Archive of Our Own

The evening before Jan Van Eck is set to be released from prison, Wylan paces the halls of his empty house.

He told the staff to go home for the evening. Jesper’s gone too, on his way to Ravka with Inej on the promise of studying under a master fabrikator for a few weeks. It’s just Wylan and the walls now, awaiting the return of their long-lost patriarch.

He won’t. Return, that is. Wylan has arranged for his father to be picked up by armed guards, put into a carriage, and sent off to the country house down south. Alys has already vacated, moving with Plumje—now sixteen, the age Wylan had been when his father was sent away—to her parents’ house until Wylan figures out what to do with Jan.

If Wylan figures out what to do with him. That’s the part of the plan that has never quite materialized. He knows the rest: intercept his father at the prison, get him out of Ketterdam. Lock him away in the country house, and then… and then…

There is no and then.

Wylan exhales sharply through his nose, frustrated with himself. He’s thirty-two now. A man of power in his own right. He sits on the Merchant Council, runs an empire, heads a household. His father is the one who has been humbled. Brought low. If anyone should fear the day he’s released from prison, it’s Jan Van Eck, not his son.

And yet, Wylan paces, jittery and unmoored.

He makes a path from the kitchen to the entryway, up the stairs and into his office. It’s changed over the last sixteen years—been redecorated and repainted, intimidating bookshelves and meaningless certificates replaced by comfortable chairs and his mother’s art. But beneath the layers of new paint lie old memories, clinging and persistent as the scent of smoke.

Standing in the center of the room, Wylan is struck by a vision of himself. Sitting on the floor, his spine curved, face bent low over a picture book. From behind the desk, his father looks on. 

T—The d… d….  

Dog, Wylan. Dog. How is it that you cannot read a three letter word? Dryden’s toddler can do that much and he isn’t even toilet trained.

Even now, all these years later, the memory makes his chest tighten. 

I got the last laugh. I sent you away.

Although it wasn’t really Wylan who sent Jan away, was it?

He shakes his head, banishing the thought—and the person it invokes—from his head.

Exiting the office, he makes his way toward the bedroom. For a second he expects to see Jesper there, long limbs askew as he reads the paper or dozes atop the covers. The sight would be more of a comfort than he’s willing to admit.

But the bed is empty. Wylan sits on it, running his sweaty hands over the covers. When he first got the news, he considered sending a note to Jesper. But the idea of asking their housekeeper—or his mother—to notate his desperate, frightened thoughts was too intimidating. Besides, Jesper would have never made it back in time.

Still. There’s a want there, heavy in his chest. The air rings with silence. The thudding of his heartbeat is too loud in his ears.

He could invite someone over. A fellow Councilmember maybe, one of the young ones that he likes. Or a friend from the neighborhood: Jerrald who helps with his gardening, Helga who bakes Jesper pies. But even as the ideas occur to him, they’re swiftly dismissed. No one from his new life would understand why he is so tense tonight, and he doesn’t have the energy to pretend he feels otherwise.

Jesper would understand. So would Inej. A dart of longing lances him for the friends out there somewhere on the True Sea. They wouldn’t have left had they known that Jan would be getting out. But Wylan’s father managed another one of his cruel tricks: an early release on account of good behavior.

He wonders if Jan knew, somehow, that he would be alone tonight.

Paranoid, he scolds himself. Ridiculous.

He lays back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. One other option occurs to him. Another person who would know exactly what’s got him bent out of shape. Someone who could provide distraction, maybe even reassurance.

He’s almost afraid to think it.

The two of them haven’t exactly been on speaking terms lately. But if Kaz Brekker were to show up on Wylan’s doorstep in distress, wouldn’t he do all he could to make his friend feel better?

Or has too much bad blood been spilled?

Wylan doesn’t care to ponder the question. He launches up from the bed, taking to his pacing with a renewed vigor. He goes downstairs and starts another lap—kitchen, entryway, office, bedroom—hoping to drive all thoughts of Kaz Brekker from his head.

But it’s too late. The floodgates have been opened. His mind’s eye is littered with memories. Kaz standing at the bow of the Ferolind, cold wind lifting his hair. Kaz appearing at the Geldrenner Hotel with dried blood on his skin, not an inch of him spared from bruising. Kaz shoving Wylan against a wall, the metal of his crows-head cane cold beneath Wylan’s chin.

Kaz on the far side of a boardroom, refusing to sit down, his expression impassive as he listens to Wylan speak.

They’re not the only memories. He also remembers the shocking storm of Kaz’s smile—jarring as a thunderclap, bright as lightning. The low rasp of his voice, the way he told Wylan good job—sometimes begrudgingly, sometimes so easily it made Wylan flush. Those few golden years after the Ice Court and the auction, when Kaz was a frequent visitor at his home.

He never thought he would grow to miss the mercurial criminal’s unannounced visits.

The next time he passes the entryway, Wylan shrugs on a coat. It’s a crisp autumn evening, just cold enough to need one. Pocketing his keys he steps out, crossing the manicured lawn and taking off at a brisk pace down the street. He’s not sure where he’s going, certain only that he needs to get away.

He doesn’t quite register that his feet have taken him to the Barrel until he sees the lights.

He’s quickly swallowed by the crowds. It’s a Tuesday night, hardly ripe for partying, but the Barrel is packed with people nonetheless. Dockworkers. Tourists. Performers in smeared makeup, hustling their way home. The neighborhood has changed over the years, in appearance if not in spirit. The buildings are no longer ramshackle. The lights are brighter, the streets cleaner, the pigeons fatter and more abundant. The children who run around underfoot are nuisances and thieves, but they look clean. Kept after.

