strode away. "The Emperor likes him."
"He is ambitious to a fault," Melisande agreed. "Were he to become Grand Admiral, he would be an even more useful contact. I wish him luck. Congratulations on your promotion, Admiral."
"Thank you." He felt the hint of a smile around his lips. "I regret I was not able to inform you before he did, but the ceremony was only today."
"I forgive you." She cocked her head at him. "What Navy business does Admiral Tigellinus have?"
"I believe he will find himself busy for the rest of the evening," Thrawn said evenly, meeting her gaze. She was one of a very few who did not flinch from the intensity of his eyes. Thrawn found that refreshing.
Her lips curved in a smile, and she laid a hand on his forearm, a light and possessive touch. Eyes swung around to peer at them, at Lady Shahrizai and the alien admiral.
This, Thrawn knew, was a knife's edge; for her, appearing too friendly with Thrawn would be a misstep. Gossip would start, and even among those who did not support Humanocentrism, interspecies relationships were verboten. She was not yet so powerful that she could afford such a thing.
Thrawn, on the other hand, would be even more disliked, perhaps hated, for seducing a human woman—even one who cut such a scandalous figure.
"Let them talk," she said in a low voice, her eyes gleaming as she traced his thoughts. "It will only enhance our reputations, so long as we part at the end of the night."
"Perhaps," Thrawn murmured in return. He trusted her judgment in these matters more than his. Would she hesitate to snub him, if it would help her advancement in the Imperial Court? Thrawn thought not. He was not so deluded as to think she loved him.
Melisande loved only one thing, and that was the game.
Convenient for Thrawn that he did not love her, either.
"You knew I would be here tonight, didn't you?" she asked, still quiet, but without the light, casual note of before. She had steel in her voice now. Thrawn's attention sharpened.
"I did," he acknowledged with a slight smile. "That is why Admiral Tigellinus found himself with so much datawork tonight of all nights."
"Clever of you." She tightened her grip on his arm; he licked his lips and was briefly annoyed with himself for giving so much away. "Exactly what I would expect from a mind like yours, Thrawn."
"Flattery," he said dismissively. The bolt struck home, though. Thrawn had few friends at Court, and rarely heard compliments without barbs. He recognized this desire for kind words in himself, this weakness, and saw Melisande's eyes alight as she recognized it too. A predator seeing an advantage. His pulse increased.
"I'm going to step away now," she said quietly, but with the tone of assured command he enjoyed so much, as if she had no need to demand his obedience; she expected it unquestioning. "You will meet me at 2200 at the rendezvous point. I assume you have prepared one?"
"The Alisandre," he said in an equally low voice. "Room 600."
"Then I will see you there." She squeezed his arm once, then let it go. "Good night, Thrawn."
"My lady." He offered her a bow, as perfect as any D'Angeline courtier, and stepped away.
Let Melisande spend her time at this party with her spies. Thrawn went to the Alisandre Hotel.
Room 600 was the honeymoon suite, a deliberate choice on Thrawn's part. He had debated booking a regular room, but Melisande enjoyed opulence, like most D'Angeline nobles. So it was this suite instead: palatial, nearly D'Angeline in its extravagance. Gold-flecked wallpaper and elaborate wall hangings depicting scenes out of romantic ballads; a massive four-posted bed with crisp white sheets and a luxurious comforter in the same color. Gaudy, to Thrawn's eye. But it would do.
He tested the strength of the wooden posts; they barely creaked even when he applied real force. They would be strong enough to hold him.
He closed his eyes briefly and imagined it, tied up and writhing on the bed as Melisande ran one finger down his bare chest. She was interested in his anatomy, quite different from a humans', and would tie him spread-eagle to properly examine his tul and his prehensile cock.
(Melisande had demanded such of him once, ordering him to kneel with his back to the camera and his buttocks spread, showing off the dripping opening of his tul, his cock protruding from it and squirming. She had asked him questions about Chiss reproduction in a cool voice, then told him to penetrate his tul in a voice that brooked no argument. Thrawn would not have argued.
She had continued to question him, but Thrawn had become rather distracted, and eventually, so had Melisande.)
Thrawn continued his exploration of the suite. In the refresher was a tub large enough for four, heated, with pink flower petals scattered across its surface. He crouched and smelled the aroma of the scented oils in the bathwater. Whoever had blended this perfume knew what they were doing; it brought sex to the mind.
