brave new world
“Almost there, mogliettina,” Ezio assured her, for what felt like the hundredth time, as he pressed a kiss against her temple. He’d started telling her that almost an hour ago.
She squirmed against him, trying to find a less uncomfortable position on the thestral’s bony back. They’d left Alamūt well over four hours ago and she was slightly nauseous and beginning to really need to pee.
Ezio had taken her to meet Mari in a cavernous long room filled with enormous mirrors. There was something not quite right about the mirrors, but Mari was irritable and sharper tongued than usual and Ezio was impatient and had wrapped a hard arm around her waist and dragged her with him right through one of the mirrors. The place on the other side of the mirror was disorienting in its absolute nothingness. It was empty, nothing but shifting colorless mists and phantasmagorical light with no obvious source, and the air had no scent or taste, no discernable temperature, she couldn’t feel it in her lungs or against her skin; sound was strangely muted. The Mirror Roads, Ezio had said when she asked him where they were. One of the places in between worlds. She’d almost screamed when the strangely reptilian winged horses emerged from the swirling mists, responding to Ezio’s summons. Mari had rolled her eyes from her perch on her mount’s back at her squeak of alarm as Ezio had hauled her up onto his mount in front of him and settled her almost on its withers, between its enormous bat-like wings.
His hand rested heavily on the curve of her belly. He’d been sneaking touches since they had left Alamūt, every time he thought his sister wasn’t watching – quick kisses against the side of her neck, sly strokes along her thighs and over her aching breasts – and he’d whispered in her ear, love words and praise and sex acts he desired that she blushed at the thought of. She was frightened of what he’d do to her when they were alone that evening.
“How much longer now, Varpet?” she asked, allowing a plaintive note to enter her voice. “I don’t feel well.”
“You never feel well,” Mari snarked as the thestrals began a sudden, circling descent.
“Be nice, Mari,” Ezio snapped, followed by a sharp staccato of Italian.
Knowing that Ezio and Mari grew up speaking Arabic at home with their mother made it even more jarring when they suddenly switched to Italian; she knew they were either talking about her or saying things they otherwise wouldn’t have said around her. It hurt that Ezio still excluded her from conversations to the point where he didn’t even want her to be able to follow what was being said right in front of her. By now she was fairly sure that when Mari said il bambino-sposa to Ezio she was referring to her, and her tone when she said it suggested that it didn’t mean something remotely nice. At least she hasn’t called me ‘mignotta’ again. She turned to press her cheek against Ezio; the dizzying descent was making her nausea far worse.
Mari responded with her own forceful volley of Italian, punctuated by brushing her hand beneath her chin with a sharp, forward flick of her wrist. Ezio responded by raising one hand in a fist and reaching around her to strike the crook of his raised elbow with the other hand. She flinched; neither Ezio nor Mari appeared to have noticed as they glowered silently in opposite directions. Hopefully this means they’re giving each other the silent treatment. While it was uncomfortable to be around them when they weren’t speaking, it was preferable to their arguing.
The thestral landed with a sudden jolt and Ezio’s arm reflexively tightened around her; it didn’t help her need to pee.
“Nipoti!” the gravelly voice of a man called.
“Hey, zio Mario,” Ezio replied, absently stroking his hand down her spine before dismounting.
She glanced up and saw Mari embracing an older man with the same honeyed-copper skin she and Ezio shared. Ezio stepped forward and embraced him in turn before returning to help her dismount.
“Taline, this is my Uncle Mario, Grandmaster of Roma. Uncle Mario, may I present my wife, Taline,” Ezio said with a dazzling smile, hand anchored to the small of her back, pressing her forward. She immediately comprehended the honor he’d done her – Assassin introductions were always made in accordance to rank; as essentially a non-member of the Order, Ezio should have presented her to his Grandmaster uncle first, not the other way around. The fleeting expressions on his uncle and sister’s faces indicated that they’d noted the inversion as well. She wondered if Ezio would have followed Assassin etiquette if she wasn’t pregnant with his child.
“Ah, Ezio, I’m very pleased to finally meet your bella ragazza,” Mario replied with broad, toothy smile. “You’ve kept her hidden away from us for so long I was starting to wonder if she was just a dream.”
