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The mark moaned around the gag.
Inej glanced down at the man they’d collected as collateral, trussed and seated on the floor of an abandoned greenhouse in only his birthday suit.
The greenhouse was in the possession of one Kaz Brekker.
And said Kaz Brekker was perched next to her on a spacious overhang in the upper level, the both of them hidden from view behind a wall of paneling. He’d carved a narrow slit in the wood so any business below could be observed unnoticed.
All Inej had heard about the man in their possession was, ”slaver, secret route, driver.”
It was more than enough to go on. Rearranged, it was nearly a complete sentence. And Kaz had been practically giddy, as far as Kaz went, when he’d invited her on the job.
Inej knew she wasn’t required to join Kaz and Jesper tonight. She wasn’t required to do anything she didn’t want to do, anymore. But as Captain Ghafa, Inej seldom had a chance to spend any time with Kaz. She’d just returned from three months at sea. Hail the saints, even Inej’s parents had spent more time with Kaz at this point.
Plus, Kaz had made a cozy little space on the second level. It made babysitting the mark all night more bearable. A couple of comfortable sleeping mats, covered in thickly-woven Ravkan blankets, a bright enough lantern for reading and polishing her sharp saints, and a chance to look at Kaz to her heart’s content.
He didn’t have to ask her twice.
Below, the slaver had fallen into a befuddled doze, exhaustion finally overtaking the bastard.
Exhaustion wasn’t the only element at work. Kaz felt a twisted ribbon of pleasure snake through his insides as he watched the naked man sink into himself, head lolling, spittle leaking around the gag. The sorry wooden pillar against his back was the most comfort the man had going for him, if he only knew what nightmares the morning would bring.
Kaz turned away from observing the mark and whistled once. An answering whistle emerged from the dark. Jesper. A shuffling of the crows on watch.
Kaz noted the acknowledgement by relaxing his shoulders. He pulled a slat closed over the cut in the panel.
The man they called Dirtyhands receded to the background.
Kaz sank onto his sleeping mat. He rolled toward Inej, tucked in on the mat next to him, and placed his hands together under his cheek.
She met his gaze, head pillowed on one arm. Inej extended the other into the space between them, fingers splayed on the blanket.
“Our mark all tucked in?” Inej asked.
Kaz grimaced.
“Not the slightest,” he said. “But he’s knocked out.”
“Good.”
They were silent for several minutes. Letting their weather change.
Kaz broke the silence first.
“Tell me a story?” he asked.
The corner of Inej’s mouth quirked up in the soft light of the lantern. She lifted her outstretched hand and rested her palm on his temple. Her fingers dipped through the longer strands of his hair. There was more of it.
The time he’d spent with her parents had imbued him with some sort of inner vitality. Even the grooves under his eyes, which Inej thought to be permanent fixtures, were softer.
Inej would have to pull the full retelling out of Kaz eventually. So far all she’d gotten from Jesper was, “Your dad made him chop a lot of vegetables. Every time I went over, your men were in the kitchen. Or Kaz was sitting on the roof with your ma.”
Inej smiled. This beautiful boy, she thought. This beautiful boy is mine, and well.
Kaz didn’t flinch. Her touch no longer drowned, it quenched. And he drank his fill.
Kaz was still Dirtyhands on a job. And Inej was still his investment, his lever, his liability.
But Inej was also love. And well, wasn’t love what started every sorry tale?
So Inej told him a story. About a boy and a girl. A roof, underneath which was safety. A bougainvillea rambling over a back gate. It had thorns. The boy did not. The boy looked very nice in a turmeric-colored kurta tunic —
Inej stopped, her nose wrinkling.
Kaz caught it too. “It appears our collateral is making an offering,” Kaz said.
“Such a poetic interpretation of, ‘Our hostage just shat himself,’” Inej replied.
She sighed and whistled a weary are-you-going-to-take-care-of-that-but-I-already-know-the-answer whistle. Jesper’s answering trill all but spelled out no!-fuckno!-this-twisted-sleepover-was-his-idea-I’m-too-pretty-to-mop-up-slaver-poop.
Inej rolled her eyes and made to move but Kaz touched her shoulder, gentling her back down.
“I’ll go,” he said.
Kaz levered himself up, pulled on his gloves and stole down the adjacent metal staircase, cane at his side. A few minutes later, Inej heard the sound of a hose stutter to life. She leaned back on her mat. The slave driver’s cries as ice-cold water strafed his bumhole were a symphony, and Kaz’s snarled retorts made her eyelids grow heavy. Wherever Kaz was hurling vitriol and annoyed, Inej was safe as houses.
Inej didn’t open her eyes when Kaz eventually returned. She didn’t need to.
“Doesn’t smell like shit anymore,” she observed.
“Well, isn’t that a comfort,” Kaz retorted.
He paused. “I washed, too.”
Saints, she knew. She could practically smell the clean wet of his hair from six feet away. It was foolhardy on a damp, cold night such as this but Inej smiled at his hesitant offering all the same. He wouldn’t have gone to such lengths were she not there.
As if she’d kick him out of their gilded accommodations had he not. They’d be back in the Slat, warm and dry soon enough.
Inej opened her eyes.
“Lay down and dry your hair,” she ordered. All the brains in the barrel and he was going to give himself an ear infection for her.
Kaz obeyed. The towel formed a half-hearted turban around his head. Inej reached up and squeezed the excess water from his hair in increments, moving her fingers along his scalp. Kaz hummed with pleasure.
From below, their collateral moaned.
“He’s still alive,” observed Inej. Well done.
Kaz shrugged one shoulder, demure. Hidden depths.
“Shall I finish the story?” Inej asked.
“Please,” Kaz replied.
Inej continued the story as his eyes fluttered shut.
“The boy looked very nice in his tunic. The woman he’d made his wife, let’s call her ... Jeni.” The palindrome felt pedestrian and mercher the moment it touched her lips. Kaz’s satisfied smile yielded a moue of distaste. He opened his eyes and lifted his head.
“Jeni?” he challenged. His voice was amused even as he mocked her.
“Okay, okay; not Jeni,” she placated, pushing his head back down. “Inej, Inej, her name’s Inej.”
Kaz settled himself back down. “Better.” He reached for her hand and kissed her palm. It was the only name he’d accept.
“Inej was very pretty. She wore a midnight blue sari. They had many children, and fresh honey and eggs every day. Waffles, too. And when the bougainvillea grew too far, they allowed it, because beautiful things flourish rarely.” Inej paused. “His name was—“
“Don’t say, ‘Zak.’”
“—Kaz,” Inej finished. She slid her fingers through his, palm tingling where he had kissed it, and held tight. “His name was Kaz.”
The dark outside grew gray. Morning beckoned.
“You know, all your stories involve us wearing colors and having children,” mused Kaz. He squeezed her fingers back. “And nothing bad ever happens.”
Inej leaned her chin on their clasped hands.
“That’s the angle,” Inej whispered.
Kaz held her gaze. He said nothing for a long moment.
Then he bobbed his hand joined with hers, the merest shadow of a handshake. The corner of his mouth crooked up.
Inej smiled.
The deal is the deal.