There was an elegant social chamber, with chilled Corellian sparkling wine resting on the table. A good vintage, too. This was not a cheap excursion, even on an admiral's salary. But they would have few enough opportunities to meet in person. Thrawn had deemed the expense worthwhile.
Thrawn had circled the suite and was about to make for the social chamber again when a box on the bedside table caught his eye. It did not match the color scheme of the suite, made of black satin with a gold latch.
Thrawn approached it cautiously, aware of the dangers unidentified parcels could hold. He peered at it and saw the sigil embossed on the gold latch: three interlocking skeleton keys. The keys to hell, in D'Angeline myth. The mark of House Shahrizai.
This was Melisande's.
He laid his index finger on the fingerprint scanner, out of curiosity, and to his mild surprise, it unlatched. What message was Melisande trying to send?
Thrawn eased the box open.
Inside were the toys Melisande had spoken of, items from the fantasies he'd told her in a gasping voice over Holonet calls. A blindfold, two small earplugs, cuffs of varying sizes and their chains—not stun cuffs, he thought, merely simple binders—and two aides d'amour—so the D'Angelines called them. One, slim and soft, was clearly meant for his tul.
He was not so naive as to miss where the second aide d'amour would go. Stroking its smooth metal curve, fingering the flared base, he shivered slightly. He was not inexperienced sexually, but Melisande had D'Angeline creativity and a cruel streak guiding her. He wondered what her plans were, knew he could not guess exactly.
Also inside the box was a slim container, locked with a fingerprint scanner. When he tried to open this one, it flashed red at him and stayed persistently shut.
Thrawn heard the hum of the palm scanner at the entrance, and the click of the door unlocking. He turned to face the doorway; to face Melisande, who had stepped across the threshold, allowing the door to swing shut behind her, but no futher.
"Curious?" she said with a faint smile, nodding to the box. "I thought you'd be."
"What is this?" he asked, gesturing to the container.
"Later, my dear." The dimples again. Thrawn replaced the container, considering its size and shape, still uncertain of its contents. He wondered if she called Rufaan Tigellinus dear, too. Probably. He would expect it.
He wondered if she looked at Tigellinus like she wanted to cannibalize him, and thought probably not.
"Thrawn."
She said his name with the expectation of absolute obedience, more like how she would address a favored pet than how he would speak to a subordinate. Thrawn bristled at that, but between his legs, his cock began to swell.
"Come here," she said, and Thrawn went.
He considered going to his knees, but sensed she did not want that of him, not yet. So he came close until she extended a hand and halted him, her palm pressed to his chest, less than half a meter away. She had taken off the gloves; a pity. Thrawn stood still as she dragged a finger up his throat, tilting his head back, then explored his face with her hands, stroking his cheekbones, running a thumb along the curve of his eye socket. She smiled and leaned in close.
"So proud," she crooned. "So ready to strike."
Her nail dug into the skin near the corner of his eye. He tensed slightly.
"Are you going to give the signale so quickly?" she asked, a faint mocking tone in her voice.
"No," Thrawn responded evenly. He was trusting her with much; she was close enough, and he was relaxed enough, to hurt him badly before he could fight back. "My lady."
"Copero." She caressed the word with her mouth, speaking it with a thick accent, a curious mingling of Basic and D'Angeline. Not a proper Cheunh pronunciation. "Do you know, I have sought the meaning of that word since you wrote it down, and I still haven't discovered it?"
Thrawn smiled slightly, nudging that nail closer to his eye.
"You may continue looking," he said. "You won't find it."
Her eyebrows arched and without warning, she drew her hand back and slapped him, snapping his head back. It stung more than he had expected. It had been some time since he'd been hit outside the dojo.
Melisande hummed thoughtfully and gripped him by the jaw, turning him back to her. Her eyes searched his face. What she sought, he couldn't say. Melisande was always opaque to him, which was likely why she intrigued him so. He could not say what mechanisms were turning behind her eyes or why.
All he could do was lay his own plans and hope hers aligned.
"Take off your clothes," she said in a velvet voice, her hand slipping down to encircle his throat, squeezing, and Thrawn shuddered.
His hands rose to his collar, brushing against her fingers. She didn't release his throat, but rubbed her thumb against the exposed skin of his clavicle as he slipped the tunic off.