Mario Auditore shared Ezio’s build – tall and large boned, with massive broad shoulders, but whereas Ezio’s body was that of a young man in his prime – sculpted hard muscle, lean hips and a flat stomach – Mario’s was ravaged by age and hard living, bloated by rich food and fondness for drink. He had the bulbous nose and ruddy complexion of a habitual and chronic alcoholic, and his warm hazel eyes were bloodshot and shadowed. His reddish-brown hair was heavily peppered with gray and his hairline had receded rather significantly, which he seemed to be compensating for with a formidable handlebar mustache, meticulously trimmed and waxed into shape.
“Welcome to Roma,” Mario continued, addressing her with a warm smile that strongly reminded her of Ezio’s. “Your marriage to my beloved nephew relieved my heavy concern for his well-being. I am so very pleased that he found such a comely and fertile young woman to be his wife, and my happiness is doubled to see that you are already carrying his first child.” He positively beamed at her. Ezio looked mildly embarrassed; Mari looked blatantly bored.
“The first of many, I hope,” she replied, nervously touching her fingertips to her forehead, lips and heart. Dark Mother bless me and the child inside me. Bless us, Mother, bless us.
Mario’s smile momentarily flickered at the sight of that unthinking gesture before aggressively reasserting itself. She immediately regretted her slip and instinctively reached for Ezio, in need of reassurance as to his continued protection.
“Mia moglie è un Cataro, zio Mario,” Ezio said drawing her body up against his and stroking a comforting hand down her spine. “It is known at Alamūt, but not below the level of Master. Al Mualim has accepted her.”
“Un Cataro?” Mario repeated cautiously, studying her with markedly greater scrutiny as he led them through the arching doorway that looked like a strange mirror from the other side.
She felt her cheeks heat and she pressed more closely to Ezio, burrowing a hand inside his robes to touch his marriage scar. Protect me, she silently pleaded. His hand moved from her lower back to caress her belly, fingers splayed possessively.
“She’s harmless, Uncle Mario,” Mari said impatiently. “They have her teaching toddlers.”
“And teenagers,” Ezio aggressively added. “Advanced mathematics and Turkish. My wife was given an excellent education.”
There was a shade of calculation in Mario’s smile. “Intelligent and beautiful, well done, nipote.”
“Where’s Mother?” Ezio asked, sweeping his eyes over their surroundings. “I would have thought she’d be here by now; she was extremely interested in meeting Taline.”
“You haven’t done anything underhanded, have you, Zio?” Mari demanded, arching a suspicious brow.
“Your mother is the underhanded one,” Mario declared with a derisive sniff. “Always has been-”
“Zio-” Ezio interrupted warningly.
“-but she and I came to a mutually agreeable arrangement: I was to send an elf informing her when you arrived and then accompany you all to la Rosa in Fiore where your mother has prepared lunch.” Mario smiled smugly. “You see, your mother and I are perfectly capable of civil discourse.”
Ezio and Mari harrumphed nearly in unison.
“Varpet, I really need to-” she hesitated, unsure of the polite word used in Arabic; Mari was always scoffing at her word choices. “-işemek.” She used Turkish instead of Armenian because there was the off chance that Mario would understand her, and it was certain that Mari would not.
“Işemek?” Ezio repeated with a questioning quirk of his brows.
Damn him.
“Ah,” Mario said, and stamped for an elf. She could have cried with relief.
Ezio shot a questioning look towards his uncle.
“Pregnant women have their needs,’ Mario explained with a frown directed at his nephew. “Your wife shouldn’t have to rely on a rough old dog like me to remember that.”
“Oh god. Really, Uncle Mario?” Mari exclaimed. “Is there anything you and Mother won’t stoop to in your shadow war? She’s hardly worth fighting over.”
Mario was saved from responding by several elves appearing in response to his summons. He drew one of them aside and gave it low-voiced instructions.
Ezio shot a narrow-eyed look towards his sister and said something in clipped Italian. Mari responded with a sibilant hiss.
“Enough,” Mario commanded. “I know your mother taught you both better manners than that.”