Wylan knows there’s one man to thank for that.

After the Ice Court and all that followed, Kaz slowly but surely bought up the neighborhood. It started with the Crow Club. The Fifth Harbor. The Silver Six. Then there was the Fourth Harbor. The Sweet Shop. The BandyCat. An underground gambling den at which Jesper owed a few outstanding debts. A few institutions in the Lid.

The Menagerie, if only to burn it down.

Eventually, the Barrel’s Bastard was elevated to its undisputed King.

Wylan slows his steps, looking into the windows of the Blue Iris. Scantily-clad men and women coo at him from behind the panes, their startling blue eyes half-hidden beneath heavy lids and batting lashes. Because of Kaz Brekker—and his unnamed associates at sea—Wylan knows the workers at the Iris are no longer bound to their jobs by indenture papers but by straightforward employment contracts in which they're entitled to a hefty percentage of their earnings. Their body language reflects it—they lean forward, eager, rather than shrinking back into themselves. Wylan locks eyes with a tall, dark-haired man. For the briefest of moments, he entertains the thought of going to him. It would be another way to distract himself, he supposes. One he knows Jesper won’t mind. He allows himself to picture it: a mouth hot at his throat, hands pulling at his belt. His fingers rifling through dark hair. Wet warmth enveloping his cock. The sweet fall of release.

It’s almost tempting enough to go inside. But Wylan doesn’t want to lose himself in someone’s body tonight. He wants to lose himself in company, conversation. A challenge, even. Not to be a notch on someone’s bedpost, but a man with whom to match wits. A man to be respected. A man that his father thought he’d never become.

It occurs to him, wretchedly, that there’s only one place in the Barrel where he’ll get what he wants.

With a sense of resignation, he turns away from the Iris. He’s let instinct take him this far. Might as well go all the way.

The Slat is nearly unrecognizable these days. Warm light pours from the windows, shadows of bodies moving within. Ivy grows prettily along the side of one wall, making it easier to climb, and the roof is newly retiled. There are a few additions, sturdier and newer than the original structure, to house its growing population. It’s clear that this is no longer a dark, forgotten corner of the neighborhood but its shimmering center. 

At the very top, in the attic rooms, a silhouette can be made out through the translucent curtains.

Wylan’s stomach swoops. All night he’s been keyed up, unable to sit still or focus. But the sight of his old friend, exactly where he’s meant to be, gives Wylan a sense of clarity he hasn’t felt since he heard the news of his father’s release.

This is where he wants to be. The only place he can fathom being.

He can only hope that Kaz won’t kick him out the moment he lays eyes on him.

With more confidence than he really feels, Wylan strides toward the Slat. He pushes through the doors, finding himself amongst a small crowd on the ground floor. Kaz’s lieutenants are gathered around a wide, circular table, their heads bent low over something that looks like a blueprint. Two bruisers lounge against the wall, silently passing back and forth a shared drink. A savory scent emanates from the kitchens, a child spider barely visible through the crack in the door, serving himself a bowl of something warm. It’s a bustling operation, a place of camaraderie, a home.

Wylan doesn’t dare compare it with the unsettling silence of his own house back in the Gelden District.

He draws some attention as he threads through the busy room, making his way toward the staircase, but none of the lieutenants or bruisers stop him. They know who he is. They might even know why he’s here. 

It doesn’t prevent murmurs from breaking out in his wake.

It’s no matter. Wylan will manage any rumors tomorrow, after his father is secured in the country house. Now, he can’t bring himself to care. He takes the stairs two at a time, breathing heavily, propelled by a dark desperation. He feels close to a breakthrough. To getting what he needs, even if he can’t quite name it.

He’s in Kaz’s rooms before he can figure out what to say to the man.

Kaz, for his part, looks unsurprised by Wylan’s sudden appearance. He glances up from the thick ledger on his desk, his dark eyes darting up and down Wylan’s frame.

“Come in,” he drawls.

“Sorry,” says Wylan. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not.” Kaz closes the ledger, folding his hands atop it. He isn’t wearing his gloves, his hands starkly pale against the dark brown leather of the ledger. 

It’s been months since they’ve seen one another—months since that cold boardroom meeting—but Kaz hasn’t changed a bit. His features are sharp, his expression appraising. He's wearing a new suit, and the close cut of it flatters him more than Wylan would like to admit.

He cocks his head. “What business?”

Wylan swallows. He wants, for one odd moment, to be petulant. To spit, You know what business, as he throws himself into the chair opposite Kaz’s to sulk. How would Kaz handle it, he wonders, if Wylan dropped the perfect mercher act he’d spent the past decade cultivating and allowed himself to simply be?

Instead, Wylan forces a smile, spreading his palms. “Do I need any business to visit an old friend?”

Kaz’s mouth tightens at the corners as though Wylan’s answer has amused him. “Is that what we are now? Old friends?”

The other options sit heavy on Wylan’s tongue. Business adversaries. Political opponents. Strangers.

“That’s what we’ve always been, Kaz, whether you’re willing to admit it or not.”

Now, Kaz smiles for real. It’s predictably jarring, somewhat menacing, a discordant note in a familiar melody. “In that case, let’s go for a drink, friend.” He stands, pulling on a coat and his gloves. 

Wylan eyes him suspiciously. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. In his unfocused imaginings, they simply stayed here. He never considered a second location. “Where?”

