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Frustration is a sour tang in the air around Thage when they return to Twilight's Rest. The prattle of the lesser Majin in Besek's outer stratum only confuses issues, and the heretic boy needs to be leashed and brought to heel if she won't simply be rid of him. Raki finds himself wanting to raise his hackles, wanting to snarl constantly at the stupidity all around them. Besek should not be resisting them like this.

At least they have returned to their lodgings this time without being accosted by that meddlesome Count. Thank the Goddess, as the Falsin saying goes, for small mercies. Their rooms are untouched, with no trace of stray scents; Basil has not sent any of his serving maids in to straighten up -- or to snoop on the Count's orders.

The runt crawls into bed almost immediately. Despite his protests that he's fine, neither his scent nor his actions are convincing. Thage spares him no second glance, sitting down at the writing desk and setting her librum in front of her. "It's still nowhere near complete," she complains. "And we've learned nothing new about the Eternal Poison."

Raki comes over and settles on his haunches beside her, resting his muzzle on her thigh. He's seen tame dogs behave so toward their masters, and the Falsin seem to take the gesture as affectionate. Even Thage is not immune to that.

She rests one hand on his head, between his ears, behind the sweep of his horns. "You aren't holding out on me, are you?" she asks.

"Never," Raki says. "I have sworn to guide you, and I will do so."

"Still." Thage scratches between his ears, slow and thorough, and it feels maddeningly good. "You aren't telling me everything."

Raki looks up at her. "What will you do with that librum when you've filled it?" he asks.

Thage says nothing.

Raki's tail swishes once; he can't entirely suppress the pleasure of making his point. "You have nothing to fear from me," he says. "I will care for you, Thage."

He thinks he can hear a noise of disgust from the bed. Well. Let the whelp have his attitude problem. Raki was here for Thage first, and he'll outlast some heretic child whose own blood betrays him. He leans further forward, his chest pressing against Thage's thigh, his muzzle seeking between her legs.

Thage makes a soft sound that isn't quite a laugh, and leans back in her chair. She lets her thighs part. The scent of frustration is dissipating, or perhaps it's just overwhelmed by the dark musk of her cunt. "Yes," she says. "Care for me, Raki."

He could disobey her orders. He has, on occasion, when it made a point. But he has no reluctance to do this, and it should make her more assured of him. He laps the delicate skin of her thigh, making it a request. She squirms in the chair to spread her legs further, to face him directly, and pulls up her skirt enough to bare the sparse, wiry curls at the juncture of her thighs. Raki lowers his head to lick there, to part those folds and taste the slick flesh between. His teeth press against her, barely, and her breath quickens.

What she wants, when he does this, is short, even strokes. The motion isn't natural for him, when he would far rather lap at her slowly, taste and explore -- but he gives her what she wants, a reminder that he is the one who does so. She tastes of salt and hunger and magic.

And she stays quiet, too quiet, when Raki knows her capable of unbearably sweet bitch-whimpers. He turns his head slightly to bite the inside of her thigh -- gently, a tease, but she only hisses and tugs on his ear. Raki snorts. So Thage is worried about her little toy's delicate sensibilities, is she?

Later, he'll find her without the runt around, and ask for something more satisfying than this. For now, Raki licks Thage's cunt the way she wants him to, obedient, the model of devotion, until her breath hitches and she trembles through a nearly-silent climax. He lengthens his strokes then, lapping up the rush of thick fluid, and she flinches as if struck every time his tongue passes over that nub of sensitized flesh.

When he's satisfied that he has cleaned her up as best he can, Raki sits back on his haunches and licks his chops loudly. Let the whelp draw what conclusions he will.

"You're so good to me, Raki," Thage says. Her voice is even, her tone ever so slightly barbed. She meets his eyes deliberately, a challenge.

"I live to serve you, Thage," Raki answers, every bit as sincere. He holds her eyes for long enough to make it clear that when he looks down, it's his choice.

Thage laughs softly. "Don't forget it," she says.