She could feel the magic rolling off of Mario in waves as he exerted his will over Ezio and Mari; it wasn’t particularly subtle. The elf Mario had instructed came over to her, bobbed a quick bow and signed something. She’d learned some of the sign language the elves used, but obviously not as much as she had thought; she had no idea what the elf was trying to tell her. It signed again and reached for her hand. A sudden abdominal cramp reminded her how badly she really did have to pee. She slipped away from Ezio’s possessive grasp while he was distracted by his uncle and sister and took the elf’s hand.
There was a strange feeling of a hook catching just behind her navel, followed by a violent tug, and suddenly she was standing in a rather spacious private bathroom. The nausea hit her like a wall of water as soon as she took a breath and she vomited on the floor.
“I’m so, so sorry,” she mumbled, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
The elf, who had been rubbing her upper back while she’d been sick shook its head so forcefully its ears wobbled and motioned to her then pointed to the toilet. Its meaning was fairly clear. It felt wonderful to finally empty her bladder. The elf wasted no time vanishing the vomit and purifying the air of its smell. She washed her hands and rinsed out her mouth at the sink. The finely milled soap lathered beautifully into buttery smooth bubbles with a wonderfully earthy, spicy scent, which made her wonder whose private bathroom she was using. The elf brought her a clean soft hand towel when she’d finished washing, lightly scented of rosemary, instead of hyssop, and she felt much better than she had for hours. She took a moment to focus on draining the tension and anxiety from her body, and then caressed her hands over her swelling belly, channeling a soft wash of soothing energy over her child. Yusriyah had assured her she could safely travel via the Mirror Roads until her seventh month or so – gravity and atmospheric density are reduced in the place between worlds, and the air is actually purer, with more oxygen than what we’re breathing right now. It’s perfectly safe for you, and your baby, especially if you travel by thestral. Part of her had wished that Yusriyah had suggested she shouldn’t travel because of her prior miscarriage, but even the trusted medic didn’t think the trip should pose a risk to her child. I’m just being paranoid, and silly.
“Thank you, for taking care of me,” she murmured as she smoothed her hair, even though she knew that the elves didn’t seem to like being thanked. It felt rude not to express her gratitude for their service.
It didn’t like her thanking it, she could tell by the quick, annoyed double blink and the way it shifted its weight from one hip to the other. She almost apologized before she remembered that they liked that even less than being thanked. She finished preening and turned back to the elf.
“Will you return me to my husband, Ezio Effendi, please?” she asked as she extended her hand. The elf clutched her fingers tightly and vanished them both with a sharp tug.
She next found herself in an empty foyer – gleaming wood floors and creamy sgraffiti[1] on golden walls – the elf handed her a small phial of egg-yolk yellow potion and motioned for her to drink it and then rubbed its stomach. It tasted like sweet lemons and ginger, and, more importantly, it removed any trace of nausea she felt.
“Thank the Maker,” she breathed as she re-corked the now empty phial.
“Taline?”
She looked up as Ezio strode into the room. The elf immediately took the empty phial from her hand and vanished with a sharp pop. She blinked back her surprise at being so suddenly abandoned and jolted at Ezio’s touch.
“Easy Mogliettina,” he soothed, slipping an arm around her waist and drawing her forward. “Come meet my mother.”
She leaned into him, drawing comfort from the familiarity of his scent in an otherwise wholly unfamiliar and overwhelming situation, but dragged her feet slightly, not quite ready to face the rest of his family. He noticed her hesitation and slowed his steps.
“Is everything okay?” He tipped her chin up to better study her expression and stroked a fingertip along her cheek.
“I threw up,” she admitted, turning her face away and nibbling her bottom lip nervously. She flinched when he sighed.
“You can’t keep throwing up everything you eat, Taline. It’s not good for the baby,” he scolded. “Or for you.” He sighed again and turned to fully face her. “We’re having Ribollita. Try to eat some and keep it down, okay Mogliettina?”
She avoided his eyes and nodded. It’s not like I throw up all the time on purpose. She wished he could understand how draining the constant nausea was, how much it hurt to throw up as often as she did.
“What’s Ribollita?”
“Bread and vegetable soup, with cannellini beans,” a woman’s voice responded. “Be kind Ezio; it’s your child that’s making her sick, mio tesoro. Introduce us.”