“I know a place.”

Wylan huffs a laugh. “You own a place, more like.”

“That too.” Kaz picks up his cane, crossing toward the door. “Are you coming or not?”

Wylan suspects that he has little choice in the matter. Being left behind now, after he’d mustered up the courage to come up here, sounds unbearable. Wordlessly he follows Kaz out the door, down the stairs and onto the street. 

It’s obvious, out here, how much power Wylan’s old friend now holds. The crowds part for him, sinuous and instinctual as schools of fish making way for a shark. Eyes stick to Kaz as he limps down the sidewalk, whispers erupting in his wake. He carries the power like he was made for it, amusement dancing in his eyes, comfort in the angle of his shoulders. No longer Haskell’s rabid dog, Kaz Brekker is at home within his body, confidence practically roiling from him.

The heat that rises in Wylan’s chest in response is easy to identify as jealousy. He has power now too, and plenty of it. But he suspects that when he walks through the halls of the Council chambers, he looks more like a frightened rodent than a swimming shark. 

Wylan allows himself to be led to an obscure little cocktail bar with wood-paneled walls and dim lighting. Kaz nods at the bartender as he cuts a path through the modest crowd, leading Wylan into a back room.

A private back room.

Wylan wonders, briefly, if this is a trap. Kaz has been known to do more for less. If it is, it’s too late now. The door closes behind them, the bar’s din instantly swallowed. Wylan is left alone with the dangerous man he’s spent the last six months antagonizing.

And for the first time all evening, he feels like he can breathe.

The room is too large for two, but still cozy, all brown leather couches and dark polished wood. There’s a fireplace in the sitting area, a fire crackling jauntily within it. A table bisects the space, and the back wall is dominated by an unstaffed bar, the sparkling bottles seemingly available for the taking. 

He sits on one of the couches, exhaling. It’s ridiculously comfortable. The rug is plush beneath his feet, a pillow supportive at his back. The air is just on the right side of stifling, warmth pressing close as a lover. Behind him, Kaz gets to work making drinks. Wylan hears the tinkling of ice hitting glass, the splash of liquor poured overtop. When he’s handed his drink, he’s surprised to see that Kaz has removed his gloves again, his coat hung up and his shirtsleeves rolled to the forearms.

“Thanks,” murmurs Wylan. He burrows into his own coat like it's a tortoise shell, taking a tentative sip of his drink. The liquor is strong—the first sip hits hard enough to make him sputter. By the third, he’s eased into the burn. He sits back, spreading his legs, and rests his head against the back of the couch.

Kaz lowers himself into a seat across from Wylan, his dark eyes reflecting the flickering light of the fire. “I’ll ask again. What business, Wylan?”

Wylan meets his eye. A thousand responses fly through his head, each more ridiculous than the last. I have no business. I was lonely. I missed you. 

Finally, he cuts his eyes toward the fire, bringing his glass to his lips. “Don’t make me say it,” he mumbles into his cup. He knows that Kaz knows what’s happening tomorrow. He knows that Kaz knows how it affects him.

Kaz seems to understand. He doesn’t push the matter. SIlence settles thickly between them, and for a moment, Wylan panics. There are no schemes to concoct, no plans to be made. Neither of them, Wylan is certain, wants to talk about the boardroom, the bill. If Jesper and Inej were here, their friendlier demeanors might smooth over Wylan’s harsh anxiety and Kaz’s prickly edges. As it is, harsh and prickly is all they can muster.

He doesn’t doubt his decision to come here—sitting in silence with Kaz is still far better than being alone at home—but he scrambles for something to say.

It’s Kaz who finds the words first. “I hear Dryden’s son is vying for his seat.”

Wylan lifts a brow, immediately distracted. “I doubt his father will allow that.” Karl Dryden has been on the Merchant Council for ages. Somewhat old school, but not impossible to work with. He’s even backed a few of Wylan’s more progressive measures, to the chagrin of their colleagues.

“Perhaps his father won’t be given the option.”

So it would be a hostile takeover, then. But what would make Dryden’s son want to unseat him? “Trouble at home?” he guesses.

Kaz shakes his head. “Trouble in the warehouse district.”

The rent increases. For years, heavy-handed landlords overcharged their tenants, and for years, the Council allowed it. When it came time to try the issue, the landlords argued that their indiscriminate rent increases honored Ghezen by making them more profitable. Wylan argued that when the warehouse landlords overcharged tenants, tenants in turn raised prices on their goods, hurting the end consumer.

The Council chose not to intervene on the tenants’ behalf. Dryden wrote the final judgement.

“Even if Elias Dryden has the warehouse tenants on his side, he’ll need a lot more than that to unseat his father. Karl’s popular.”

“Karl Dryden is old. Out of touch.”

Wylan cocks his head. “A personal opinion?”

Kaz smirks. “I am but the messenger.”

Wylan considers it. He himself was once a young upstart, thrown indelicately into his father’s vacated seat. He should have empathy for Elias. He doesn’t. He shakes his head. “Karl’s an institution.”

“Some institutions are made to be toppled.”

Wylan senses that with that one turn of phrase, they’re no longer talking about Karl Dryden. Kaz’s expression gives little away.

