Fashionably Late

There was no expression on his face beyond apathetic distaste as he turns toward the sound of footsteps from the main door, his faithful Sean closing it after Atreus' remarkable entrance. "Drag him to his chambers. By the ankle, if you'd be so kind. Can't have his dizzy little head throwing up on my Siregalian rugs." Cyrille said quietly, turning away without a look back. Sean obeyed without a word, and its either by careful aim or Grace's will that Atreus doesn't have his head knocked against end-tables or door frames on his way to bed.

Atreus was tossed onto the sheets with little ceremony, bottle pried from his fingers, hair pulled back to force some foul-smelling concoction down his throat that bears the tell-tale spark of magic on his tongue. It steals that pounding nausea and replaces it with a bone-deep relaxation, and the night passes easily enough with the promise of little side effect in the morning.

The morning waxed calmly with birdsong at the gauzy curtained windows, and Cyrille closed the book on his lap as Atreus stirred.

"Good morning, husband," Cyrille murmured as he crossed one long leg over his knee. "I've been contemplating how best to punish you all night, and I'm curious for your input." He rested a cheek on his fist, brow raised like he was asking about his breakfast preferences. "I've decided against a solid thrashing, for I find spousal abuse unpalatable; non-consensual, anyway. But I have my doubts that denying your allowance or barring you from your side estates and clubs would do more than incite rebellion, and I hardly have the patience for that."

His eyes slid over to the glass of cool water on the bedside table, nodding his chin towards it. "So? Suggestions? We must have some sort of consequence for you breaking our contract and making me look like a fool last night, otherwise it means very little." He paused thoughtfully. "Oh, and theft. Destruction of property. Cheating. Utterly disastrous conduct that I had to pay to clean up after. The list is rather long."