Chapter Text
Cesare does not understand Lucrezia the first time she asks.
“You would have Micheletto—as bodyguard? Of course, sis, but why? Have you reason to fear?” Already Cesare tenses in preparation, ready to leap from where he reclines on the bed and seek out the enemy.
“Calm yourself, brother.” Curled under his arm, Lucrezia lays a hand on his chest, turns her cheek against his shoulder. “Not as bodyguard. As—” Cesare imagines he feels her face warming on his skin, “—as lover.”
Cesare does not calm himself: restrains himself, rather. He must not lose his temper with her; he must not hurt her; he must not let her think she has hurt him. Still, his voice is near cracking when he manages, “Do I not love you?”
What can Cesare do if she says so? Kill Micheletto? Even if Cesare tried, and he does not think he could, he has no hope of succeeding; every day on the training ground proves that. Kill himself, then, and sleep in unhallowed ground. It is what he deserves.
Lucrezia sits upright, her fingers stealing along his neck to turn his chin towards her. With no candles lit, he sees only her shadow, the faintest outline of her features by the last lingering gleam of sunset. “But of course you do. As I do you. As I could never love another man.”
“Then why?” The words do not come any easier.
“You know I love my husband too.”
“Yes.” Cesare cannot be more gracious than that.
“Not as I do you. My husband is—is fine wood, perhaps. He is lovely and sturdy, in his way, but not a weapon.” Lucrezia traces her hand back down, following the length of Cesare’s arm and gripping the muscle there. “You, brother, are steel. Forged, fierce, and beautiful. And so I have both of you.”
“What of Micheletto, then?” Still, Cesare cannot make his body unseize; his voice emerges tight from his throat.
“An iron,” Lucrezia says after a pause, “or a poker, heated until it glows. Where you have made yourself a weapon, he is dangerous by his nature.”
Cesare thinks of what Micheletto would do with a red-hot poker. Lucrezia does not know of which she speaks—but then again, maybe she does. “What need have you of such a thing, sis?”
“I could hardly tend a fire without one, brother.” Lucrezia laughs a little and leans into him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. Of course she needs never tend her own fires. “To let me handle the danger from a safe distance…”
Cesare can feel Lucrezia lose the metaphor, but he follows the shape of it. He kisses her forehead, resting there with his lips on damp skin, nose in her hair. She smells of perfume, as always, warm with spice; of the powdery sweetness of orris root; of his sweat; of sex. It is enough to calm him, finally. “I will raise it with him.”
“Thank you,” Lucrezia says quietly. Only when Cesare feels her relax does he realize she has been holding herself as tense as he. “Sleep here with me tonight?”
Cesare nods against her hair. Lucrezia does not often ask him to stay, too wary of a maid arriving before they wake. Anytime she does, his love for her fills him like light itself, a glow suffusing every inch of his being, chasing away the shadows. Tonight, it is so bright that it threatens to burn. He eases them both down the bed so he can fold her in his arms.
Lucrezia tangles her hands with his and brings them to her mouth, kissing his fingers. Cesare cannot hear it, but feels her whisper, “I do love you, brother.”
“As I do you,” he breathes into her curls. He hugs her tighter for a moment. “Sleep, sis. Dream.”