Intimidated, he steers the conversation back toward safer waters. Kaz allows it, for now. They talk a while longer—about the Council, the laws, the petty gossip and unsubstantiated rumors that make up the gnarled backbone of their city. The spirited debate does more to soothe him than any pacing ever could. He finishes his drink, allowing Kaz to make him another, and shrugs out of his coat, rolling up his sleeves. The alcohol begins to do its work of relaxing him, his heart beating slower, his head feeling fuzzy and numb. He sits forward, elbows on his knees, as he listens to Kaz lament a new tax provision. He talks with his hands as he argues back, explaining the good that the tax revenue will do for the city. He grows irritated, then relents. He smiles, then laughs.

He does not think about his father’s release.

He’d nearly forgotten how much he enjoys this. Speaking with Kaz in the shared shorthand of Kerchmen, the language of Ketterdam that baffles Jesper and annoys Inej. Here, alone, they’re free to be Ghezenite heathens, arguing not the moral philosophies of their imperfect city, but the logistics of running it. The political machinations. The rumors. The truths.

It’s only a matter of time, though, before the conversation meanders towards something more treacherous.

They were discussing the revelation that Peck and Tuft, two rivals in the textiles industry, had been swapping trade secrets for years. The combined intelligence strangled their competitors, leaving their businesses as the only two still operating in the space.

“Rather monopolistic behavior, don’t you think?” asks Kaz. He seems at ease, but there’s an edge to his voice, a glint in his eye that makes Wylan’s pulse spike.

He swallows. “That’s for the Exchange to decide.”

Kaz hums. He stands to fix himself another drink, pointedly not offering to make one for Wylan. When he sits back down, his expression is chiseled from ice.

Wylan supposes that it’s time to talk about it.

“I won’t change my mind about the bill,” he starts. “It’s what’s best for Ketterdam.”

Kaz scoffs. “Ketterdam is not a city that cares about what’s best. It’s a city for heathens and heretics, selfish and desperate. Built upon cruelty, not caring. Why should that change now?

Wylan runs his tongue over his teeth. “Some institutions are made to be toppled.”

“Clever,” mutters Kaz. Wylan knows he’s being facetious, and yet the word thrills him, burrowing beneath his skin. Clever. Clever.

He is certain that Kaz didn’t find it quite so clever when Wylan first introduced the anti-monopoly bill. In truth, he hadn’t been thinking of his friend when he’d done it. He was sick to death of seeing the same merchers winning in every field, throttling competition before it had a chance to grow. Ketterdam was famous for being a land of opportunity, where anyone could make it so long as they had the willingness to work. But in reality, only a small group of people with the right last names rose to the top.

Well. A small group, and Kaz Brekker.

By the time Wylan realized what the bill would do to Kaz’s businesses—namely, slice them to pieces and give the scraps to his competitors—it was too late. He couldn’t back down without tarnishing his name.

Wylan fights to keep the conversation lighthearted, clinging to the comfort he’s felt over the last few hours. “Are you saying you can’t handle a little competition?”

“I have handled the competition,” counters Kaz. “But when the Merchant Council steps in to give them a leg up over me, it becomes a different game entirely.”

“You’ve never faced a game you couldn’t win. Or cheat.”

“My irritation has little to do with whether or not I think I can win.”

The barb is pointed, and it hits home. Wylan’s bill is not a threat to Kaz because of its contents. It is a threat because it is Wylan’s bill.

Wylan vowed to himself a long time ago that even though Kaz Brekker was the very reason he had his seat—his house, his company, his life—he would not bow to the Barrel boss’s whims. He was not going to be a Councilman with a hand in every pot, operating under a conditional set of morals. But with Kaz, something very different than shady ties and ulterior motives burdens him.

Loyalty. A loyalty that, from Kaz’s perspective, he has shattered.

Guilt wriggles around in his chest like a tadpole. He sips his drink only to find that it’s largely melted ice.

“Even so,” says Kaz lightly, nothing in his body language revealing the depth of his vexation, “Your point is illogical. This bill”—Wylan notices that he avoids saying your bill—“is not what’s best for Ketterdam. It breaks with the very pillars upon which our city was founded. Even Ghezen instructs us to put profit over people. Aren’t, then, the monopolists among his greatest servants?”

Wylan wants to roll his eyes. “Re-reading Ghezen’s Laws? You must be lonely without Inej.”

Kaz’s gaze is cutting. “How’s that oversized bed of yours without Jesper?” 

Wylan laughs once, a harsh sound. “Thinking of me in bed?”

He regrets the words immediately. They were talking about work, for Ghezen’s sake. But Kaz doesn’t appear to be offended. He takes a sip of his drink, looking at Wylan over the rim of his glass with something approaching interest. 

Or is Wylan only imagining it? Hoping for it?

The thing is—it’s not off the table. They both know that. Neither Jesper nor Inej is particularly possessive. When they’re away together, it’s not uncommon for the pair of travelers to find comfort in one another’s arms. The option has been made available to them as well, but Wylan and Kaz—the uptight Kerchmen, the ones left behind—have never acted on it.

“You know the men who will rise to take up scraps of what I’ve built,” continues Kaz, ignoring Wylan’s ill-timed innuendo. “Can you truly say that the city is better off with them at the helm?”

No. And that’s what Wylan’s struggled with since the moment he realized what his bill would do in the Barrel. As far-reaching as Kaz’s power is, it’s rarely abused. Among the titans that rule the city, Kaz alone knows what it is to struggle. To strive. He knows how to cultivate the very loyalty that vexes Wylan. How to bend whispers to his will. How to win.

Isn’t that the exact type of person that Wylan is hoping to see rise to the top?