She immediately recognized Ezio’s mother from the picture Altaïr kept on his bureau. Madonna Maria was dressed in shades of white – a fitted blouse and a narrow skirt, with an enormous cascade of pearls around her neck. Her silky-sheer stockings were not drawn on. Her ink-black hair was carefully upswept and her eyes were dark and hard. Assassin eyes.
“Mother, it is my honor to present my wife, Taline. Taline, this is my mother, Madonna Maria ibn-La’Ahad,” Ezio said, hand anchored possessively against the small of her back. His mother’s cool smile warmed with approval as he pronounced her last name.
“La’Ahad?” she blurted out in surprise with a questioning look to Ezio. “Not Auditore?”
“My children have their father’s name; I have my own,” Maria replied. “It is the old Assassin way. I understand that you’ve taken my son’s name, but tell me, what was your own?”
She hesitated, before remembering that they were all dead and it didn’t matter anymore if people knew what her family name had been.
“Hagopian,” she whispered, eyes lowered to the intricately patterned parquet floor.
“Hagopian,” Maria repeated. “A good name; it has strength. Come, the soup is getting cold.”
The heels of Maria’s white dragon leather shoes were very high, and Ezio’s boots were heavy, yet somehow the only sound of footsteps as they proceeded down the hallway towards a light-filled doorway were her own.
She didn’t know what she had expected Ezio’s mother to be like, but she was unprepared for the reality of meeting her, of being graciously offered hospitality and seemingly friendly, light conversation. Ezio’s mother had loomed, large and unknown, over the whole idea of the trip so far. She’s not like Ezio. Between the two of them, I suppose she’s more like Mari. Mari had never even tried to be this nice to her. It must be because of the baby, she realized. Ezio wanted to wait until I was pregnant to bring me to Roma. Her throat tightened at the thought; it would have been nice to feel accepted into the family for herself, and not just her ability to produce Ezio’s children.
Maria led them into a dining room bright with natural sunlight. Mario had taken the seat at one end of the rectangular table, Mari in the seat at his right. Beside Mari sat a woman with long thick blonde hair, brown eyes, and a strangely angular face; her smile momentarily wavered, before sharpening, as her eyes moved from Taline to Ezio.
“E-zo!” she exclaimed, voice slightly raspy and deeper than Taline had expected. “I’m so glad to see you!”
“Lucia!” Ezio beamed at the blonde with one of his dazzling smiles and leaned across the table to exchange cheek kisses. “I’m so glad to see you too. You look great.”
She hovered uncertainly behind her husband, feeling forgotten and invisible. Maria and Mario exchanged a strange look – dislike and calculation, understandable and expected, but it also contained a sort of unspoken understanding – she puzzled over what it might mean.
“Come, sit beside me, bella ragazza,” Mario said, indicating the empty chair at his left. “I’ve only got the length of lunch to visit before I have to return to my duties at the Motherhouse and I’ve hardly gotten to meet you.”
“In that case, let us begin,” Maria said, tone sweetly venomous and reminding Taline strongly of her daughter. “The sooner we finish, the better.”
“Mother, please,” Ezio protested.
Mario flashed bared teeth down the table at Maria and then turned to her with an actual smile as he tapped his blade against her bowl to fill it.
“It’s unfortunate that my nephew waited until Lent for your first trip to Italy, the food is usually much better, I promise,” he said. He filled their glasses next and she hurriedly followed his lead when he took a sip of the musky dark grape juice. Mario’s mouth twisted at the flavor.
“It’s Lent, Zio,” Mari reminded him sweetly. “When good Catholics don’t drink alcohol.”
“The best Catholics never give up alcohol, un’asina,” Ezio laughed. “How would the good friars support themselves without the faithful to buy wine and beer by the barrelful?”
The soup somehow managed to be both watery and spongy in her mouth. The tonic the elf gave me isn’t strong enough to overcome this, she thought with a shivering swell of nausea. Ezio’s arm was casually draped around the back of her chair while he talked and laughed with Lucia in Italian. Sometimes Mario or Maria contributed to the conversation, but mostly she felt them watching her while she toyed with her food and choked down the occasional bite. She smiled brightly when she caught both of them looking directly at her and leaned closer to Ezio.
“Eat up, Taline,” Mari suddenly cooed. “You’ve hardly touched your food. Is something the matter? Don’t you like it?”
