Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
R onin ambled down the red-carpeted aisle of the Grand Ethyrian Theater as the lights flashed to signal the beginning of Friday night’s final performance of The Curse of Faurana.
He’d never once attended the ballet, and was nearly as bitter about being forced here tonight as he was about the fawning boyfriend role he’d have to play afterward.
He certainly hadn’t tried to fit in with the sophisticated crowd, arriving in his utility pants and leather jacket, boots unlaced and hair unkempt.
They’d seated him down in front, dead center, Anaemos spare him. Displeased grunts sounded as he shuffled down the row, knocking knees and crushing toes, then pushed down the velvet cushion and plopped into his narrow chair. His massive body barely fit.
A scoff tickled the back of his neck—a patron annoyed by this mountain of a male blocking their view.
Ronin swiveled, flashing his fangs, and the thin male cowered, mouthing sorry before careful averting his eyes.
Ronin scanned the rows around him for any sign of Otto or his hulking bodyguard but they either hadn’t arrived yet or they were seated elsewhere. Wrath of Vestan, Skanisse better not have been wrong about Otto’s attendance or this would all have been an enormous waste of Ronin’s time.
The orchestra began playing the first notes of the overture, a song he was surprised to recognize—one of Selene’s favorites. He hummed along, the melody seared into his brain.
The music faded and the curtain parted, revealing a painted backdrop of a farmhouse nestled atop rolling fields of gold and green.
A male dancer bounded onto the scene, dressed in what looked like peasant’s garb: a fitted brown tunic and black tights.
Ronin fought the urge to fall asleep as the male leapt and twirled across the stage. He was joined moments later by four female dancers in flowing purple skirts and green tights.
Were they supposed to be flowers? Ronin chuckled out loud, earning a few sidelong glances from his seatmates.
Ronin had no idea what the fuck was going on. He thought the male was supposed to be a farmer, maybe? But he kept having poor luck with his animals and his crops. Despite his efforts, everything he touched was failing. Ronin had to bite his lip to keep from snickering at the dramatic deaths of first the flowers, then wheat, then, to Ronin’s near uproarious laughter, cows.
As the act drew to a close, the male lead was at his wit’s end. He performed an aggressive solo full of pretend shirt-rending and fist-raising, then fell to the floor in supplication, his knees cracking the boards.
The entire stage went dark, save for a single spotlight up by the rafters.
Gasps rippled through the audience as a pair of crimson pointe shoes dipped below the top curtain.
As much as he hated to admit it, Ronin would recognize those legs anywhere.
A stiff red tutu came into view, followed by a bejeweled bodice, a delicate, exposed collarbone, a long neck, and then…
There she was.
Mireille floated down to the stage, the combination of her poised legs, fluttering arms, and beatific face mesmerizing.
Alighting upon the boards, she raised an arm, and Ronin noted a long, silver scar trailing down her right forearm. He hadn’t noticed it before, wondered where she’d gotten it. Scars on Fae were quite rare.
She approached the kneeling male, her feet moving so quickly she appeared to be floating, then bent gracefully at the waist and touched his shoulder. He reared back, his mouth wide with rapture.
The stage went entirely dark, the curtain fell, and the auditorium lights flared to life.
“What’s happening right now?” Ronin growled to the male seated next to him, a small rodent Beastrunner with buck teeth.
The male shrank from Ronin’s glare and stuttered, “In-intermission. A fifteen-minute break before the second act begins.”
Ronin crossed his arms, annoyed. He didn’t want to wait even fifteen minutes to watch more of Mireille. So far, she was the only interesting part of this show.
The audience filed out of their seats and Ronin rose with a huff, figured he might as well grab a Delirium during the break.
He purchased a glowing bottle at the refreshment stand, then leaned against the wall to drink it as he awaited the end of intermission.
Many sidelong glances were cast his way, along with murmured speculations about what the Butcher of Aethalia was doing at the ballet. A few brave souls tossed a snarky remark or two about his attire. An even braver Windrider male with tucked black wings came over to congratulate him on his win the other night. And to chat about tomorrow’s championship bout. Ronin nearly snarled at the pity he found on the male’s face as he not-so-subtly studied Ronin’s tattoos.