"Step back," she said, and pushed him until her arm was completely outstretched, that hand still choking him lightly. Thrawn drew in shallow breaths as she increased the strength of her grip, her eyes watching his face with an amused gleam. His cock was now squirming in his trousers, his tul dripping, but she paid no attention to that. Soon it would become painful to go without stimulation, his biology begging him to mate. She would like that.
Melisande touched his chest with her other hand, dragging two nails across his sternum hard enough to leave welts. She examined them, violet against blue.
Then her hand drifted, stroking his chest with a deceptively gentle touch. She circled his nipple, where he had told her he was quite sensitive, until it hardened into a peak, then flicked it and pinched it hard, twisting. Thrawn exhaled sharply, tossing his head back. Melisande smiled, tugged him closer, leaned in as if to kiss him.
She didn't. Her mouth close to his, she whispered, "Continue."
"I will have to bend over to take off my boots," he told her, and she let go, only to bury her hand in his hair and push him down to his knees, twisting her handful of hair cruelly. Thrawn hissed at the brief shock of pain, but not out of displeasure; far from it.
He had thought many times about being on his knees in front of Melisande, but had never imagined what happened next: she raised her leg and put one slippered foot on his neck, shoving him flush against the floor with an ungentle touch. His cheek pressed against the soft carpet and he closed his eyes, luxuriating in this, in giving up for once, allowing another person to take command, even if it were in just one small aspect of his life—the only one in which he was willing to loosen his tight grip on his self-control.
"Very good, Thrawn," Melisande said softly from above him. "I do so love to see you like this. Already so eager to please. How pliant do you think you'll be by the end of the night?" The slipper eased from his neck. "Now take off your boots."
Thrawn took off his boots.
He unbuttoned his uniform trousers and eased them off as well, and knelt naked before Melisande. He could, he knew, place his hands on the back of his neck and avert his eyes, as was expected of the submissive courtesans of Terre d'Ange, but he did not. Instead, he rested his palms on his thighs and sat back, meeting Melisande's gaze steadily.
A smile flickered around her lips, and she slipped a finger under his chin, tilting his head up to bare the column of his throat. Then a finger in his mouth, two fingers, pressing further in until he gagged on them.
"Suck," Melisande commanded, and Thrawn obeyed. She made a pleased humming noise.
"I would like to see you with a man," she said. "Perhaps another one of my pets. Would you like another man's cock shoved down your throat, Thrawn?"
The mental image was pleasing indeed: Thrawn on his knees, just like this, perhaps with his hands bound behind his back so he couldn't push the other man away, the man's cock filling Thrawn's mouth and choking him as he thrust hard into Thrawn's willing throat, guided, of course, by Melisande, giving orders in her smooth and amused voice—
Thrawn shuddered as she withdrew her hand, saliva dripping from her fingers.
"Well?" she asked, and he realized her question was not rhetorical.
"It will never happen," he told her, after swallowing a few times. "I will not allow anyone else to see me so intimately."
"But you like the thought." Dimples.
"Yes," Thrawn admitted. "I like the thought."
"Does it make you ache?"
Thrawn glanced down involuntarily. His cock was swollen thick and purple, undulating slightly, slick with the fluids of his tul. It certainly did ache; he could feel his mind becoming hazy with desire, his higher faculties abandoning him, though whether that was a byproduct of the hormonal mixture swirling in his brain or Melisande's presence, he did not know. Perhaps both.
"I thought so," she said softly, and then, "Get on the bed. No, not on your feet," she added as he made to stand.
"Do you wish me to crawl?" The thought equally repulsed and aroused him. Admiral Thrawn, crawling for a woman without rank, without any authority over him—crawling simply because his basest desires begged him to, crawling because inside him was something that delighted in abasement. The thought made him squirm with a dubious, embarrassed pleasure.
"Already, you foresee my wishes," she said. "You would be a remarkable slave."
His breath hitched. His cock twitched. She saw, her lips curving into a cruel smile.
"I gave you an order," she reminded him, a slight edge to her voice this time, and Thrawn shuddered.
He made his way to the bed on his hands and knees, aware of Melisande's gaze on him, burning with humiliation.
Playing these games with Melisande in person was far different from panting his fantasies to her over the Holonet. There, although he knew objectively there was a woman on the other end of the transmission giving him orders, it was less real—and there, too, Melisande had always focused on his desires, on what he wanted to hear.
He did not think it would be so tonight. Tonight, she would put what she had learned about him to the test, and take her own pleasure from him in the process.