“It’s quite good. I like it very much,” she lied with a bright smile. “I’m just a little queasy from traveling. I’m not used to flying.”
“Haven’t you traveled by thestral before?” Lucia asked as she took her time tucking a shiny soft lock of hair behind her ear.
“N-no-” she started, throat tightening with distress at the way Ezio’s eyes followed the movement of Lucia’s hand. It was upsetting enough to watch her previously trim waistline thicken, but she was starting to get clumsy as well – tripping and dropping things – Yusriyah assured her it was perfectly normal, the natural side effect of the hormones her body was now producing, but she was feeling like more and more of a stranger in her own skin. It wasn’t fair.
“When would she have?” Mari cut across her impatiently. “She’s not an Assassin. Ezio found her dancing in the cabaret in town-”
“Enough, Mari,” Ezio snarled. “Just give it a rest already, Christ.”
“May I please be excused?” she asked quickly, feeling nauseous and overwhelmed – the strange food and new faces, the complicated interwoven web of connections between everyone else in the room – it was all just too much; she needed space to breathe. “I’m not used to traveling so far and I really feel quite exhausted.”
“Of course,” Maria murmured. “You’ll feel much better once you’ve had some time to rest with your husband. Ezio, show your wife to your room and see that she has everything she needs to feel better.”
“Yes, Mother.”
She swallowed the protest that sprang to her lips and forced a fragile smile. The last thing to make me feel better right now is sex, which is exactly what he’ll want the moment we’re alone.
“Thank you, Madonna,” she dutifully murmured to her mother-in-law before turning to Mario. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Messere.” She was glad she’d taken the time to learn the titles and polite forms of address the Order used in Italy from Ezio before they’d left Alamūt; one less thing for Mari to sneer at her over.
“The pleasure was all mine, bella ragazza,” Mario said with a smile that peeled years of bitterness and hard-living off his face.
“Uh-oh, E-zo,” Lucia laughed. “You had better watch him or your uncle will steal your new bride right out from under your nose.”
Mario’s expression hardened, and she’d been studying Ezio’s various micro-expressions long enough to tell that his easy smile was forced.
“That’s enough, Lucia,” Maria snapped. “Hold your tongue and accord the effendi the respect he is due.”
There was something – something in Maria’s voice, something she was leaving unsaid. She could see a shadow of that same something briefly flash across Mario’s eyes when he met Maria’s gaze. Secrets. She swallowed uncomfortably; she knew all about family secrets. The pasha’s pendant was cold between her breasts.
Ezio wrapped his fingers around her hers and led her from the dining room, down the hall, up a curving flight of stairs and down another hall to a room, presumably his former bedroom. The first thing she noticed was the large sleigh bed, its headboard and footboard carved of dark hardwood. There was a matching dresser and a large free-standing full length mirror, as well as a bench trunk at the foot of the bed. The heavy velvet drapes at the windows were a violent dark red. She was relieved to see that the room had its own fireplace; she’d become inexplicably more sensitive to the often chilly spring weather.
“Would you like to lie down and rest?” Ezio asked. She flinched when he brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek; she didn’t mean to, but it was too late and he had already noticed her reaction. Hurt momentarily dimmed his smile.
“I don’t know, maybe,” she nervously wrung her hands and strode over to the window; the view was dominated by the wall of the building next door, and pigeons. “You don’t have to stay with me. You should go back, visit with your family. I feel bad that I’ve stolen you away when we’ve only just arrived.”
“Don’t feel bad, Mogliettina,” he murmured, suddenly behind her. He slid his arms around her waist and pressed a kiss to the crest of her cheek. “I would just sit there and worry about you if I went back now. Go rest on the bed and let me take care of you.”
Her feet felt weighted as she walked to the bed and sat, sinking down into the deep feather mattress. She watched, with dissociative fascination, as Ezio stamped for an elf and ordered a loaf of Penia – a sweet bread, Mogliettina. We always have it for Easter. You’ll like it, I promise – and a carafe of fresh milk. He approached with a predatory gleam in his eyes and knelt before her to remove her shoes, hands sliding over her aching calves and up her thighs to unfasten the clips holding up her warm, knitted lace stockings. She was granted a brief respite from his advances by the arrival of an elf bearing a braided loaf of the bread and a carafe of milk with two glasses that Ezio had ordered. He immediately tore a piece off and gave it to her. It was still warm from the oven, soft and sweet in her mouth. She suddenly felt ravenous and wolfed down the piece he had given her and tore off another. He watched her eat with a strange, soft smile.