“I know what they’re capable of,” Wylan allows, thinking of the upstarts nipping at Kaz’s heels. “But I know what you’re capable of too.”

Kaz leans forward. “What’s that?” he asks in a low drawl. He looks almost hungry for Wylan to recite his sins.

Memories flash through Wylan’s mind. A man dropped from a lighthouse. Another beaten to a pulp. Kaz on his knees, voice slow and gentle, telling little Hanna Smeet that he would slit her parents’ throats if she ever told anyone what she saw. So many moments of cold calculation and cruel disregard, slipping through Wylan’s head before he can grasp them. There’s so much he can say, but what he does say, almost inexplicably, is, “You buried Albie Rollins.”

Kaz looks almost disappointed. He sits back. “I buried no one.” 

“You let Pekka believe it.”

“Oh, Wylan,” Kaz chides, his voice drenched in derision. “How you’ve changed. Is lying too much for your delicate mercher sensibilities now?”

Heat floods Wylan’s face. He knows he shouldn’t have brought up Albie Rollins—he isn’t even sure why he did. It’s a poor example, anyway. Kaz didn’t, technically, do anything wrong. But something about the image of Pekka begging on bent knee for his son’s location has always bothered Wylan, wriggling through his head like a worm in the dirt.

“If so,” continues Kaz, “I have some very interesting news for the Council. Or do they already know about your chemically-inclined extracurricular activities? Bomb-building isn’t exactly on the Gelden District’s list of approved pastimes.”

Wylan simmers. “That’s low.”

“So is bringing up Pekka.” Kaz drains the rest of his drink, getting up to make another. This time, he returns with one for Wylan as well. Wylan obediently hands him his empty glass, taking a gulp of the fresh one. Relief blooms as the alcohol burns his tongue. 

Kaz sits back down. “Pekka’s different. Always has been.”

On some level, Wylan’s always known that. It was abundantly clear that Kaz’s grievance against Pekka was more severe than his grudges against other bosses and merchants. But the one thing Wylan’s never been able to suss out is—

“Why?”

For a moment, he thinks he’s finally going to get an answer. But Kaz simply sips his fresh drink, musing, “You know, your father is the only man I ever misread in that regard. With Pekka, with so many fathers, I have been able to manipulate them using their family ties.” He meets Wylan’s eye. “Jan Van Eck had no such qualms.”

Wylan winces. For the first time in hours, his thoughts return to his father’s impending release. When faced with Wylan’s guards and transport, will Jan go quietly? Or will he find a way back to Wylan’s house? Will he try to see him? Try to get back into his son’s good graces?

It would be the smart thing to do. But for whatever reason, Wylan can’t picture it.

Kaz continues, either oblivious to or uncaring of Wylan’s reaction. “I don’t think I truly believed that he hated you until that day on the island.”

“Why’s that?” Wylan’s not sure he wants to hear the answer, but he asks anyway.

Kaz shakes his head, his eyes faraway. “I suppose I couldn’t imagine a father not loving his perfect Gelden son.”

“I wasn’t perfect,” says Wylan in a small voice, humiliation flooding him. He’s not quite sure how they got here from talking about his bill. Shame crawls up his throat like an errant spider. “I’m not perfect now.”

Kaz looks at him, and for an odd moment, Wylan thinks he might argue. That the infamous Kaz Brekker will call him perfect in that odd, rock-salt rasp. Just the thought of it makes something heavy settle between his legs, his stomach squirming with desire.

Say it, he wants to ask. To beg, like Pekka, on bent knee.

But Kaz agrees. “You’re not perfect.” Wylan’s heart sinks an inch, his drunken mind flooding with self-degradating rhetoric. Imperfect. Defective. Useless. He looks down into his glass, watching the reflection of the flames jumping across amber liquid. “What you are,” continues Kaz, “is cunning. Ruthless. Brave. Qualities I imagine any other merchant father would treasure.”

Wylan looks up. He has no idea how much of his desperation shows naked on his face. He can’t quite bring himself to care. The old words—stupid, cheap, wrong—are drowned out by the new. 

Cunning. Ruthless. Brave. 

The specificity of them cuts through to his core. It’s not quite the same as when Jesper calls him lovely, or when Inej says he’s sweet. Kaz’s compliments are razor-edged. Decisive. Perhaps more true than all the sweets and lovelies he’s ever collected.

“Loyal,” adds Kaz, “until recently.”

And they’re back to the bill.

The wind leaves Wylan’s sails, disappointment billowing within him. Enough, he thinks. He’s been here long enough. Endured enough. He knew, when he passed over the opportunity to sleep with the dark-haired man at the Blue Iris, that what he was seeking was a matching of wits. Rousing arguments, in-depth conversations. With Kaz, he got what he needed.

He slugs the rest of his drink, standing. The liquor rushes to his head, a not-unpleasant numbness spreading along the back of his scalp. “I should go.”

Part of him wants to thank Kaz for the company, but the tension between them has snapped back into place, leaving little room for pleasantries.

Kaz doesn’t move. He stares at Wylan so intently that Wylan fears his gaze will burn holes right through him.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

His tone is just hollow enough to suggest he’s serious. A cold fear tingles at the base of Wylan’s spine. “What do you mean?”

Kaz sets down his drink, leaning heavily on his cane to stand. Despite his trepidation, Wylan chides himself. Kaz has been getting up and down all evening—why didn’t he offer to pour a few drinks?

“The place is surrounded,” explains Kaz placidly, bare hands folded over the crow’s head handle. “If you leave without me, my men have instructions to shoot.”