"On your knees," Melisande said, stepping to the side of the bed, close enough to lay a possessive hand on his back as he obeyed. She had brought the satin box, tucked under her arm and braced against her hip, and she set it on the bedside table.
"What will you do to me first?" he asked, and she smiled.
"I will give you some temporary relief," she said, running a finger along his flank. Thrawn shivered under her touch. "And then I will make you beg for more."
Thrawn opened his mouth to respond, though his mind was blank of answers, and Melisande put her hand between his legs and slipped one finger into his tul.
She immediately found the thick stalk of his cock where it was enveloped by his tul, and rubbed the pad of her finger against it. The sensation shot through Thrawn like lightning, and his hips jerked and he muffled a yelp in the pillow.
"No, no," Melisande said sternly, and yanked his head up by his hair. Thrawn hissed and fought against it, but her grip was unrelenting. "I want to hear everything that comes out of your mouth."
Two fingers, then three, stretching his tul as she rubbed against his cock where he had only rarely been touched before—the sensation was usually too intense. Melisande didn't care; or rather, she enjoyed it, the way Thrawn went from hissing to whimpering as those white-hot bolts of pleasure made his muscles seize, her fist in his hair an unsubtle reminder of just who was in control here.
He could not fully relax, he knew; Melisande could be trusted with his body, but not his mind. But it was tempting. It would be sweet to submit fully to her, if only for a little while.
Then she moved her fingers, coated in the fluids of his tul, to his rear entrance.
"Usually I bring oils for this," she said thoughtfully. "But you provide your own lubrication. How convenient for me."
Her finger, probing him. Thrawn's body tensed; she put a hand on his back and circled his hole until he shivered at the strange pleasure and relaxed, then slid her finger up to the first knuckle in him. Then deeper. Thrawn bit the pillow to keep from whining, remembered she wanted to hear him, and raised his head again.
"In humans," Melisande murmured, "there is a spot that makes men moan in a most pleasing manner. Does your species have such a thing?"
"I do not know," Thrawn gasped, and he cried out as Melisande moved her finger in such a way as to brush against a place inside him that made his toes curl.
"Ah, there it is," Melisande said, amused, and did it again. Thrawn hissed and clawed at the sheets. "Are you ready for more?"
Thrawn nodded an affirmative, his cheek pressed against the pillow, his eyes wide and unseeing as Melisande pressed the plug inside him. It was so thick he wasn't sure he could take it, and it sent flashes of pleasure-pain down his spine as it inched its way inside.
"Melisande—" he panted, unsure of how he planned to complete the sentence, only knowing that he had to say her name.
"Yes, Admiral?" she said, and the cruel note in her voice as she said his new rank made him twist on the bed and moan.
The plug slipped in, a heavy weight inside him, pressing against that point of pleasure and taunting him with each tiny twitch.
"On your back," Melisande now said, and Thrawn did his best to obey with grace. He did not succeed, as the pressure of the plug was accentuated by his new position, his cock arching and twisting, vainly looking for stimulation. He settled on his back, biting back moans and curses.
"Perfect," Melisande said, and went about the fairly prosaic actions of cuffing him to the bedposts.
Rather, she cuffed him arms there. His legs were pulled up against his chest, the largest cuffs in the box tight around his thighs and also chained to the posts.
Like this, he was completely on display for her, both the shining plug and his tul and cock bare. He was also completely vulnerable, completely helpless against the durasteel cuffs. Melisande could do anything she wanted to him and he could only struggle.
He had his signale, of course, but what could force him to use it? He couldn't think of anything, his mind blank with lust.
"Watch me, Thrawn," Melisande said. He locked eyes with her.
She began to disrobe, shrugging out of her bodice gracefully, letting her full skirts pool on the floor. Beneath it, she wore only a corset, as was the D'Angeline style, and she unlaced it with steady hands, a smile on her face widening as she took in his expression.
She had the body of a woman who cared about her physique, strong but curvaceous. Her skin was pale, except for the red marks where the corset had bound her, but that supposed flaw only enhanced her beauty, proof that she was indeed a creature of flesh and blood. Her black hair tumbled around her shoulders; her nipples were pink, her breasts full, and she caressed them as he watched, unable to touch her, mouth watering with the desire to do so.
"You want to taste me," she said, and he nodded. "Soon enough."
"I will hold you to that promise," he said, the first coherent sentence he had said for a long time.
