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Geralt sat at the dining table with his stale chunk of bread and jam, wishing, not for the first time that week, that Marlene wasn't away. He shook his head at the thought, then sank his teeth into the bread. He'd had much, much worse on the Path — Corvo Bianco had turned him soft.
He was halfway through his meal when a flash of green light suddenly lit up the room. His reflexes took over before his common sense could, and in a split second he'd gotten to his feet and wrenched a sword from the nearest display on the wall.
The clean, fresh smell of Ciri's magic made him lower the blade immediately. She appeared in front of him with... Emhyr, of all people, both of them dressed in the dark, thick brocade typical of the Nilfgaardian court. Ciri looked furious, and she rounded in on Emhyr the moment they appeared. "There! Now will you finally tell me what's going on?"
Emhyr barely even twitched. Bastard, Geralt thought without a single clue as to why Ciri was mad at him. It was probably justified. "I cannot tell you, Cirilla. You must return to the palace before your absence is noticed."
Ciri gave him a withering look, then turned to Geralt and threw herself at him, her arms tight around his midsection. He dropped the sword and squeezed her back, smiling helplessly into her shoulder despite the tension in her body. "Missed you," he told her, and her angry expression melted into a small smile as she looked up at him. "What's going on?"
"I missed you too. And I wish I knew," she added with a sour glance at her father, then stepped back from him and disappeared.
Emhyr folded his hands behind his back. "I have harbored a deep, secret affection for you since you broke my curse," he started in his low, smooth voice, sounding bored, "and was delighted to discover that you returned my feelings as we worked together to find Cirilla." His hawklike eyes swept the room, and then he stepped over to the kitchen.
Geralt picked up his sword from the floor and placed it back on its stand, but giving himself a few seconds to think didn't help make sense of any of the words that had come out of the emperor's mouth. He followed, a sinking feeling in his stomach.
"Though my duties have kept us apart, I have now decided to retire to Corvo Bianco to enjoy the many charms of Toussaint," he continued, peering into a cupboard, then looking back at him with a very slight twitch of his eyebrow, "as well as those of my beloved as I prepare my abdication of the Nilfgaardian throne."
Geralt mentally ran through a few of the curses that came to mind, but Emhyr seemed to be completely lucid, and his medallion lay still on his chest. He opened his mouth to reply, but hadn't found anything to say by the time Emhyr moved on from the kitchen, the soft fabric of his surcoat brushing against Geralt's hand as he edged past him through the doorway.
Geralt trailed after him and banged his shin on a large wooden chest, stained dark and embellished with an obscene amount of gold leaf, that had apparently materialized next to the dining table at the same time Emhyr and Ciri had. He hissed in pain and nearly gave it a kick in retaliation, but reconsidered at the last second and followed Emhyr into his bedroom.
"In two days' time, we will receive Gaultier Catillon in our home for a simple, intimate dinner during which you will discuss a potential collaboration between Corvo Bianco and Castel Toricella— the joint production of a blended wine this coming season. You have already been corresponding with him on this topic for the past few weeks." He gave the bookshelf a brief, uninterested look, then frowned slightly at the unicorn. The pause gave Geralt's brain enough time to catch up — he was reciting some sort of cover story, or at least that was what it sounded like. "During the dinner, or shortly thereafter, I expect an attempt will be made on my life, which you will of course prevent."
Ah. A contract, then. Except he killed monsters, not humans, and most of all he resented the assumption that he'd be happy to drop everything and play house with Emhyr at a moment's notice. Of course, he didn't have much going on these days, having already killed every single giant centipede and kikimore within a large radius of his estate, but that wasn't the point. "I'm not a hired killer. Or a bodyguard."
"There is no need to kill him, only restrain him. I trust you are capable." Emhyr turned to face him, still looking like he believed this was a perfectly acceptable way to interrupt someone's morning. "Name your price, witcher."
"I— wait a minute. Haven't been corresponding with anyone. And why would a vintner try to kill an emperor, anyway?"
"We have been sending letters on your behalf, of course. I have brought copies for you to read. The vintner is the second cousin of a noblewoman who leads a major trade corporation in the capital. She and her family have occasional access to me, but it would be insanity to attempt an assassination within the confines of the palace. Provoking this attack was only a matter of dropping a few strategic hints about our relationship and my intent to vacation at Corvo Bianco over the past few months." He set the topic aside with a small gesture of his hand as Geralt grappled with the idea that most of Nilfgaard's nobility apparently believed he'd been Emhyr's lover for months. "I see no need to burden you with the details."
"The. What. Wait a minute," Geralt said again.
"I trust two days will be enough time to accustom yourself to my touch."
Emhyr stepped forward. Geralt inched away, and the edge of the bookshelf pressed into his back. There was that sinking feeling in his stomach again. "Don't see why that'd be necessary."
"We must be convincing. If Catillon believes this to be a ruse, the attempt will be called off." He stepped closer again, his eyes steady on Geralt, and lifted both of his large hands to his face. The rings on his fingers felt smooth and warm on Geralt's skin. "I have never known you to be intimidated by me. It would be a great disappointment for you to discover common sense now."
Geralt felt his own stupid hands responding to the implied challenge before his conscious mind could object, settling on Emhyr's hips. A threat to Emhyr was a threat to Ciri too, he finally decided, and neutralizing it would be worth a couple days of discomfort. He gave a short nod, and Emhyr moved in.
He kissed with the same aplomb as he did everything else, certain and unrushed, as if fully trusting that the world around them would stop moving, bending to his will until he decided he was done. He slid one hand down to Geralt's jaw, coaxing his mouth open with a squeeze of his fingers, and his tongue slipped in to caress Geralt's in slow, deliberate swipes.
He drew back after what felt like an eternity, his thumb tracing Geralt's cheekbone. "Very good," he said in a low voice, and something about the satisfied tone of it sent a small shiver of pleasure down Geralt's back. Seemed even he wasn't fully immune to the thrill of having an emperor's approval. And that hadn't been the worst kiss of his life, either — not by far. He realized his hands were grasping Emhyr's surcoat and let them drop back to his sides.
Emhyr stepped back, his gaze sweeping the bedroom again. "You will move my belongings here. This is where you sleep, yes?"
"Uh. Yes."
"Hmm. Strawberry preserves — how pedestrian."
The non-sequitur made him blink, and then he realized Emhyr had stolen the taste of his breakfast from his mouth. He wasn't sure what to do with that thought. It wedged itself into his mind uncomfortably and stayed there, until he found himself having a hard time looking at something other than Emhyr's lips, reddened by the scratch of his stubble. "You can buy your own damn jam if you don't like it," he finally said, then retreated back to the dining room to fetch the gilded chest before anything even weirder happened.
***
"I am glad to see Corvo Bianco flourishing once again," Emhyr said as they strolled through the vineyard. He'd taken off his heavy chain of office and surcoat before venturing out. It made him look a little less stiff, and Geralt hadn't found it too disconcerting when he'd taken his arm. "Though very disappointed that a case of Sepremento has not found its way to Nilfgaard's palace yet."
Geralt scoffed. "Put in an order."
"I would expect more generosity toward the father of your child."
Geralt nearly gave himself whiplash turning to look at him. "Don't mock me," he said through gritted teeth. "And don't talk to me about Ciri. Bad enough that I have to pretend I like you for two days."
Emhyr's brows drew together. "I've offended you," he said simply instead of apologizing. Geralt supposed emperors didn't do a whole lot of that. "But I harbor no illusions as to who raised her. She is your Child of Surprise through and through, and I am not entirely without a sense of humor. There is an inherent drollery to this situation, wouldn't you say?"
Geralt grudgingly mulled that over. And yes, there was something ridiculous about him and Emhyr, both Ciri's fathers in different ways, falling in love with each other. It sounded like something Dandelion would write. "I guess so," he muttered.
"I will not talk about her, if that's what you wish. This will hardly be successful if you cannot sit by my side for dinner without a scowl on your face."
Geralt took a deep breath of the warm, grass- and grape-scented air, turned his face up to the sunshine, and made a conscious effort to relax. They reached a fork in the path and he headed back toward the house, keeping the leisurely pace Emhyr had guided them into. "Is she giving Mererid hell, at least?" he finally asked, his mind crowded with visions of Ciri — his Ciri, with smudged kohl around her eyes and a sword on her back — sitting bored at court, surrounded by sycophants.