The flickering lobby lights mercifully ended both the conversation and Ronin’s discomfort, and the crowd streamed back into the auditorium.
As he retook his seat, his head loose and woolly from the Delirium, he noted a pair of pale yellow eyes staring down at him from a box close to the stage.
Jurgev Otto dipped his chin in greeting, Julius Kosera a bulging shadow behind him. The Greyhorn looked even more bored than Ronin. Otto refocused his piercing gaze on the stage as if he could force the curtain to rise through sheer will.
Perhaps this evening wouldn’t be a waste of time after all.
Ronin settled into his seat and the second act began. Even with the mind-softening effects of the elixir, he couldn’t take his eyes off Mireille.
In the role of the High Goddess Faurana, she’d offered blessings of abundance to the farm in exchange for the man’s devotion.
A fair exchange until a lovely young female arrived to purchase a bushel of wheat. Ronin recognized the yellow-winged dancer, Juliet, from Riashi’s last night.
Juliet and the farmer performed a dance together—a pas de deux , Ronin heard one of his seatmates call it—and even as a ballet virgin, Ronin could tell Juliet wasn’t nearly as skilled as Mireille.
His leg bobbed impatiently as he awaited her return.
When Mireille re-took the stage, the music shifted. Lively strings and bubbling flutes gave way to droning cellos and booming timpanis as the Goddess ripped the lovers apart.
Ronin held his breath, enraptured, as Mireille executed spins, lunges, and the highest leaps he’d yet seen. Even higher than the Windriders who had wings to assist.
Mireille defied gravity, and his chest swelled at her mastery.
High Gods, she was fucking incredible .
Ronin was so caught up that he barely felt his rodent-toothed seatmate tugging on his sleeve.
He bared his teeth at the male, annoyed that his attention had been taken from Mireille’s solo, and the male pointed toward the aisle.
A female stagehand was waving at him.
Ronin ignored her. He wanted to see how the ballet ended. Wanted to know what would become of the farmer and the Goddess he’d forsaken. Surely this was some sort of allegory for the perils of denying the High Gods.
The stagehand snapped her fingers, and his seatmates muttered in frustration.
Ronin rolled his eyes and exited the row, knocking knees and crushing toes again. Petty, but he was pissed that they’d get to see the grand finale and he would not.
He followed the stagehand out into the lobby.
“Ronin Matakos, right?”
“You didn’t think to confirm that before you interrupted the show to fetch me?” he grumbled.
“Follow me.” She turned on her heel and led Ronin through a door marked Theater Staff and Performers Only . They traveled down into what Ronin assumed was the backstage area, a maze of low-ceilinged hallways lined with props, painted flats, and racks of costumes.
“She said you should wait in here until the performance has finished.” The stagehand opened another door with a star on it, then closed him inside.
Mireille’s dressing room was clean and well-organized, not a stray pin or shoe out of place.
On her vanity, a neat row of cosmetics stood in order from smallest to largest, labels facing out. A silver-handled brush sat exactly perpendicular to the edge, and he nudged it slightly off center. Couldn’t help himself.
He sank down onto the tufted white couch, crossing an ankle over his leg, and waited for his girlfriend .
Applause thundered through the ceiling. The finale. That he didn’t get to fucking see.
The stagehand bustled back in, setting an overflowing vase of pale blue roses onto a low table. She beamed at him, making false assumptions about the flowers’ origins, and he didn’t correct her as she flitted away.
A few moments later, Mireille herself swept in, her silver eyes glancing off him and landing on the bouquet.
“Butcher,” she cooed, slightly out of breath from her performance. “You shouldn’t have.”
“I didn’t.” He shrugged as Mireille plucked out the card nestled between the blooms.
“Perfect,” was all she murmured before handing it to him and twirling a finger. “Turn around. I need to get out of this costume.”
“Want some help?” he grinned, earning a deadpan stare.