“You’ve got to be joking.” But Kaz doesn’t move an inch, his gaze grave.

Wylan wants to laugh, but all that comes out is a tiny, scoffing noise. “Why?” he asks, his heartbeat pounding in his temples. The alcohol in his blood—so relaxing only moments ago—makes him feel dizzy. Sick. 

“Your bill cannot go to vote, Wylan. Either you agree to sink it at tomorrow’s Council meeting, after which I’ll walk you out, or you eat lead. The choice is yours.”

The choice is yours. Again, a laugh threatens to build in Wylan’s chest. Has that ever, ever been true? Since the moment he was thrown from a browboat en route to Belendt, his life has felt like one non-choice after another. Every road leading to a steely-eyed Barrel boss with a gun trained at his head.

“So what?” Wylan scoffs. “You can’t fight my bill honestly so you threaten me instead? You’re smarter than that, Kaz.”

“And you’re smarter than the assumption that threats are always the less intelligent move. Sometimes a little force is the most effective way forward.”

Wylan looks him up and down, taking in again the cut of his expensive clothing, the confident posture, the power that roils from him like steam from an engine. There’s no hint of the boy Wylan watched yearn for Inej or crack jokes with Nina. No trace of uncertainty, no room for error.

But Wylan’s been on the other side of Kaz Brekker’s scheming mind. He knows something about Kaz that most opponents don’t.

He bluffs.

“I don’t believe you.”

Kaz smiles as though he expected Wylan’s retort. He gestures to the door. “Then by all means.”

Wylan follows his gaze, staring at the wide, oak door. It’s closed, but unlocked. He’s not trapped. If he’s confident that Kaz is bluffing, he’s free to go.

He swallows.

“I’ll make sure Jesper gets your remains,” Kaz intones.

Wylan’s head whips back toward him. “If something happens to me, he’ll come for you.”

“I invite him to try. While the two of you have been nestled up together in the Gelden District, I’ve been here in the Barrel. Fighting my way to the top, fighting to stay there. Poor housekept Jesper will hardly prove a challenge.”

“We’re your crew, Kaz.”

“You were my crew. Now you’re in my way.”

Wylan looks back toward the door, his liquor-soaked mind swirling with uncertainty. He thinks that Kaz is bluffing. Like he was with Hanna Smeet, Albie Rollins. But can he be certain?

Years ago, even months ago, the answer would be a resounding yes. Kaz wouldn’t have hurt him then. Now, he’s not so sure.

He wracks his brain for evidence. Something concrete on which to build his case. Had Kaz spoken to anyone since they entered the bar? Had he signaled to his bruisers on the way out of the Slat?

No, Wylan is fairly sure that he hadn’t. From the moment he walked into Kaz’s attic rooms, his friend’s focus was entirely on him. He couldn’t have orchestrated an impromptu plot on Wylan’s life. Not unless he had a group of marksmen at the ready, waiting for the day that Wylan came to visit. But Wylan hadn’t been to the Barrel in months, and Kaz wasn’t one to waste manpower. So how had he known that Wylan would come to him tonight?

A cold stone lands in the pit of his belly. “You did it.”

Kaz cocks his head, eyes alight. He looks almost giddy to have been caught. “Did what?”

“You orchestrated for my father to be released early, knowing that it would bring me to you.”

“See?” says Kaz. “Your father knows nothing about you. You’re terribly intelligent.”

A flash of red dominates Wylan’s vision, and in moments he’s across the room, shoving Kaz back against a wood-paneled wall. He braces a forearm against his chest, fighting against the memory of a time when it had been Kaz pressing him against a wall. “How dare you?”

Kaz looks down at Wylan, a little bemused. They’re close enough that Wylan can feel Kaz’s breath on his cheek. It’s easy, even. No trace of a shake, despite Wylan’s closeness. Another old vulnerability, shed. “He was going to get out in a few weeks anyway,” says Kaz lightly. “I see no real difference. I simply made the timing work for me.”

The difference is that one of Wylan’s old friends—best friends, only friends—was the one to orchestrate the release, knowing how much it would hurt him. The difference is that Wylan went straight to that very friend for comfort. The difference is that the Kaz he once knew would have never used Wylan’s father against him.

But then again, the Wylan that Kaz knew would have never threatened his friend's livelihood. They’re both so far from where they started, so far from the messy, vibrant boys they once were.

Kaz lowers his voice to a near-whisper, whiskey sharp on his breath. “You’ve been so clever tonight. Don’t you want to know how I knew you’d come to me?”

Wylan doesn’t have to guess. The stone in his belly goes molten, liquid. He’s humiliated, hot all over, his skin certainly scarlet.

He presses his arm harder against Kaz’s chest. “I don’t care.”

Kaz ignores him, perhaps because he knows Wylan does care. “It’s because I’m the one who took care of you when he didn’t. When you thought you were alone. All those weeks in the Barrel, a pretty pigeon ripe for the plucking, and no one touched you because of me. I took you all the way to Fjerda and back in one piece. Sprung you from your father’s clutches, guided you into his seat of power. I did that, all of it. So when daddy dearest threatened to come back into the picture, I knew to whom you would go running.”

It’s true, all of it. And yet—“You had no right.”

“For the last time, I don’t concern myself with what’s right,” Kaz retorted. “I protect what’s mine. That’s all I’ve ever done.”

What goes unspoken is that Wylan was once one of the things that Kaz called his. Standing on the other side of an arbitrarily drawn line in the sand suddenly feels akin to torture.