"Every single day," Emhyr replied, an unmistakable fondness in his voice. Geralt felt himself smiling in response and tried to stop it. One of the farmhands raised his head from the vines as they passed, then did a double-take. Emhyr followed Geralt's gaze and his hand tightened on his arm in warning. "Your servants cannot know."
"I'm not a complete idiot," Geralt grumbled. And then he realized Emhyr might do something drastic, like kiss him again, so he leaned in close to murmur into his ear, letting the tip of his nose brush against it, the gesture much too intimate to be mistaken for that of anyone but a lover. "That good enough?"
"It will do."
He wore perfume — of course he did. Geralt could smell it wafting up from under his collar. Something woodsy and very slightly musky, subtle enough not to offend even a witcher's nose. He drew back, sighing irritatedly at how nice the smell was. The man ought to stink of hedgehog and scheming.
They reached the small flower garden that stood next to the house, and Emhyr's hand finally slipped from his elbow as he slowed down, then sat on a stone bench, beakish nose raised in the air to take in the blooms that spread across the trellis overhead. Geralt hovered nearby. Was he supposed to sit with him?
He was about to leave when Emhyr's gaze shifted to him, his eyes bright amber in the sunlight. "The chest contains a stack of letters. Will you fetch them for me?"
He'd worded it like a question, but it wasn't one, not really. "I'm not your chamberlain," Geralt retorted.
Emhyr's lips thinned. "I trust this is not how you would usually treat your lover."
"I don't—" A huff of laughter escaped him, because he'd imagined himself ploughing Emhyr atop the stuffed unicorn, and the absurdity of the situation had washed over him yet again. "Don't think you're ready for that." He waved one hand dismissively at the strange look Emhyr gave him. "I'll get your damn papers."
When he came back with them, a few moments later, Emhyr had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and undone a few of the golden buttons on his doublet. His head was tilted up again, but his eyes were closed. Geralt didn't think he'd ever seen him enjoy anything before. Nothing as simple as sunshine and fresh air, anyway.
He opened his eyes when Geralt approached. "You may sit with me a while if you wish," he said as he took the sheaf of letters from him.
Geralt snorted. "Oh, may I?"
Emhyr was already looking down at his papers. He gave Geralt an impatient glance, but added, "I would enjoy your company."
Geralt sat, keeping a bit of distance between them and a brick arch at his back. He leaned his head back against it and let the sunlight hit his face, much like Emhyr had done. The scent of flowers was a little strong, here, but the rest of it — the twittering birds, the distant, familiar voices of the farmhands, the quiet rustle of Emhyr's letters — did much to ground him. Trying to have a casual conversation with the emperor was at turns irritating and bizarre, and that was without even taking into account the incongruity of his physical closeness. Silence was better.
Emhyr's hand landed on his thigh, as if on cue, and Geralt narrowly managed not to startle like a spooked horse. His thumb rubbed absently at the outer seam of Geralt's trousers in a slow, steady rhythm. Geralt kept his eyes closed and didn't think about it. Eventually the touch melted into the background and Geralt felt his own breaths deepening as he edged slowly toward a light trance.
Someone gasped, almost comically loud, and he raised his head to see Barnabas-Basil standing at one end of the garden, mouth still hanging open. He recovered with admirable speed and sank into a low bow.
"Your majordomo?" Emhyr asked with his eyes still on the letters, disinterested.
"Yes. Barnabas-Basil. Emhyr's visiting for a few days," Geralt called out, thinking the explanation would help, but Barnabas-Basil's eyes were, if anything, even wider when he straightened up, sweat shining on his bald head.
"I— I— yes. Some wine, I should think," he choked out.
Emhyr hummed vaguely in agreement and Barnabas-Basil scurried off.
***
Some of the letters had needed responses, it turned out, and Emhyr had moved to the dining table, sitting at a small chair that looked much too simple for him, sipping wine from a goblet. Geralt had tired of the silence and left to check the nearby notice boards, partly just to see if Emhyr would let him. He did. He didn't seem to notice his absence, in fact, nor his return, shortly after sunset.
The notice boards had yielded nothing of interest, as usual. Geralt stopped by his bedroom to drop his sword, then returned to the dining room, where Emhyr still sat bent over his papers, a long black quill in one hand. His stomach was growling.
Geralt stopped by the kitchen and plunked down a half loaf of bread in front of him, then the jar of strawberry jam. Emhyr raised his head slowly. "... You have a cook."
"Gotta get some better spies. She's in Trastamara this week." He sat down, enjoying the disgruntled look on Emhyr's face, and tore off a chunk of bread before slathering it liberally with jam.
"And you were going to eat bread and preserves for the entire week?"
Geralt shrugged. "Done worse," he said, mouth full.
Emhyr watched him take another bite, then leaned back in his chair. "Barnabas," he called out.
Geralt heard the door to Barnabas-Basil's house bang open almost immediately. Then rapid footsteps, which stopped right at the front door, and the sound of a slow, bracing intake of breath before Barnabas-Basil came in and dropped into a bow. "Your Imperial Highness?"
"Honey," he said, gesturing to the bread and jam as if to underscore the outrageousness of his current predicament. Then he pushed his replies to the letters closer to the edge of the table, stacked neatly together. "And you are to deliver these personally to the Nilfgaardian embassy in Beauclair."
"Yes, Your Highness." Barnabas-Basil hurried to the kitchen, and Emhyr picked up his quill again, scribbling onto a fresh sheet of paper with much less care than he'd shown previously. When Barnabas-Basil returned, he added the sheet to the top of the pile.
"And this is for the pantry."
Barnabas-Basil winced in understanding and gave a rapid nod. "Of course, Your Highness."
***
"My body servants usually undress me."
Geralt stared at Emhyr, trying to decide if he was serious. His expression was impassive, and Geralt remembered the army of servants who'd been crawling all over the Royal Palace in Vizima. It seemed plausible. He sighed and, before he could really think about what he was doing, stepped up to Emhyr and started working on the many shiny buttons on his doublet, pulling perhaps a little harder than he strictly needed to.
"This doublet is worth more than your horse and armor," Emhyr said in mild warning after a particularly firm tug. Geralt doubted he was lying, considering how deep its black was and how its embroidery shone in the candlelight.
"Yeah, yeah." He pulled the doublet off and stood holding it for a few seconds, unsure where to put it. Finally he draped it over the unicorn's back before turning back to Emhyr to work on the laces of his shirt. That went next, revealing Emhyr's broad shoulders, hairless torso, and the softness around his middle that spoke of the lavish meals he was no doubt used to. "Do the rest yourself," Geralt muttered, turning away to pull off his own clothing.
When he turned back, having stripped down to his underclothes, Emhyr was stark naked and standing by his bed. "I always sleep in the nude," he said simply as he pulled back the covers — Geralt supposed his face must've done something in response to the realization that Emhyr was, in fact, hairless everywhere — and slid into bed.
"Uh-huh, fine, whatever." Geralt pulled off his hair tie and tossed it onto the small table next to bed before clambering on. The bed was big enough for both of them, but Emhyr had settled on his back, hands resting on his stomach with one elbow encroaching on Geralt's half of the bed, and so he turned onto his side, facing away from him, and closed his eyes. This would be fine as long as he didn't roll over during the night.
***
He'd rolled over during the night.
He woke up to the warm press of a body against his own, to his arm flung over someone's torso and one of his legs resting on a smooth, hairless calf. He thought of Yennefer for one brief moment, and then the reality of the situation crashed over him again and he groaned into Emhyr's shoulder.
Emhyr's hand was on his arm, rubbing in slow, idle movements. He was already awake — great. Geralt rolled onto his back with another heartfelt groan, pressing the heels of both hands to his closed eyes.
He could do this. The pay would be good, at least. He let his arms drop back down and found that Emhyr had propped himself up on one elbow next to him. Geralt squinted up at him. "What?"
"You've never shared your bed with a man," he said, his voice rough from sleep.
Geralt had, a few times. Pretty elves with pert bottoms and clever fingers, and fellow witchers whose hands and mouths had felt as good on him as anyone else's would have after enough time on the road. He snorted. "Think again."
"Mm. Then I trust you can master your prudish Nordling instincts." He lifted one hand and rested it on Geralt's chest. He looked less austere like this, bathed in early morning light with a few strands of hair out of place, his mouth not quite as tight as usual and the shadow of stubble across his cheeks. "May I touch you?"
The low rumble of his voice sent a wave of something warm and dangerously like lust through Geralt's body. He was in bed with someone next to him, and his body was getting funny ideas, that was all. "Yes," he replied, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath, making a conscious effort to relax his tense muscles.