“Do you like it? Do you think you’ll be able to keep it down, Mogliettina?” he asked as he handed her a glass of milk.
“I like the taste of lemon and anise, but it’s very rich, Varpet,” she murmured as she accepted the glass and tried to waive away the bite of bread he was about to feed her. The milk was cold, deliciously creamy and soothing to her sore throat as she drained the glass.
“The eggs make the dough richer,” he acknowledged, setting the morsel aside to take her empty glass before slithering onto the bed behind her. “But you need all the nutrients we can get inside you. Four months pregnant, and you’re still practically skin and bones! You have to have noticed the way everyone has been looking at you, the worry in their faces… I just want you to be strong and healthy, want our baby to be strong and healthy… Porcoddio, I need your sweet figa. I’m sorry, please forgive me, please, please Taline…”
He pressed against her, hands roving over her body and breath hot against the side of her neck as he peeled off the layers of her clothing. He wasted no time similarly denuding himself and then was all over her, eager and excited as he murmured endearments and encouragement and pleas for consent against her skin. She cried out, before she could stop herself, when he entered her from behind with a powerful deep thrust. It hurt. Her customary discomfort was punctuated with bolts of blinding white pain every time he made contact with her cervix and the additional pressure from accommodating him inside her in that position was nearly unbearable. She disguised her discomfort with moans and swallowed down her sobs. He did not finish quickly.
“You’re so amazing,” he murmured against her hair as he held her afterward. “No other woman has ever felt so good, so right. I’m so glad that you’re mine, always and forever mine.”
His, for the rest of our lives, his. She shivered. Be careful what you wish for, it might just come true, her father’s cook had often told her warningly when she was growing up. This is what I always wanted – a husband, a child – why am I still so afraid? What’s wrong with me? She was shivering so violently that her teeth chattered.
“Are you cold, Mogliettina?” he asked gently, voice softened with concern and the fleeting satisfaction of orgasm. “Come here, let me warm you up.”
He pressed her body firmly to his own and tucked the blankets more securely around them. He cuddled her, tracing his signature scarred into her skin and whispering endearments and praise against her hair, until she felt the tension melting from her body, until she felt warm and safe and protected and treasured and she couldn’t remember exactly why she had felt so afraid. It always felt good when he touched her marriage scar, filled her body with warmth and peace and a heavy, intoxicating satisfaction. His hand slid lower to gently slip a finger inside her, taking his time teasing her body until she shivered from her orgasm against him.
“What are we going to do all week, if we’re not going to the estate in Lucca until the weekend, Varpet?” she murmured, cuddling into the warmth of his body. He sucked his fingers and took his time answering.
“I have work to do at the Motherhouse with Uncle Mario,” he finally replied with a sigh. “So you’ll have plenty of time to get to know my mother and see the sights. I’ll see who’s available to show you around, preferably someone who speaks some Turkish, yeah?”
“What work do you still have here? I thought you were reassigned to Alamūt months ago?” she asked, squirming into a less uncomfortable position.
“I was, but I had a lot of students here.” He shrugged. “My departure from Roma was rather precipitous and there’s still a fair number of loose ends to tie off. I owe it to my former students, at least, to make sure that they all have satisfactory permanent reassignments, and I might just have one or two transferred over to Alamūt so I can continue working with them-” he shrugged again “-but we’ll have to see.”
She hesitated, rubbing her cheek against his prickly chest; he’d trimmed his chest hair shorter than he usually did before they left Alamūt. “You won’t be going on any contracts?”
“No, no contracts,” he assured her. “I remember my promise.”
“Thank you.” She pressed a kiss to his marriage scar and he hummed appreciatively, curling his body more tightly around hers.
“Mmm, that feels good, Mogliettina,” he practically purred as she stroked the large burn scar on his thigh and cuddled closer.