And, he suspected, as she knelt on the bed, magnificently naked and holding the other aide d'amour in her hand, the last for another while.
This one slid inside his tul, snug against the base of his cock, and the stimulation was already almost too much when she flicked on the vibration function.
Thrawn thrashed and cried out, hips arching, thighs flexing, entirely unable to either stop her or make her keep going. He was at her mercy, he thought, and the words echoed through his head, at her mercy, at Melisande's mercy.
His cock squirmed. Melisande smiled and at last she touched it, running her finger up its dripping length as it tangled around her hand and wrist. Her eyebrows rose.
"It's strong," she said with interest. Then, "It would feel good inside me, I think."
Thrawn bit back a plea. He would not beg until she forced him to.
"But not today," Melisande concluded, and began to stroke and squeeze his cock.
The hum of the vibration, the weight of the plug inside him, Melisande's deceptively gentle hands delivering stimulation but not enough—Thrawn writhed on the bed, the cuffs restraining him solidly, his brain overridden by pure sensation.
"Melisande!" he cried out, and she crooned, "Ask nicely."
"Please—"
"No." And she took her hand away. Thrawn shook and whispered the plea again. Melisande's smile grew.
"You'll have to do better than that, Thrawn," she said, and adjusted her position. She moved to his head and straddled it, her knees nudging his arms out of the way until the bonds pulled painfully at his wrists. "Show me how much you want it."
She was hot and slick with desire, proof that she had not been as unmoved as she pretended, and he hungered for it. He buried his face in her, licking and sucking; even in his haze of lust, he had not forgotten how to please a woman, and he went about it single-mindedly, finding the bud of nerves and caressing it with his tongue. She ground against him with a soft sigh, the first noise he had urged from her, her fluids covering his face, dripping into his mouth. The toys tormented him; he was torn between licking at her and moaning against her sex, unable to control himself.
Melisande climaxed in silence; he felt her thighs clamp around his head and the flutter of her muscles, and was viciously pleased that he was capable of making her come, even as distracted as he was.
She leaned away but did not lift her sex from his face, choosing something from the box. He heard the hum of a fingerprint scanner, and distantly made the connection between that and the small box he had seen earlier.
Then he felt it: the flat edge of a blade, pressed against his chest.
Flechettes.
He twitched away from it instinctively, jostling the toys inside him, making him cry out and buck his hips.
"Do you wish to give the signale?" she whispered, and Thrawn said, "Melisande, cut me—"
A soft laugh.
"My dear," she said, "you astonish me at times. What would it take to break you, I wonder?"
Not this, he thought, and then the blade, whisper-thin, edged into his skin. The pain flared a second later, a line of red-hot heat that bore no relationship to pleasure—yet that was how his brain processed it, as more stimulation, simply more—
"How fascinating," she said, interest in her voice. "You bleed violet."
Then Melisande rode his face again, relentlessly, but her hand was steady as she traced another thin line down his chest. Drops of blood rolled down his skin; he could imagine them soaking into the sheets and staining them vivid purple.
Two more cuts, a pair per pectoral, and then he heard the clink of the flechette against the bedside table. Her fingers drifted over the cuts and he hissed.
Then she took his cock in hand and she leaned forward. Her mouth wrapped around the tip and Thrawn could not restrain himself: he cried out and arched his hips toward her. She did not give him any more stimulation.
"Beg," she said in a hard voice, and squeezed his cock.
Thrawn begged.
He begged as Melisande toyed with him, bringing him to the edge and then releasing him over and over; he begged as she increased the vibration of the item inside his tul, making him writhe. He begged with increasing desperation as she sucked and lapped along his length without ever fully taking him in her mouth. Sparks were arcing up his spine and his eyes were squeezed shut, tension in his body like a trigger at the tripping point.
"What would you do to come?" she asked, and he said, "Anything—"
A brief pause, and then she stroked him until he was whining and said, "Come for me, Thrawn."
The tension broke; Thrawn broke. His orgasm hit him like blasterfire and he thrashed in his bindings as it crested, his ache at last satisfied, Melisande's rich voice urging him on.
He sagged in the cuffs when he was done, filled with post-orgasm lassitude. Melisande did not dismount his face, but stayed where she was, stroking his stomach, his chest where the wounds were scabbing over, her hands unwontedly gentle. Thrawn inhaled her scent and was content.
"Tell me about the Hand of Thrawn," Melisande said softly.