Emhyr's hand started moving, his palm smoothing across Geralt's chest slowly, fingertips tracing the raised lines of his scars. He passed over one nipple, neither focusing on it nor avoiding it. Geralt felt it harden under the light touch and grabbed handfuls of the sheets, redoubling his efforts to keep his muscles slack and his mind empty.
Emhyr's fingertips trailed up along his collarbone, then his hand curved gently around his shoulder, and Geralt couldn't help his sharp intake of breath when Emhyr's mouth found the base of his throat, right above his collarbone. The Emperor of Nilfgaard was sucking on his neck, his mouth wet and hot and obscene against his skin, and blood rushed down to his cock so fast he felt light-headed. He managed to make sense of it after a few blank, frantic seconds: Emhyr was leaving a mark, and he supposed that would help with their ruse, because who would believe that Geralt had willingly lain under Emhyr var Emreis and let him suck bruises onto his neck for the sake of pretense?
He opened his eyes when Emhyr drew away. He slid his hand up from Geralt's shoulder to his neck and brushed his thumb over his handiwork. "You're tense again," he commented, as if this was normal.
He didn't wait for a response. He lowered his mouth to his neck again, a little higher this time, and oh, Geralt was fucked. He gritted his teeth against the groan that threatened to escape him, his abdomen flooding with heat and his fists clenching in the sheets with the urge to touch Emhyr back. After a moment he released his flesh with a quiet sucking sound that seemed very loud in the silent bedroom.
Geralt could feel his pulse throbbing in his cock and in the twin bruises on his neck. He focused on his breathing. Emhyr watched him impassively, his hand caressing Geralt's chest again, and this time it felt deliberate when he touched his nipple, rubbing at it with the pad of his thumb. Geralt hissed before he could stop himself.
"You're aroused," Emhyr said, a strange sort of wonder in his voice, and his eyes took on a calculating glint as if he'd found an unexpected weakness on a battlefield. Geralt hadn't known Emhyr to ever do anything with weaknesses except pry his fingernails under them and pull.
He sat up. "I'm hungry," he muttered, shoving off the covers, then stood and kept his back to Emhyr as he yanked some clothes on.
The kitchen provided some welcome distraction from the tightness in his trousers; Barnabas-Basil had apparently crept in earlier and stocked it with the items Emhyr had requested. The most evident was the cured goat leg sitting on the counter, but there was also a fresh baguette, a variety of little pots and jars, and a thick bar of something white and sweet-looking that was dotted with nuts and candied fruit. Geralt rolled his eyes at the lot of it — of course the man couldn't spend all of three days without expensive food within reach — but grabbed the baguette and a small, fancy-looking jar of jam and took them to the dining room all the same.
He sat at the table and was slicing the baguette when Emhyr appeared from the bedroom. He'd put on a long robe, tied loosely at his waist. It was elaborately embroidered and shone like gold where the sunlight hit it. He was barefoot, too, and hadn't smoothed down his hair, and Geralt wondered who else ever got to see him like this. He averted his eyes and kept sawing through the bread.
"Excellent. Your majordomo did as I requested."
"Bet people usually do," Geralt replied.
Emhyr sat down opposite from him with more poise than anyone had any right to have while barefoot and in a robe. "Ah, Bar-la-Duchesse," he sighed, sounding happy.
"Barla du who?"
"Currants." He held the jar up to a beam of sunlight so that Geralt could see its contents. It was some sort of jam, as he'd thought, but didn't look anything like the strawberry one he'd eaten the previous day; there were whole fruits in the glass container, suspended in a translucent red jelly and shining like jewels. "Each of them seeded using a goose feather so that the flesh remains intact, then cooked using a secret recipe. There is nothing like it."
Geralt blinked. "So... currant jam."
Emhyr gave him a disapproving look, then opened the jar and picked up a small spoon. He scooped up a tiny quantity of the jam, and Geralt realized in a distant sort of way that he was staring, but couldn't stop. It was unbearably erotic — the slow, precise movements of his hands, the strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead, the damn robe open over his chest, the bare feet, all of it — and then Emhyr was rolling the fruit around his mouth with a low, pleased hum, and a bolt of want stabbed through Geralt's stomach.
He was well and truly fucked.
He ate his breakfast mechanically. The jam was good, tart and fresh and not too sweet, but it was still jam, and the most attractive thing about it remained the expression on Emhyr's face as he savored it. Geralt felt hot and restless and fiddled with the knife that lay in front of him on the table, wishing for a stray drowner or a nest of nekkers to distract himself with. But no, this contract wouldn't give him any respite from his predicament. At least he no longer had any doubt about his ability to convince Catillon of their relationship.
Emhyr stood and brushed past him, apparently headed back to the bedroom. Geralt caught the loose sleeve of his robe, twisting around uncomfortably in his chair to face him, and hooked one hand around the back of his neck to pull him down. Their lips met, and Geralt clung to Emhyr's hair and to the collar of his robe, biting at his mouth until he let him in. The kiss didn't last nearly as long as he would've wished. "Yes," Emhyr said quietly as he drew away, one palm pressed to Geralt's cheek. "Much better."
He looked completely unruffled, the bastard, and Geralt's heart was beating hard in his chest, almost as fast as a normal man's. Geralt let go of him and tried to master himself again.
"I will require a shave," Emhyr announced as he stepped back, straightening the collar of his robe.
"I'm not shaving you," Geralt choked out, indignant. He didn't think he could bear it. "What, do they shave your entire body every day over at the palace?"
"Don't be absurd. I receive weekly rubdowns with pumice stone and a depilatory cream. They only shave my beard."
Of course, shaving his body hair would be absurd, but having it scrubbed off by a gaggle of servants was not. Geralt rubbed his forehead and tried not to laugh at the big, pampered bird of prey of a man standing in his dining room. He came from a world so different from Geralt's that he might as well have teleported in from the space between the stars, Ciri-style. "Razor's in the bedroom," he said, gesturing toward it.
He left Emhyr to his shaving and spent some time on the balcony, perusing the copies of the fake correspondence Emhyr had left out for him to read. Whoever had written the letters in his stead had somehow known what his handwriting looked like, and it was odd to see words seemingly penned in his hand without having any recollection of them.
There wasn't all that much information in them, though he did memorize the name of Catillon's wife. The man's proposal sounded ridiculous even to him: His grapes were used to make the cheap Beauclair White that was exported to the Northern Kingdoms, and the thought of mixing them with Corvo Bianco's Carnavere grapes to make a blended wine would've made his vigneron faint. Catillon was banking on Geralt not knowing enough about wine to know it was a bad idea. It was true he hadn't paid much attention to the production of his wine since he'd moved in, but he knew enough to listen to his staff, at least.
Barnabas-Basil walked by, a stack of letters in his hand, but paused with one hand on the front door when Geralt nodded to him in greeting. "Good morning, sir," he said, hesitant.
"Morning. For Emhyr?" Geralt asked, gesturing toward the letters. Aside from the occasional invitation to palace events, which he usually ignored, he didn't receive much.
"Er, yes." He hovered in front of the door for a few more seconds, then turned to him and took a deep breath. "If— If His Imperial Majesty is to stay here for some time, may I hire someone to replace Marlene until she can return to her duties?"
Geralt shrugged. "We'll manage. Don't bother. Just keep getting him fresh bread in the morning so he can enjoy his currants."
Barnabas-Basil stared at him from behind his spectacles. He was practically turning purple from the effort not to ask.
"He'll be gone in a couple of days. Try to stay out of the way," he said, suddenly inspired and remembering that there would likely be violence during dinner the following day. There was no need to involve Barnabas-Basil in the whole mess. "We'd like some privacy."
"Of course." He cleared his throat and glanced over his shoulder, as if to make sure Emhyr wasn't lurking there. "This... this really is what it looks like, isn't it?"
Geralt rested his chin on his hand. "Dunno. What's it look like?"
Barnabas-Basil eyed him, then shook his head disbelievingly, a little laugh escaping him. "I'd like to see Master Dandelion turn this into a ballad anyone would believe," he said, but there was something conspiratorial about the smile that was pulling at his lips. "I shall endeavor to stay out of sight. Do try to warn me before he visits, next time."
Geralt gave another shrug. "Didn't know he was coming. He likes to surprise me."
He watched Barnabas-Basil try to reconcile that statement with what he knew of Emhyr. It didn't work; he shook his head again, mumbling "surprise visits from the Emperor of Nilfgaard" to himself as he turned away, then went inside.