She watched him cautiously from beneath her lashes for a moment, trying to gauge his reaction, his mood – she didn’t want to arouse him again so soon – but he seemed to still be in his refractory period, cuddly and affectionate. He liked it when she touched his scars, soft strokes or feather light touches as she traced the edges and asked how he had gotten them. The one on the right side of his chest, half a hands-width below his nipple and just off to the side, was where he’d been shot while on contract in Munich. The hex-scar on his left forearm – shaped like a jagged lightning strike, pale and satiny smooth – he’d gotten in Forli. There was a sharp crescent of scars on his left calf, from a contract in Adam, just south of Tobruk, where he’d been bitten by the target’s dog. There were shrapnel scars of varying ages on his back from being too close to explosions. His most recent physical scar, still slightly tender to the touch, was on his side, where he’d been knifed during a contract in Innsbruck nine months ago.
“It doesn’t disgust you?” he asked, voice soft, almost tentative. “Burn scars-” he hesitated, shifted his weight and avoided her eyes “-they’re so ugly, and it’s such a large scar, deep… You don’t have to touch it, if you don’t like to, Mogliettina.”
She hesitated, puzzling over his harboring such a specific insecurity when he took such pride in his body, reveled in it being admired, and loved to show it off. I hardly understand him at all. A bolt of fear lanced through her at the realization.
“It doesn’t disgust me,” she murmured, pressing her palm to the scarred tissue and drawing it down in a long, soothing stroke. “Our scars, our accidents and mistakes, shape who we really are, not where we come from or what we are given. But it is our actions and choices that define us, not our scars.”
He shifted again and silently studied her. There was something in his expression, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, and it unnerved her. A chill shivered down her spine like cold water. Then he was smiling at her, disarmingly sleepy and sweet, as he pulled the tie from his hair and carded a hand through the thick locks.
“You have a gift for always saying what I need to hear. How do you do that? How do you know?” he murmured as he reached over and carefully pulled the silver wire and gemstone combs from her hair and dropped them over the side of the bed, one at a time.
She quickly swallowed the protest that sprang to her lips at his casual indifference towards something so valuable; the stones were a rare shade of pastel pink-apricot Morganite, expertly cut by her uncle. Ezio had manage to secure a truly staggering number of her uncle’s jewels for her, and she still wasn’t entirely comfortable wearing a small fortune in her day to day life. He coiled a lock of her hair around his index finger and pressed it to his lips.
“Dio santo, you’re beautiful.”
Her cheeks heated. “I’m uncomfortable. My skin itches all over. Will you get my ointment, Varpet?” She traced his marriage scar and smiled up at him sweetly. It was playing with fire – she knew that – to ask him to rub the special preparation Yusriyah had blended for her into her skin, but it felt good when he rubbed her and her skin did itch and hurt from being stretched and it was only a matter of time, really, before he would want her again and there was the off chance that keeping his hands busy would help her avoid having to endure more painful intercourse.
“Yeah, I can do that.” He kissed her, aggressive and deep, and the ends of his hair tickled the edges of her face. She relaxed into the kiss, let herself enjoy the way he felt against her. She sighed when he moved away from her to retrieve the salve from his bag.
“Will you light a fire, Varpet? It’s cold,” she said as she sat up and hugged the covers to her breasts.
“Get my lotion, light a fire. Am I a house elf or your husband?” he teased, glancing up from their bag with a smile.
“A husband who lights fires and gets his wife’s lotion?” she suggested, returning his smile. It was nice to tease and flirt with him, to feel protected and cherished – if only for the child inside her. She felt comfortable, confident.
“And what do I get in return for my servitude?” he queried, hand sliding down to his groin; he was already half hard.
The warm, happy glow she’d felt only a moment before evaporated, leaving behind a hollow feeling of dread. Please not again, not so soon. She was suddenly hyper aware of the lingering tenderness between her legs, how battered that part of her body felt. She wanted to cry.
Ezio came back towards her, bar of ointment in hand, the blue flames of the fire he’d cast flickered in the grate behind him.
“Hey,” he murmured, cupping the side of her jaw in one hand. “Is everything okay, Mogliettina?” He sighed when she didn’t respond and brushed his lips against hers. “Maybe a good rubdown will make you feel better, yeah? Shall we try?”
She nodded mutely and allowed him to peel back the covers. He kissed the undersides of her breasts while he warmed the ointment between his hands. It felt amazing, warm and tingling, when he rubbed it into her skin. A soft moan slipped past her lips as his hands slid over her distended abdomen.