Thrawn jerked in the cuffs, snapping immediately out of the haze.
He said, his voice hard, "Get off me."
He half expected her not to comply, not without him using the signale. But she did, easing off him and releasing him from the cuffs, removing the vibrating toy—but leaving in the plug—then moving to a prudent position at the end of the bed. Thrawn rubbed his bruised wrists and stretched cramped muscles, eyeing her.
He had expected some kind of ploy from her; she liked sex, and perhaps she liked him, but it was nothing compared to the game. But he hadn't expected her to know those words.
"What do you know of it?" he asked.
"If I deal honestly with you, you will do so with me," she said with that tone of command he so enjoyed, but Thrawn was unmoved. There were some things he took too seriously for Melisande's games.
"Perhaps," he said evenly. "Tell me what you know."
She looked at him for a moment, her gaze penetrating.
"I know nothing of it but the name, and that is a secret from the Unknown Regions." Melisande extended a hand, opened it palm up. "That is all."
"And you thought sex was enough to pry the information out of me?" Thrawn asked. "You think so little of me, Melisande."
"Hardly. The sex was a happy benefit." She gave him that lovely smile. Thrawn did not smile back. "I propose an exchange of information."
"What is your information?"
A faint smile. "You first."
"Hardly," he said, echoing her. "As I see it, I gain nothing from telling you about the Hand, and you gain highly classified information. Is what you have to say worth my time?"
Her eyes had narrowed.
"You're better at this than you used to be," she commented. "My good influence, or Rufaan's?"
"Neither," Thrawn said dryly. "Merely the wisdom of experience."
He waited her out. Her decision flickered across her face, a brief hardening of the expression.
"Demetrius Zaarin is planning a coup," she said.
Thrawn considered that. Zaarin was a Grand Admiral, both politically and tactically savvy. If he played his cards right, he might even have a chance.
Thrawn rather doubted it, however. Not with the Emperor and Vader's mysterious Force at work, which even he did not dare cross.
"That is information the Emperor would want," he said slowly. Never mind that the Emperor was not his master; Thrawn's only real master was himself. "Do you have proof?"
"I have intercepted messages, and recordings from my spies," she said. "Zaarin is quite susceptible to D'Angeline-trained courtesans. I am happy to turn them over to you, should you wish it."
Truly information of note, and yet...why was the Hand of Thrawn so important to her that she would give it up so easily?
"I do wish it," he said, his mind turning.
"And the Hand of Thrawn?"
"I will tell you," he told her. He would tell her parts; not the whole of it. No one but him would ever be permitted to know that. "Not here. Have you ever been aboard a Star Destroyer?"
"I have not," Melisande said. "But I look forward to the opportunity."
"I depart Coruscant tomorrow," Thrawn said, standing from the bed. Melisande remained perched. "If you arrive at 0600, we will have time to talk."
And a thousand rumors would no doubt be started. It was most unusual for a civilian to visit a Star Destroyer, let alone a civilian with no known military or governmental connections. Melisande considered that for a moment.
Thrawn was mildly surprised when she said, "Very well. I will see you anon."
She rose from the bed and went to her dress, flashing him a wicked smile.
"I recommend you bathe, Thrawn," she said. "You're rather messy."
He was, smeared in his fluids and hers, bloody, with the plug still inside him, now more uncomfortable than arousing.
"Thank you for the advice," he said dryly. "Tomorrow."
There was nothing in the bedroom for her to snoop through. Thrawn turned his back on her and made his way to the refresher, taking the medkit out of the closet as he went.
She had not offered to sit with him or clean his wounds. Then again, he did not expect her to. He was quite used to doing so on his own.
And he needed the time to think. Melisande's mind was full of twists and he needed to hunt down the answer: why did she care about the Hand of Thrawn?
He sat in the bath, flower petals dancing on the surface of the water around him, applying bacta to his cuts, and considered that, his thoughts interspersed with memories of the night prior to her question.
A happy benefit, she had called their sex tonight. Thrawn doubted it was so simple. Everything was intertwined. He could sense it, hovering over him like a shadow, but could not yet see the shape that cast it.
"Ah, Melisande," he said aloud, and sank deeper into the water. It seeped into the cuts, stinging. He liked it.
Perhaps tomorrow's conversation would elucidate the matter.
Then again, perhaps not.
Either way, Thrawn was looking forward to solving the puzzle of Melisande Shahrizai.