Emhyr emerged some time later, having shaved, combed his hair, and wrapped himself in layers of black and burgundy clothing. Seeing him like this again made Geralt's morning seem like a strange fever dream. Emhyr sat across from him, dropping some of the messages he'd received onto the small table between them, and Geralt spotted a small cut on his chin. It made him smile, and Emhyr gave him a cross look when he noticed.
"I have not had to do it myself in quite some time, as I'm sure you can imagine," he said crisply, sitting very straight in his chair.
"Uh huh." He slouched down a little, letting his knee bump against Emhyr's, and settled in to play the role of a patient lover as Emhyr pored over his correspondence.
***
Geralt was bored stiff by mid-afternoon. Being Emperor involved a lot of sitting hunched over important papers, apparently, but Geralt could only sit still for so long. He paced around the balcony, then decided on a jog, doing laps around the estate until he'd shaken off the torpor that the sunshine and the monotony of Emhyr's work had brought on.
He stopped by the stream to splash some cold water onto his face before walking over to the chaise longue that lay nearby, in the shade of a tree. He kicked off his boots and flopped down onto it. He was slightly surprised to hear Emhyr's footsteps a few moments later, and raised his head to see him headed his way, carrying a carafe and two goblets.
Geralt bent one leg to make room. Emhyr sat and started pouring white wine into the goblets. He suspected that the Emperor serving wine to someone wasn't a frequent occurrence in Nilfgaard, and it sent the same kind of tiny thrill through him as the sight of his sleep-tousled hair or the feel of his tongue on Geralt's neck. Stupid. He took the proffered goblet and sniffed at it to distract himself.
The wine smelled bright and clean and tasted of citrus and grass. Perfect for a hot summer day. "Somebody on this estate has remarkably good taste in wine," Emhyr said as he set down the carafe. "Not you, I assume."
Geralt snorted. "Thanks."
Emhyr sipped from his goblet and hummed his approval quietly. "Mm, it is a simple consequence of your profession and not a slight against you. I doubt a deep knowledge of wine would be of use on a witcher's Path."
Geralt stretched his leg back out, placing his foot on Emhyr's lap. "Dunno. Could've come in handy to catch Dettlaff."
Emhyr's free hand slid up his calf, his fingertips settling in the crook of his knee. "Tell me. The reports I received did not cover your investigation in much detail."
He told him about it — about the wine part of it, anyway — and Emhyr sniffed in distaste once he was done. "Sangreal. So overrated."
"Pay me well enough and I won't tell the duquessa you said that."
Emhyr's expression warmed a little at the joke. Geralt wondered if he ever smiled. "I told you to name your price."
"Still thinking about it." The wine was warming his belly and loosening his thoughts, and he wondered whether he could get Emhyr to suck his cock in lieu of payment. Maybe in that robe of his; that'd be a sight. It'd make up for the unexpected day and half of tension, that was for sure.
And if Geralt kept thinking about it, he was going to get hard again.
It wasn't like Emhyr hadn't noticed his interest, though. Geralt took a gulp of wine, then hooked his leg around him, pressing his heel against Emhyr's hip. He scooted a little closer obligingly, his hand travelling past Geralt's knee and up to his thigh. "You seem rather more relaxed about this than you were this morning."
"More resigned, maybe." And now he was curious about the emperor's limits. He was welcoming his touch for the sake of their plan, encouraging it, even, but surely he'd draw the line somewhere. He raised himself up from the chaise longue just long enough to grab Emhyr's sleeve and pull him down.
He went down, blinking, and braced himself with one hand next to Geralt's shoulder. A bit of wine spilled over the edge of his goblet, dripping down his thumb. "You will cease mauling my clothes," he ordered, though he didn't sound particularly angry.
Geralt sucked the drops of wine from Emhyr's hand before letting his head drop back to the padded fabric of the chaise longue. He could smell his perfume again, this close, and the scent of his sun-warmed skin from the hours he'd spent reading on the balcony. It went well with the aroma of the wine. "Fine," he said, smoothing his hand over the wrinkles he'd left on Emhyr's sleeve, feeling too comfortable to bother arguing. He trailed his fingers up to his collar and undid a couple of the tiny buttons on his doublet.
Emhyr quirked an eyebrow. "Out in the open, witcher?"
"Farmhands have seen worse." He craned his neck so he could reach Emhyr's, nuzzling under his ear and snorting softly at the tiny smear of shaving cream he found there. He swiped at it with his thumb, then brushed his mouth over Emhyr's skin. "Can I leave marks on you, too?"
"That would be unwise."
The thought of Emhyr going back to court wrecked, with bruised lips and the imprints of Geralt's teeth on his throat, was an oddly attractive one. Geralt wasn't stupid enough to try it, though, so he pressed kisses to Emhyr's throat instead, feeling his Adam's apple bob as he took a long drink from his goblet. His heart was beating a bit fast, Geralt noticed for the first time, and when he took another whiff of him, paying attention to more than just the perfume, he caught the telltale scent of arousal on him. It sent a tingle down Geralt's spine. Emhyr wanted him. He'd been too concerned with his own reaction to the man to notice it earlier.
"Have some decorum," Emhyr rumbled above him.
"No. Take me to bed."
Emhyr's pulse jumped under his lips. "I do not think it will be necessary to take the pretense that far."
Geralt let his head fall back. Emhyr still looked like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, but when Geralt bent his leg again and pressed the arch of his foot between his thighs, he found his cock hard and heard his breath hitch. It sent a wave of warmth through Geralt's limbs and put a lazy smile on his face. "Pretense?"
Emhyr grabbed his ankle, but didn't try to move him. They stayed like this for a moment. Geralt pushed at him with his heel, impatient. "You can fuck me if you want."
That did the trick; Emhyr's grip tightened, then he finally pushed Geralt's foot away and stood, disentangling himself with perhaps less grace than usual. He picked up the decanter of wine and headed back toward the house.
Geralt grabbed his boots and followed. He wasted no time once they got to the bedroom, first pulling his shirt over his head, then yanking off his trousers and underclothes in one go. He flopped down onto his bed and watched Emhyr, who was still working on his damn buttons. He didn't have any reason not to look, this time. Emhyr had thick thighs and a cock to match, and there was a constellation of three small moles on his hip that made Geralt's mouth water with the desire to follow the line they traced with his tongue. Later, maybe.
Emhyr walked over to his chest and started searching through its contents. "Got blade oil on the shelf over there," Geralt said, guessing what he was after. He stroked his own cock idly, watching the muscles in Emhyr's shoulders move and his brow furrow in frustration.
"Blade oil," he muttered, shaking his head as if the idea was ridiculous, then stood, a tiny vial in his hand. Geralt bent his legs at the knee, not in the mood to argue over his choice of lubricant (those elves hadn't complained), and Emhyr's eyes darkened at the sight. A moment later he was kneeling on the mattress, one slick finger rubbing at him.
"You're not gonna hurt me," Geralt said, angling his hips so that Emhyr's finger slipped into him.
Emhyr paused, then pushed further in, watching him. "You bow to no man, yet you'll spread your legs for one," he commented, another finger joining the first.
"Don't know what kind of nonsense they teach in Nilfgaard, but I like doing things that feel good." He wriggled a little on Emhyr's fingers, seeking just the right angle, and grunted when he found it. "Right now it's a toss-up between this and throwing you out the window."
Emhyr laughed — a soft, low sound that felt even more intimate than his probing fingers — and withdrew his hand, hooking Geralt's legs over his shoulders as he positioned himself. "Then I suppose I had better make this pleasurable," he said, then pushed into him. Geralt's breath caught in his throat at the stretch of it and the feeling of fullness, and he dug his heel into Emhyr's back to urge him on.
He didn't need any urging. He ploughed him like he was a Northern kingdom with a particularly reticent king, his expression determined and his eyes glittering with satisfaction every time he tore a groan from him. The steady, punishing rhythm soon got the better of Geralt, and he wrenched his hand away from his cock with a breathless curse but came anyway, his back arching off the mattress as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over him.
"That— is no way to speak in an emperor's presence," Emhyr said, and Geralt shuddered as he rocked into him again. Bastard. At least he sounded as out of breath as Geralt was.
"Fuck you," he retorted, then reconsidered. "Fuck me."