“Does this help? Do you feel less itchy?” he asked, turning her to rub the ointment down her aching spine.
She nodded, eyes closing. “I’m not even that big yet. It’s going to be really terrible in a few months, isn’t it?”
“It’ll be fine,” he assured her warmly and dusted feather-light kisses on her eyelids. “And when autumn comes we two will become us three. I can’t wait to hold our child; I hope he has your pretty eyes,” he hesitated. “And my mother’s coloring, your coloring-” he brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek “-I think it would make his life easier, to not be so dark.”
“I want him to have your skin,” she insisted with a shake of her head. “I want everyone to know at a glance that he is your son. It would be a greater disadvantage to not look like his handsome father.” Mother, please, let my child look like his father, she silently prayed, knowing full well what the gossip would be if their child didn’t take after Ezio strongly enough, and how much it would hurt him if people questioned the paternity of their children.
“Oh, piccola mamma,” he breathed, pressing her back down against the mattress. He kissed her hungrily, mouth drifting down her throat to latch onto her collarbone, nibbling and sucking in earnest until she felt the sharp sting of a lovebite forming. She squirmed, breaking his suction on her skin and guided his mouth back to hers. His kisses heated, becoming a barrage of lips and tongue and playfully nipping teeth, as he rubbed the remaining ointment on his hands into her thighs, moving upwards and inwards. She jolted when he pressed his thumb against her opening, still stinging and tender from his earlier possession. It burned when he eased a finger inside her, her body tensing and tightening in protest at another invasion.
He broke their kiss but didn’t pull away, staying so close the underside of his tongue grazed her lips when he licked his.
“Did I hurt you?”
She froze. The question was a tightrope, spanning an abyss. She’d always been a little afraid of heights.
“Varpet?” she murmured with a questioning lilt and ingeniously widened her eyes.
“You know what I’m asking you, Taline. Stop playing games,” he replied, withdrawing the fingers he had had inside her. His beautiful eyes were hard and shuttered and she was suddenly very, very afraid.
Assassin eyes. This is what they saw before he killed them. She recoiled, unsure how she was supposed to answer, terrified of saying the wrong thing. She was cold and nauseous and even if she could protect herself from him, she’d never make it out of Italy alive if he withdrew his protection. The Order doesn’t allow for divorce, the lawyer had said when she and Ezio had signed their marriage contract. The child growing inside her, so desperately wanted by both of his parents, made her sick and slow and clumsy. She felt incredibly vulnerable. Ezio will never let you leave him, Kadija had warned.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Please don’t be angry-”
“Damn it, Taline,” he swore, sinking a fist into the pillow beside her head. “Why won’t you ever just answer me?”
She started crying. It was the only thing she felt she could do; she was too afraid of what would happen if she tried to defend herself.
“Oh Dio mio, stop it. Stop crying.”
She cringed when he touched her. He noticed and she could feel his hurt and frustration.
“This is why everyone thinks I beat you; my own sister accused me of it to my face, god only knows what she’s been saying behind my back. I can’t help you like it if you won’t talk to me,” he said, voice taking on a pleading tone. “Talk to me, Taline, tell me if it hurts. Please.”
“Ezio…” she hesitated, wiping the tears away from her cheeks. He made a sound, low in his throat, and nuzzled his face against hers. She slid her arms around him and hid her face in his neck. Her breath caught when he tried to force himself inside her; fortunately, he wasn’t hard enough to fully penetrate her. He swore under his breath and gave up after a few frustrated attempts, seemingly having decided to settle for kisses and cuddling. She knew it was only a temporary reprieve.
“Hold me, Varpet,” she begged, pressing one of his palms to her belly and squirming closer against him to press her cheek to his chest. “Make our baby feel safe.”
“I make you feel safe?” he asked, pressing his hand against the swell of her abdomen before caressing her gently.
“Of course.”
It’s only a lie some of the time, she reasoned. Most of the time I’m not afraid of him at all.
“I’m glad. I’ll always keep you safe, Mogliettina.”
He sounded like he meant it.
[1] a form of decoration made by scratching through a surface to reveal a lower layer of a contrasting color, typically done in plaster or stucco on walls, or in slip on ceramics before firing.