And it's this—not the threat on Wylan’s life, not any argument about the betterment of Ketterdam—that makes him reconsider the bill. If he were to drop it now, would he find himself back in the comfortable warmth of Kaz Brekker’s protection? Would it be worth it, to forgo his morals for this man?

As though reading his mind, Kaz slowly raises a hand to Wylan’s face. He pushes an errant curl away from his forehead with his fingertips, a touch lighter than air. “You could be mine again too, if you wished.”

Like a dam breaking, years of repressed emotion come surging forth, sweeping Wylan’s good sense out to sea. He forgets about his father, their argument, Kaz’s threats. He forgets everything except the desire to chase those words—you could be mine—down Kaz Brekker’s throat.

He drops his arm, stepping closer, and crashes his mouth against Kaz’s.

Kaz makes a small sound of surprise against Wylan’s lips, and for a sickening moment Wylan’s certain that he’s badly misread the situation. He freezes, waiting for Kaz to push him away, but what he feels instead is hands at his waist, pinning him in place. What he feels is Kaz tilting his head for more access, heat radiating through his fancy clothing as he runs his tongue against the seam of Wylan’s mouth.

Every last piece of resolve within him disintegrates as he parts his lips, losing himself in the desperate kiss.

He fists his hands in Kaz’s white collar, hoping it wrinkles. He wants to ruin every stitch of Kaz’s mercher clothing, tear it to pieces, reveal it as the farce that it is. He wants to shed his own, to never wear the drab black again. To dress like Jesper, wearing shiny, beautiful things in the hope of grabbing Kaz’s attention.

The thought makes him aggressive. He runs his hands up Kaz’s chest, over his fine lapels, wrapping his arms around his neck.

Kaz tastes like amber liquor. He feels like a knife. He’s purposeful, attentive, focused. Wylan’s mind empties. He’s all sensation now, all tingles and shudders and heat.

Kaz slides his hands from Wylan’s waist to his spine, yanking him closer. Their hips press flush together, and Wylan moans.

Between kisses, Kaz breathes something that sounds a lot like, “Good boy.”

It’s awful, the way Wylan melts. As awful as the snipers waiting outside. As awful as his father’s release. It’s all so deliciously awful. Like the setup of a bad joke—the crime boss and the Councilman walk into a room…

Kaz kisses the corner of his mouth, then the curve of his jaw. He makes his way slowly down to Wylan’s throat, moving so sensually that Wylan wants to ask, who taught you this? Who did this to you?

Instead, he tilts his head back and breathes, “I thought you didn’t do this.”

Kaz huffs a laugh against the thin skin of his throat. “It’s been a while since that was true.”

Wylan lets out a soft whine, overwhelmed by the feeling of harsh stubble and soft lips against his neck. It earns him another whispered, “Good.”

Fumbling hands find buttons, and in moments they’re both divested of their waistcoats, their shirt collars loose and open. Wylan circles a hand around the back of Kaz’s head, fingers running through his hair, and relaxes into the feeling of being thoroughly taken care of.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, Kaz laving attention up and down between his shoulder and his jawline. Wylan, for his part, can do little but squirm and breathe and moan, caught in the tempest.

When he finally regains enough composure to act, he pushes Kaz away to return the favor, yanking open Kaz’s collar to make space for his roving mouth. Kaz leans back, resting his head against the wall, and starts to speak.

“I wish—ah—this could be different,” he says, voice breaking as Wylan’s lips find his throat. “But you’re not a man I can allow to go unchecked, Wylan. You’re too smart. Too dangerous.”

It takes Wylan a moment to realize that Kaz is talking about the threat on his life. He lifts his mouth Kaz’s skin long enough to ask, “Should I be flattered?”

“Feel—mmhm—feel however you like about it. It’s the truth.” Wylan’s gratified by the breathiness of Kaz’s voice. He unbuttons another button, kissing a line toward Kaz’s collarbone. “You are a threat to me. I n—ah—need you on my side or out of the picture.”

Wylan thinks that he can hardly be more on Kaz’s side than he is right now, pressing against his body, tasting his sweat. But Kaz won’t take this for an answer. He threads a hand into Wylan’s hair, yanking his head back. He’s flushed, pupils blown, but undoubtedly more composed than Wylan. He skirts his gaze over Wylan’s face, taking in every angle and line.

“Will you be good for me now?” Kaz asks softly. “Will you be mine?”

Wylan’s not quite sure he means it when he murmurs, “Yes.”

A low groan scrapes from Kaz’s throat. He flips them, pushing Wylan so his back is against the wall. The hand in his hair opens, palm cradling his skull. “So good,” Kaz breathes, dipping his head to whisper in Wylan’s ear. “Even when you’re acting up.”

Wylan wants to reply—to say something devastating and clever, if he could only find the words—but Kaz’s mouth crashes back on his. He responds enthusiastically, tilting his head, opening his mouth. Kaz bears down on him—taller, bigger, more powerful—and Wylan lets himself feel small, lets himself get overwhelmed.

I have the place surrounded, Kaz said.

It’s not long at all—or, perhaps, it’s a very long time, languid hours stretching by as they lose themselves in their kiss—before Wylan feels Kaz’s hands at his belt. 

His heartbeat stutters. “You don’t have to—”

“Shh.”

A hand slips into Wylan’s pants, wrapping around his cock. He gasps and throws his head back, banging it against the wall. 

Kaz chuckles, low. “Responsive.”