Emhyr didn't stop until Geralt had come again, his fist a blur over his own cock as he spilled onto his chest. He was seeing stars with every thrust, his body clenching helplessly around Emhyr and his mouth bone-dry from panting. Finally Emhyr pushed into him one last time, a fine tremor going through his body, and his mouth fell open on a silent moan, sweat shining at his forehead and his throat as his fingertips dug into Geralt's thigh. Seeing Emhyr lose control, even to that small extent, was fascinating, and Geralt tucked the memory into a corner of his mind in case he needed something to warm himself with on the Path later on.
Emhyr pulled out of him and lay down, wiping his forehead with one hand as he caught his breath. Geralt stretched out slowly, then rolled over onto Emhyr, knowing he'd hate it.
"You're filthy," Emhyr muttered, pushing at his shoulder.
"Mm, 's gonna get worse," Geralt said, pleased. "You're leaking out of me."
And something about that seemed to be appealing, because Emhyr fisted one hand into his hair and pulled him into a hard kiss. He was less precise about it when he meant it, his teeth clashing messily against Geralt's and his free hand sliding down to grab his ass. Still good, though — possibly even better that way — and Geralt kissed back, his arm draped over Emhyr's chest, too content to return the touches.
Emhyr let go of his hair only to pick up his wine from the bedside table and down the rest of it. That reminded Geralt of how thirsty he was. He raised himself up on one elbow and grabbed the carafe, ignoring Emhyr's sigh when he sipped from it.
"The taste of a wine is affected by the—"
"The shape of the vessel, yeah, I know that much. You're my guest, don't tell me what to do." He put the carafe down anyway and flopped back onto Emhyr.
"Toussaint is a vassal state of Nilfgaard, and you are my subject," Emhyr reminded him, then pinched his ass hard enough to make him yelp. "Fetch some water. And something to eat, while you're at it."
The sun had set on them at some point — Geralt had been too busy getting his brains ploughed out to notice. He rolled out of bed and picked up his shirt from the floor, using it to wipe away the mess he'd left on Emhyr, then swipe at his own abdomen and thighs.
Once he was reasonably clean, his eyes fell on the golden robe, draped over the rump of the stuffed unicorn. He couldn't resist slipping it on. It was lined with silk, smoother and softer than even Dandelion's expensive get-ups, and the gold embroidery shone beautifully in the low light. He felt the heat of Emhyr's gaze on him, but the man made no protest, so he kept it on for his trip to the kitchen.
They grazed from a tray covered in bits of cheese, cured meat, sliced fruit and the remains of that morning's baguette, sitting side by side in companionable silence on the bed. It was much easier to bear Emhyr's company after two orgasms. "Could've done this earlier, you know," he said around a mouthful of bread and cheese.
Emhyr's eyebrow rose slightly. "What, taken you? Hardly the reason why I came here."
"Hmm." He looked to the small vial, corked again and abandoned at the foot of the bed. "You brought oil with you. You sure there's gonna be an assassination attempt?"
Emhyr clenched his jaw and looked away. Geralt was pretty sure any other man would've blushed. "Don't be absurd. I and my many advisors and spies are all quite sure." He plucked a raspberry from the tray and looked back up at him. "Witchers are known to be lustful creatures. The possibility that you would get carried away had occurred to me."
He'd gone ahead with the plan anyway and had brought something to fuck Geralt with. That made him seem much more human, somehow, and knowing how much sway something as simple as attraction had had over him made Geralt grin. "Yeah, I'm the one who got carried away. Didn't think you'd go for witchers."
Emhyr seemed, as always, unamused. "I am not made of stone," he said, though he still very much looked it. "And I find you intriguing."
"And here I thought you'd sucked on my neck first thing in the morning just for the sake of pretense."
"I did."
"Hmm." Geralt touched the marks on his neck. "Are they that convincing? Could be from anyone. I'm a lustful creature, you know."
"How delightful that your desire to make fun of me has pushed you beyond your usual monosyllables."
Geralt laughed. He couldn't help it; he was flirting with Emhyr var Emreis and enjoying it. It was ridiculous. He crawled into Emhyr's lap, carefully avoiding the tray of food, and draped his arms loosely over his shoulders. "Shut me up if you don't like it."
The man wasn't so hard to read now that he knew what to look for: the dilation of his pupils, the way his gaze flicked down to Geralt's mouth. "You make a good point about the marks on your neck," he said instead of kissing him, though his hands slipped their way into the robe and onto Geralt's hips. "They are too impersonal. You will wear one of these tomorrow." He nodded toward the unicorn, and Geralt looked at it over his shoulder.
He noticed the chain of office around the unicorn's neck first, which startled another laugh from him, then saw the two golden rings stuck on the end of its horn. "Fine." He turned back, and Emhyr bent his head to his neck, tongue and teeth worrying at one of the marks he'd already left there. Geralt hummed happily and tangled one hand into his hair. "What's the Nilfgaardian stance on sucking cock?"
"Undignified." He bit at Geralt's collarbone, then soothed the bite mark with his tongue. His mouth was wasted on imperial speeches. "Particularly for the highborn." One of his hands slid around to Geralt's back, then further down, two of his fingertips slipping between his buttocks and into him easily.
Geralt lost the thread of their conversation. He leaned back into it, lowering one hand to brace himself against the mattress, and sighed contentedly when Emhyr started fucking him with slow strokes of his fingers.
"Be careful," Emhyr said. His other hand pulled at the sleeve of the robe, moving the trailing end of it away from the food.
"Mm. Worth more than my armor too, huh?"
He laughed into his neck, low and quiet. "It is worth more than this estate and all in it, witcher."
Geralt was suddenly very conscious of the smooth slide of the robe's lining against his skin. Emhyr's mouth found his earlobe, then the sensitive skin behind it, and he shivered, his eyes falling closed of their own accord. "Gah," he said, then tried again. "What is it, unicorn hair? That gold thread. Doesn't smell like cloth-of-gold."
"Sea silk. Made from a rare type of clam found in the south." Emhyr's fingers curled inside him and Geralt inhaled sharply, pleasure coiling low in his gut. "They attach to the sea bed with fine fibers. There is a small village on the coast where women dive for them every summer."
This was the stupid currant jam all over again. Geralt raised himself slightly and started fucking himself on Emhyr's hand, wishing he could spend the entire night listening to him rumble on about all of the beautiful things Geralt was too unsophisticated to have even heard of. "Uh-huh?" he prompted, head thrown back.
"The fibers turn gold when soaked in lemon juice." Emhyr licked a path back down his throat and Geralt clenched his hand tighter into his hair, holding him close so he could feel his voice thrumming through him. "The color never fades, and cloth woven from it is finer and lighter than silk." His free hand pushed the robe off Geralt's shoulder gently and he bit him there too, sucking another mark into the meat of it. "Touch me, witcher."
Geralt made a strangled noise he was too far gone to care about, groped blindly for Emhyr's cock, and neither of them said a damn thing after that.
***
They woke up very late the next morning. Emhyr needed a shave again, and Geralt decided, against his better judgment, to do it for him this time. It worked out in Geralt's favor, in the end; Emhyr watched him drag the blade across his jaw intently, like he wanted to eat him alive, and the couple of hours that followed weren't very productive.
It was early afternoon by the time they emerged from the bedroom.
"Not really my style," Geralt commented as he shoved Emhyr's ring onto his finger. Gold with a black faceted gem — typical Nilfgaardian.
"Neither is the robe, and yet."
Emhyr had claimed it back and wore it open, seemingly unconcerned by the stripe of smooth skin he'd put on display. The hem was a bit rumpled, but Geralt had managed not to come all over it, somehow. It had been a close thing.
The door creaked open and Barnabas-Basil peeked into the house, then slipped inside and bowed, a stack of letters in one hand. "Letters for His Imperial Majesty."
Emhyr gave him a nod, and Barnabas-Basil rose and put the letters down on the table gingerly. His face was rapidly turning red — from the stink of sex or the sight of the imperial cock, probably. "There is also fresh bread in the kitchen, as you requested."
"Thanks," Geralt said. "We're having a couple of guests over for dinner today. You can stay home."
"We will require a bath before you leave," Emhyr interjected.
"Of course, Your Imperial Majesty," he replied, his gaze bouncing all over the room in an attempt not to look directly at Emhyr. He took a step toward the door, then stopped and turned to Geralt. "Erm, may I ask what you will be serving your guests, sir? Marlene won't be back for another day or two."
Geralt frowned. He hadn't thought that far.
"Geralt has survived alone on his Path for long enough," Emhyr said as he tied the robe's belt around his waist, having apparently taken pity on Barnabas-Basil. "I'm sure he is perfectly capable of cooking a simple meal."
Barnabas-Basil's side look at Geralt spoke volumes, but he gave another little bow. "As you say, Your Imperial Majesty. I will see to your bath now."
The bathtub nearly sidetracked them again. Geralt gave himself a quick scrub, doing his best to ignore Emhyr's eyes on him, then got dressed and left to hunt. He took deep breaths as he rode out of the estate, smelling for animals and weighing his options. A deer was out of the question; it would take him too long to butcher it. There were no boars this close to the vineyard, so those were out as well. In the end he caught the scent of some pheasants and shot two of them, then nudged Roach into a canter back to Corvo Bianco.
When he entered the kitchen, pheasants dressed and plucked, he found Emhyr already standing there, clad only in a simple white shirt and black trousers. It was odd to see him like this, without thick, embroidered doublets or surcoats to hide the lines of his body. He stood ramrod-straight, though, his hair slicked back neatly and the subtle smell of that perfume shrouding him, and still looked every bit an emperor.
"You skipped breakfast," he said, holding out a thick slice of buttered bread slathered with currant jam.
Geralt dumped the pheasants onto the counter and took the bread from him with a nod. He wolfed it down in a few quick bites, contemplating the dead birds. Cooking on the Path consisted mostly of holding things over an open flame until they were safe to eat. Still, he'd smelled and tasted enough of Marlene's dishes to improvise a simple roast.
He started grabbing the herbs he needed, sniffing at them as he went, then glanced over his shoulder at Emhyr. "Get some root vegetables from the cellar. Should be some potatoes, carrots and parsnips down there. Onions, too."
Emhyr narrowed his eyes as if contemplating whether he was going to let Geralt order him around. The sex must have softened him — he didn't say a word but turned and left the kitchen, and Geralt took that as a yes.
He returned promptly with the vegetables, then stared at the knife Geralt held out to him.
"It's a knife," Geralt said. "For cutting things. Like vegetables."
A low, disgusted noise bubbled up from deep within him, but he snatched the blade from his hand anyway. "How big?"
"Dunno. Bite-sized."
They worked side by side in silence for several minutes. Emhyr emanated awkwardness, his movements slow and precise and beautifully inefficient. Once the pheasants were ready, Geralt leaned against the counter, watching him with a grin. It took Emhyr a moment to notice. His eyes narrowed again, though he didn't stop chopping. "I will not hesitate to put this blade through your hand."
"Hate to break it to you, but you're not faster than a witcher." He moved closer, putting one hand on Emhyr's shoulder and taking the knife from him with the other. "Let me do it." There was the scent of his perfume again and Geralt chased it mindlessly, nuzzling at the spot behind Emhyr's ear where his hair was curling, still damp.
"Focus," Emhyr said, sounding mildly reproachful. His heart was beating faster.
"Mm. You smell good."
Emhyr fisted one hand into his shirt and pulled him into a hard, thorough kiss, then stepped back and gestured toward the vegetables. Geralt made quick work of the rest of them, tossed them in with the pheasants, and shoved it all into the oven. It'd do.
He turned around and blinked when he found Emhyr standing much closer to him than he'd expected. His hands came up to Geralt's hips and pushed, guiding him to stand with his back against the counter. Geralt cocked his head in askance but Emhyr ignored him, lowering his eyes as he worked on the laces of his trousers.
Well, it was probably their last opportunity to do this — Geralt wasn't about to complain. Emhyr freed his cock and gave it a few strokes, watching him. Or at least his eyes were fixed on Geralt, but he seemed lost in thought, and finally said, "Do not touch my hair."
Geralt figured out what was going to happen just before it did, and anticipation rushed through him like liquid lightning. Emhyr lowered himself and then he was on his knees, staring his cock down as if trying to intimidate it. "Oh, fuck," Geralt said helplessly at the first touch of Emhyr's tongue, grabbing onto the counter with both hands. He couldn't remember ever getting hard this fast — his head was nearly spinning with it, and he would've closed his eyes were it not for the sight of Emhyr's stern, sharp-angled face pressed up against the underside of his cock as he mouthed at his balls almost tentatively. Geralt didn't want to miss a single second of it.
Emhyr took the head of his cock into his mouth, then released it with a wet sucking sound that made Geralt shudder and curse again. Emhyr's eyes took on that same grim satisfaction as when he'd been fucking him, and he moved in again, taking more of him into his mouth. And then more. And— and of course a gag reflex was one of those human weaknesses Emhyr simply refused to burden himself with. His hands curled around the back of Geralt's thighs and pulled him forward until his nose bumped against him. Geralt tightened his grip on the counter, toes curling in his boots, and did his damnedest not to move.
Emhyr started bobbing his head, slowly at first, but took to cocksucking with much more ease than he'd had to cutting vegetables, and soon he'd found a quick rhythm that had Geralt gasping and squirming desperately. He wasn't going to last. "Stop. Stop," he tried, but Emhyr narrowed his eyes and didn't stop, and Geralt only managed a few more garbled syllables before his hips snapped forward and pleasure washed through him in a blinding rush. Emhyr's throat worked as he swallowed, and Geralt heard, distantly, a cracking sound from the counter behind him.
Emhyr stood once he'd wrung the last few aftershocks out of him. He still looked way too put together, damn the man, but his lips were red and the familiar scent of his arousal tickled Geralt's nostrils. Geralt pulled him in and kissed him, just so he could taste himself on Emhyr's tongue — the crowning touch to the whole ridiculous experience. It was nearly enough to make him hard again.
Emhyr broke the kiss, his head dropping to Geralt's shoulder and his hands gripping his hips as he pressed against him. He was rock-hard, and when Geralt wormed a hand between their bodies to free his cock from his trousers, he found him leaking already. It took only a few firm strokes of his hand to bring him off — he came with a sharp intake of breath, making a mess of Geralt's shirt.
"You liked that," Geralt remarked.
"The taste is unfortunate," Emhyr replied, lifting his head to speak into his ear. "But there is nothing undignified about reducing such a powerful creature to incoherence."
He didn't care how Emhyr justified it to himself. He had no idea what the fuck was going on down south, but apparently cocksucking was undignified, clams produced silk, and emperors dreamed up elaborate sting operations that involved making Geralt come harder than he'd had in his very long life, and all he cared about was the possibility of a repeat performance, someday.
"You'll have to repair this," Emhyr continued quietly. He was looking at the counter over Geralt's shoulder and sounded smug. Geralt ran his palm over the counter blindly and found a sizeable crack running through the length of it. He couldn't bring himself to be annoyed about it.
"Gonna have to change my shirt, too," he grouched in a half-hearted way.
"I suppose there is such a thing as too convincing," Emhyr agreed, stepping back.
Geralt pulled his shirt out of his trousers, then over his head, and felt the heat of Emhyr's gaze on his back as he headed to his bedroom. At this rate, they'd have a hard time convincing anyone they hadn't spent the past couple of days ploughing each other.
***
"It's wonderful to finally meet you," Gaultier's wife said in a rather nervous tone, smoothing her skirt. Floretta, according to the letters Emhyr had shown him, and if Geralt had any remaining doubts that there would indeed be an attempt on the emperor's life that evening, her appearance alone was enough to put them to rest. She'd braided her hair into an elaborate Nilfgaardian style, and her colorful clothes and the small jewels that hung from her ears and sparkled on her fingers would have been more appropriate for a ball in Beauclair than for a quiet, intimate dinner between business partners. Her eyes were fixed over Geralt's shoulder — the fake letters that had been sent in his stead had only referred to Emhyr as his companion, but she'd come ready to meet an Emperor.
Of course, it was possible they'd simply heard some gossip from their relatives in the Nilfgaardian capital, but Geralt hadn't been hired to believe in such coincidences.
Gaultier put a steadying hand at the small of his wife's back. He'd known better than to overdress quite as much, but Geralt could smell the nervousness on him too. "A small gift," he said, holding out a wine bottle with his other hand. "One of our finest vintages; you may be surprised."
Beauclair White. Geralt had had the occasional swig of it in the North, but down in Toussaint, and especially among the vintners, it might as well have been piss. Not that he'd ever objected to cheap alcohol, but a couple of years with some of the world's best wines at his fingertips had raised his standards somewhat. He took the bottle, wondering whether Roach would enjoy a few glugs of it with her morning oats. "Thanks. Come in."