Wylan’s breathing too hard to reply. It feels like it's been hours of buildup—years. Kaz’s grip is tight. Punishing. Possessive. Wylan bites down on his lip.

Kaz notices. “Let it out,” he orders.

Wylan obeys, groaning long and low.

“That’s it,” encourages Kaz. “Let me take care of you. That’s what you want, right? That’s what you came here for?”

“Yes,” Wylan babbles. His throat feels tight, as though he’s on the verge of tears. It feels so indescribably good, being taken care of like this. Letting Kaz take care of him. “Yes, yes.”

Kaz hums, infinitely pleased. To get more space he shoves down Wylan’s pants, freeing his flushed, leaking cock. Wylan whines. It’s hot—so hot—the way Kaz bows his head to watch himself work. The way he makes a low sound of appreciation every time Wylan moans or shivers. The way he runs a thumb over Wylan’s sensitive head, slowing down to admire the precome gathered there.

I’m the one who took care of you when he didn’t. When you thought you were alone.

It’s true. Too true. Kaz is hardly virtuous, but he's always done right by Wylan. Even when Wylan hadn’t.

“Thank you,” Wylan whispers. He knows Kaz can’t follow his train of thought, but it feels right to say anyway.

Kaz seems to agree. His gaze snaps up, his pupils huge. “Say that again.”

“Thank you,” Wylan repeats, gasping. “Thank you.”

“Ghezen, you’re a treasure.”

The words toss Wylan closer to the edge. Treasure. A thoroughly Kerch endearment, shared in their common language.

“More,” Wylan pants.

“More like treasure?” Kaz grins—smug, knowing.

Wylan nods weakly.  

“What would you like me to say? That you’re golden, like this, shivering in my hands, thanking me so nicely? That you’re expensive? A treat? More precious than full coffers, rarer than opals?”

Wylan can hardly take another word. Another touch. Another moment of this exquisite torture, basking in the thrill and comfort of being flattered in his mother tongue.

Kaz squeezes harder. Moves faster. Wylan’s hard as stone, a spring coiled too tightly, a shaken champagne bottle just about to pop.

“My treat,” Kaz rasps. “My treasure.”

Wylan hurdles over the edge. A high whine escapes him as he throws his head back. Bright spots explode in his vision, the tight coil springing loose, the champagne popping and fizzing. His cock twitches in Kaz’s hand, come spilling on their expensive clothing and the bar’s pristine hardwood floor. There’s a breathless, suspended moment when Kaz is satisfied and Wylan’s undone. When it’s over, he’s boneless and numb.

“That’s it,” Kaz murmurs as Wylan slumps into him. “Relax.”

But Wylan can’t. Not until…

He drops to his knees without a word of warning, scrabbling for Kaz’s belt.

“I don’t expect—”

It’s Wylan’s turn to cut him off. “Shh.”

Kaz is already hard. He’s bigger than Wylan would have imagined, his cock slightly curved in a way that makes Wylan wonder what it would feel like to take it inside. He shoves away the thought—another day, maybe—and licks his lips, wrapping them around Kaz.

The sound Kaz makes is heavenly, the hand twisting in Wylan’s hair divine. Even the stutter of his hips, pushing him deeper, making Wylan choke, is something out of a song.

“So good,” Kaz babbles. “Perfect”

Wylan glows. Anywhere else, there is so much for him to worry about. Bills and threats and the endless pressure of being a man of consequence. Here, there’s only rhythm. Suction. Heat. The noises that Kaz tries and fails to hide. The praise he dispenses easily.

Here, Wylan’s perfect. He’s cared for. He knows his place.

As Kaz’s cock hits the back of his throat, he thinks, I’m going to tear that stupid bill to pieces.

As much as he feels he could stay here forever, there’s been too much lead up for it to last long. In minutes Kaz is gasping, “I’m going to—”

Wylan runs his tongue along the base of Kaz’s cock, hollowing his cheeks and sucking hard. It’s unspoken permission, freely given. Wet warmth pours into his mouth. He swallows every last drop.

After, Kaz eases himself from Wylan’s mouth so gently that it makes him want to cry.

He lowers himself to his knees, meeting Wylan on the ground.

Wylan’s brow furrows. “Your leg—”

“I’m fine.” Kaz tilts forward, resting his head on Wylan’s shoulder. Wylan wraps his arms around Kaz’s back. They stay there for a few long breaths.

With his head still bent, Kaz speaks. “I’ll take care of it. Tomorrow.”

It takes a moment for Wylan to realize what he means.

My father. He isn’t exactly sure what Kaz is offering to do, and he isn't sure he wants to know. Another way that Kaz will take care of him—doing the dirty work, offering ignorance.

“In exchange for sinking the bill?” Wylan asks.

“No.”

They’re silent for a while, their breathing slowing, sweat cooling on their skin.

“And if I wanted to sink it anyway?”

Kaz raises his head, meeting Wylan’s eye. Something passes between them, too fierce to be fondness, too gentle to be lust.

“You’re a powerful man,” says Kaz lowly, an edge of mirth to his voice. “You can still find a way to get what you want.”

Wylan bites on the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He’ll write another bill, this time with a Kaz-sized loophole. He’ll get it through the council, because he’s smart enough to do so without them noticing, and then…

“We should do this more often.”

Kaz grins, almost boyishly. “You know where to find me.”

When they leave together, it is without incident. Wylan will never know if there ever really were assassins awaiting him in the shadows.

He doesn’t care to find out.