He stepped aside to let them in, and they made it a few steps inside before bowing very low to Emhyr, who'd settled himself in his usual chair at the table. "Your Imperial Majesty,"
"Yes, yes." He waved for them to rise, looking bored, then reached out to take the bottle from Geralt's hand. "Let us have a taste of this fine vintage," he said, eyeing the label dubiously.
Geralt thought of poison, of course, but it seemed too simple a plan for the assassination of an emperor. It would've been stupid to rely on Emhyr wanting to sample any gifted wine, never mind Beauclair White. Still, he couldn't discount the idea that they'd come with poison as a fallback plan. "A red would go better with the pheasants. And your cup bearer isn't here," he pointed out.
"Mm. It will pair just fine with most of these," Emhyr said, gesturing toward the cheese plate they'd prepared and placed at the center of the table. "And your swords are many more times heavier than this bottle; I trust you'll be able to rise to the task." He gave Geralt an oddly warm look, and Geralt realized he was acting, playing the part of a besotted old emperor. "You worry too much."
"Fine. Sit," he told the Catillons, then set about uncorking the bottle.
Gaultier pulled back a chair for his wife opposite Emhyr, but his attention was drawn to the sets of armor and weapons that decorated the walls. "I've never seen such armor in Toussaint," he commented, taking a few steps closer to the Cat School armor that stood between a cupboard and a large potted plant.
"It's witcher's armor. Can't fight monsters wearing fifty pounds of metal." He poured some wine into a goblet, then sniffed at it as he watched Gaultier carefully, letting him wander from mannequin to mannequin. The wined smelled fine, or at least it smelled like Beauclair White. He took a small sip and found the flavor to be as mediocre as he'd expected, with no unusual undertones that would indicate it had been tempered with. He shrugged to Emhyr and filled three more goblets.
"This one looks like it's from Ofir," Floretta commented, looking at the scale armor Gaultier had stopped in front of. "Are there witchers there?" She'd relaxed a little and did not hesitate to drink from the goblet Geralt handed her. Definitely safe, then.
"Not that I know of."
"School of the Striped Horse would not evoke quite the same fierceness as wolves or bears, I suppose," Emhyr commented, then gave Geralt's arm a brief squeeze as he set a goblet down in front of him. "Thank you."
"So there is a School of the Wolf?" Gaultier inquired as he finally took a seat next to his wife. "That explains your nickname. Though it seems School of the Grape may be more appropriate now."
Geralt forced a smile at the idiotic little quip and sat down next to Emhyr. "Uh huh." He grabbed a piece of cheese — stinkier than he would've liked, but Barnabas-Basil had stocked the kitchen with several kinds he was unfamiliar with, each more alarming-looking than the next — and washed it down with a gulp of wine. This was about as unpleasant as he'd thought it would be: painful small talk, cheese and wine he didn't care for, and Floretta staring at him with open curiosity, her eyes lingering not just on his white hair and scars but also on the marks on his neck. It wasn't the kind of scrutiny he was used to.
Luckily, the conversation ground to a halt when Emhyr tasted the wine, cleared his throat lightly, and fixed Gaultier with the kind of stare that would've made even Geralt squirm. "I'm curious to hear why you believe that soiling Sepremento with this lifeless swill is in any way a sound business venture for Geralt. I'm no vintner, of course, but you'll find I'm not as easy to fool as he is."
Gaultier flushed, though Geralt wasn't sure whether it was from anger or embarrassment. "I, of course, I," he stammered, then tried again. "I would not dare suggest that rosé wine would be fit for a palate as refined as Your Imperial Highness's. However," he added, turning to Geralt, "Carnavere grapes are particularly sensitive to cold weather, and the astrometeorologists predict a harsh winter this year. It would be a shame to let some subpar grapes go to waste when you could instead round out their flavor by blending them with another varietal."
"Hmm." Geralt twirled his goblet idly, pretending to consider the proposal. It didn't sound as absurd to him now as it had on paper, but Emhyr still seemed unimpressed. "Know what you mean. Had a bad harvest two years back. Guess your grapes would be sweet enough to compensate for the acidity."
"Exactly," Gaultier said with an approving nod. "Furthermore, Casteldaccia has stopped producing rosé since the passing of its owner. The market is ripe for a replacement."
He certainly seemed very invested in a plan that had been dreamed up only for the sake of an assassination. The discussion dragged on well into the evening, over the pheasant roast and then a round of Emhyr's favorite cognac (which had somehow materialized in Geralt's kitchen). Emhyr continued to act as if he had more interest in retiring on a vineyard than in the affairs of his empire, occasionally cutting in to negotiate on Geralt's behalf.
Gaultier agreed to a deal that was almost too good to be true, in the end — the bottling and distribution of the blended rosé was to be handled by Castel Toricella, but a sizable portion of the profits would go to Corvo Bianco. His willingness to take on so much of the labor and reap so little of the benefits was the most suspicious thing that transpired all evening; when the Catillons finally said their goodbyes, Geralt was left frowning into his empty goblet, doubting himself. He'd smelled the fear on them at first, he knew that much, but there'd been no poison, no reaching for hidden weapons, nobody hidden outside the house waiting for an opportune moment. The deal was suspect, perhaps, but Corvo Bianco's famous Carnavere grapes had given Geralt the upper hand in the negotiations, and he could hardly blame Gaultier for giving in to Emhyr's demands.
"Not much of an assassination," he told Emhyr, who was still sitting nursing his cognac.
He shot Geralt a slightly annoyed look. "Something will happen tonight. I am sure of it."
They retreated to the bedroom. Emhyr sat on the edge of his bed and withdrew a vicious-looking dagger from the depths of his surcoat. He turned it in his hands slowly, sitting in thoughtful silence. Geralt joined him. "I'll keep watch. Unless you want me to go after them."
"No need. They will be apprehended shortly. A few of my men await them at Castel Toricella." He placed the dagger carefully on the nightstand, then took off his surcoat and handed it to Geralt.
Geralt had it draped over the unicorn before he'd even realized what he was doing. Damn the man and his effortless ability to make people obey him. "You're just arresting them without cause? What if nothing happens?"
"Keep watch," Emhyr said simply as he settled in for the night, lying on his back with the rest of his clothes still on.
Geralt sighed and trudged over to a corner of the room where he could keep an eye on both Emhyr and the bedroom door. He made sure both his swords were within reach, dimmed the lanterns, then knelt down and waited.
And waited.
The flapping of bird wings broke the silence, stopping right at the shuttered window. Geralt stood and grabbed his steel sword. There was the dull thunk of the bird's beak pecking the shutter, then nothing.
"Word from Castel Toricella," Emhyr said, sitting up.
Geralt eyed him skeptically. "Uh huh. Stay away from the window." He approached it and nudged the shutters open with the tip of his sword. There was a raven there, waiting patiently with a message bearing a black seal tied to its leg. "You a friend of Regis?" he asked. The bird did not respond.
"It will not let you approach."
Geralt snorted. "I've fought worse." He reached for the message and the bird hopped away, snapping its beak in warning. "Hey. Easy."
His second attempt resulted in a nasty peck to the skin between his thumb and forefinger. Emhyr's pointed silence was somehow packed with smugness.
"Come here, you son of a—" This was Emhyr's last night in Corvo Bianco. Geralt could have been lying in bed getting ploughed, yet here he was, arguing with a raven. He threw his hand up and cast Axii at the damn thing, then grabbed the message and closed the shutters it its face.
"Well done, witcher," Emhyr said mildly.
"Shut up." He dropped the message in Emhyr's lap. "What does it say?"
Emhyr unfurled the small strip of parchment and leaned closer to the dim light from the nearest lantern. "The Catillons had packed their belongings ahead of our meeting. They were ready to flee Toussaint when they were apprehended. As I said," he added with grim satisfaction, looking up from the message. "Something will happen tonight."
Geralt frowned, thinking back to their dinner with the Catillons. The thought of poison came to mind again — it seemed to be the only possibility. Something that wouldn't start to act right away, perhaps, so that they'd have time to leave the duchy. "How do you feel?" he asked, out of ideas. "Did either of them touch you?"
Emhyr sniffed at the thought. "Of course not. I feel perfectly—"
A great crash sounded from the dining room. Geralt raised his sword, but heard the telltale chittering of something big and insect-like and switched to his silver blade instead. "Hide," he said over his shoulder, then opened the bedroom door without waiting for a reply.
There were several somethings — kikimore warriors, so many of them they seemed to fill the dining room, crowding each other in their hurry to get to him. He saw something sparkling at the corner of his eye and traced Quen in the air just in time for the shards of broken mirror to shatter before they reached him. There was a mage too, standing at the far end of the room, his hands already tracing another spell in the air. Geralt spared a second to curse himself inwardly for not thinking of strapping some demeritium bombs to his belt.
One of the kikimores jumped at him and the protective sphere fizzled out with a burst of magical energy, sending the creature stumbling back. No time to think — he leapt forward and swung his sword.
"I told you to hide," Geralt panted out much later, once he'd carved his way through the kikimores, the mage, and most of his dining room.
Broken plates crunched under Emhyr's feet as he stepped out of the bedroom, looking annoyingly unruffled. He hadn't even taken his dagger with him. "Had I any doubt you would prevail, I would have," he said simply.
Geralt cleared his throat and shook something unpleasant from the tip of his sword, finding it difficult to stay irritated at the state of his house. "Yeah, well." He changed gears and aimed a light kick at the body of the mage. "Know him?"
"No. A hired killer, no doubt. My personal guard will be here shortly to investigate. And take away the bodies." His eyes swept over the room, taking in the overturned table, the broken pieces of furniture and bits of kikimore scattered on the floor, and the pool of blood spreading steadily outward from the mage's dark robes. "We will pay for the repairs, of course."
"Uh-huh. Wonder how they got in," he thought out loud. The front door was still locked, the windows shuttered, and if they'd appeared through a portal, the Catillons' ruse would not have been necessary. He made his way around the room slowly without really knowing what he was searching for, righting toppled mannequins as he went, poking through the debris and bits of kikimore with the tip of his boot.
Something caught the light oddly in the soil that had spilled from the potted plant, which now lay on the floor with a few of its leaves scorched. Geralt crouched down and retrieved a handful of hollow glass beads, each of them broken into a few pieces. He blew off the soil that clung to them and brought them closer to his nose. They stank of kikimore. Puzzled by the lack of reaction from his medallion, he pulled it out of his shirt and pressed it against the broken glass, finally triggering a small, half-hearted tremor.
He stood. "Catillon smuggled them in with these."
Emhyr peered into his hand, then at him. "And you could not sense half a dozen kikimores and a powerful mage hidden in your home?"
"There's some kind of concealment spell on them. Can barely feel the magic."
"Interesting." He retrieved a handkerchief from his doublet and handed it to Geralt, who used it to wrap up the broken beads.
The guards came then, clanging their way inside with about as much finesse as the kikimores, and saluted Emhyr with loud "glòir aen Ker'zaer"s. Barnabas-Basil was hot on their heels; he jumped in surprise at the salutes, stammered a "glòir aen Ker'zaer" of his own, then stared with his mouth agape at the mess.
The next hour or two passed in a blur — the guards insisted on dragging the carcasses out of the house to be carted off and burned, and Barnabas-Basil flitted around them as they worked, straightening what furniture was still salvageable and wiping kikimore guts off the walls. Geralt helped with the clean-up only because there was no way he was going to sleep through the racket.
By the time they finally left, the sun was threatening to rise, most of his body was aching, and he wanted little more than to lie down. He hadn't had a fight like this in months. It had served as a good reminder of why he'd decided to settle down in Corvo Bianco, if nothing else — he didn't think he'd mind the next few empty notice boards he came across.
He made his way to his bedroom, shedding his kikimore-covered boots and clothing as he went, but stopped when he saw Emhyr already in bed, sitting up with the sheets pooled around his hips and his eyes fixed on a scroll. He looked up when Geralt entered, then rolled up the scroll and held it out. "The deed to Castel Toricella. I look forward to your first rosé."
Geralt had approached the bed and taken the scroll before his brain fully caught up. He groaned. "You said Beauclair White was lifeless swill."
"Catillon does not have a witcher's nose. The idea has some merit."
Geralt stared at Emhyr's impassive face for a few seconds, then flung the scroll aside, deciding he'd had quite enough of the man's schemes for one day. "Fine," he said, and clambered into bed.
"You reek of monster blood."
"There's a guest bedroom upstairs," he mumbled into his pillow. He'd done as Emhyr had asked and the Catillons were in jail, or wherever people went after trying to kill an emperor; there was no need for him and Emhyr to pretend anymore.
A tiny, treacherous corner of his mind was still annoyingly pleased when Emhyr snuffed the lantern and slid down to lie next to him, shifting to his usual position with one elbow jammed into Geralt's ribcage. Geralt fell asleep almost instantly.
***
"Witcher."
He grunted, becoming vaguely aware of the sun shining beyond his closed eyelids and of birdsong coming in from outside.
"Geralt." Stubble tickled his neck. Then there was something between a kiss and a bite, just under his ear, and that woke him up. He blinked up at Emhyr. "Cirilla will be coming today."
"Mm?" He wasn't sure why he should care. He closed his eyes again.
"You still haven't named your price."
"You gave me a vineyard."
"Which you clearly do not want. Gold, then."
Geralt shook his head. Corvo Bianco was already generating more florens than he knew what to do with. He stayed silent, thinking. Emhyr's hand found his way to his chest, tracing his scars aimlessly. The thought that he wouldn't mind waking up like this more often crept into his head and made it difficult to consider anything else. Geralt shifted a little, tilted his head to expose more of his throat, and Emhyr's mouth fell upon him again, kissing and sucking.
"Wouldn't mind having your mouth on me again," Geralt managed to say once he'd found his breath.
Emhyr didn't laugh, not quite, but Geralt felt him huff against the hollow of his throat. "Of all the things I could grant you, witcher, this is what you want? You do not have a very vivid imagination."
Geralt swallowed, the rumble of Emhyr's sleep-roughened voice raising goosebumps on his skin and sending a series of increasingly vivid ideas running through his mind. "I, uh."
Emhyr's hand crept downward. "I will give you a chance to think of something I was not already going to occupy my morning with."
The Emperor of Nilfgaard had sucked his cock and wanted to do it again. Geralt blinked up at the ceiling, trying to decide whether he was really awake. Emhyr's hand closed around his erection, warm and firm. It felt very much real.
"Come here with Ciri once a month for dinner," he blurted out.
Emhyr hummed thoughtfully into his neck, the pad of his thumb rubbing at the head of Geralt's cock. "Time is the one resource I cannot spare. It is not so easy to free an emperor's schedule."
"Like hell it isn't. You've been here for three days. And even emperors need to eat."
He raised his head, his expression unreadable but his lips reddened in a way that made Geralt's cock twitch. "Dinner in exchange for saving the life of Emhyr var Emreis. So be it."
"Not just— not just dinner," Geralt managed as Emhyr's hand started to move. "You'll stay the night. Go back to Nilfgaard in the morning."
Emhyr's hand stilled. Geralt would've been disappointed when he let go of his cock, but then he slid his fingers into Geralt's hair and pulled him into a kiss that nearly bruised his mouth and seared all other thoughts from his mind.
He didn't waste much time, afterwards — his mouth traced a path straight down Geralt's chest and he settled himself between Geralt's legs, amber eyes dark with eagerness and fixed on his cock. Geralt couldn't stand the sight for long; it was like staring into the sun. He let his head thump back to his pillow and groaned happily at the slow slide of Emhyr's tongue up the underside of his cock.
He didn't smell the hint of magic in the air until it was too late.
A shriek made them both jump, and Geralt raised himself up to see Ciri standing in the doorway, both hands slapped over her eyes. Emhyr sprang up to a sitting position and pulled the sheets over himself.
"... No. Truly?"
There was a very large grin spreading under Ciri's hands, and Geralt felt a smile pull at his own lips as he stole a corner of the sheets. Emhyr was as close to flustered as he'd ever seen him. He ran a hand through his hair, then drew himself up straighter when Ciri burst into helpless snickers, his eyes widening in outrage.
"You will tell no one what you saw here," he ordered, frowning when that failed to stop Ciri's laughter. "Promise me, Cirilla."
"Absolutely not. Morvran will shit."
She popped out of the room with a burst of green light. Emhyr rounded in on Geralt, glaring down his beakish nose at him. "You raised her to be like this," he said accusingly.
Geralt had to bite the inside of his cheek. "Yeah. She's great." He pulled at the sheets, and Emhyr let him. "Serves you right, anyway. Should've told her what's going on."
"I am under no obligation to explain myself to—" He cut himself off and pinched the bridge of his nose briefly, as if he'd realized the futility of their conversation. He'd recovered most of his composure by the time he looked at Geralt again. "Lie back and keep quiet, witcher. And do not touch my hair."
Geralt lay back, grinning.