Worth a try , his wolf piped up.
Ronin dutifully stood, giving Mireille his back. The sounds of rustling tulle and popping buttons sent goosebumps shivering over his skin as he read the message on the tiny card.
Beautiful blooms for a blossoming beauty. Spare a moment for us after the show? - O
Ronin snickered, even as an unexpected twinge of jealousy squeezed his chest. “Your new boyfriend’s quite the poet. Think he uses these lines on all the females?”
Mireille grunted as she struggled to remove some part of her costume. “Thanks to our little date last night and Juliet’s gossip-mongering, it looks like I might actually find out.”
“You did okay up there,” he said, changing a subject that he suddenly had no interest in discussing. The thought of Otto putting his slithery hands on any part of Mireille…
She scoffed. “I missed a step during my solo. Stupid, stupid mistake.”
“I doubt anyone noticed.”
“ I noticed. I should’ve practiced more this week instead of spending so much time reviewing those damn files.”
Ronin’s brows furrowed. “Are you always this hard on yourself?”
“It’s the only way to ensure perfection,” she said flatly. “You can turn around.”
He spun, struck dumb by the outfit she’d changed into for Otto’s benefit. For a fleeting, foolish second, he wished she’d worn it for him.
Loose pink pants flowed past her feet, hanging low on her hips and exposing her toned stomach. The wide neckline of her silky crop top bared a creamy shoulder.
Waves of burnished copper tumbled to her waist, and he crossed his arms to keep from stepping toward her and running his hands through it.
Fuck, why were the beautiful ones always the most infuriating?
He swallowed. “I was teasing you, Mireille. You were a marvel.”
A gorgeous blush crept across her cheeks before she turned to her vanity and straightened the hairbrush. He bit back a chuckle.
A knock sounded at the door. “Mistress Valette?” The stagehand’s voice wobbled. “Y-you have another visitor.”
Otto , Ronin mouthed and Mireille nodded, gesturing for him to sit back down.
Which he promptly did, then stifled a groan as Mireille settled into his lap.
The heady combination of her scent, her soft skin, and her perfect ass atop his groin inspired his wolf to howl so loudly he was worried Mireille herself might hear it.
She looped an arm around his shoulder, then swept her hair away from her neck. “Nuzzle me.”
“Wh-what?” The haziness he felt could no longer be blamed solely on the Delirium.
“Nuzzle my neck,” she commanded through gritted teeth. Ronin’s wolf bounded across his heart in playful anticipation. “For Otto.”
“Right.” Ronin swallowed, his eyes darting to the pulse pounding beneath Mireille’s jaw. At least he wasn’t the only one affected by their proximity.
He ran his nose along her throat, then placed a hand on the curve of her hip. She exhaled a breathy little whimper, likely unintentional, that shivered down his spine.
“Come in!” Mireille crooned as Ronin replaced his nose with his lips, dragging them along her shoulder as his fingers caressed the edge of her waistband. He could’ve sworn he felt her press in closer.
Fuck , yes.
Jurgev Otto entered the room, wearing a finely-tailored baby-pink suit peppered with pastel polka dots. His serpent’s eyes blew wide at the sight of Mireille tangled up with Ronin. Before the door snicked shut, Ronin caught a sliver of Kosera’s broad back.
Mireille ignored Otto as she dragged her fingernails across Ronin’s scalp, inspiring a frisson of pleasure. His cock thickened, and he shifted away, didn’t want her to know how much her touch affected him. She’d likely use it against him, somehow.
Otto cleared his throat and Mireille finally deigned to address him. “Can I help you?”
Otto’s affronted frown had Ronin biting his cheek to keep from cackling. He didn’t know which was more entertaining: watching Mireille dance or watching her cut the self-important billionaire down to size.
“We see you received our flowers,” Otto said, his gaze lingering on the hand Mireille pressed against Ronin’s chest. Maintaining her bored, blasé perusal of the Deathstalker, she moved her hand lower, stroking over Ronin’s abs with an appreciative murmur. His wolf yipped with pride.
Playing along, Ronin lengthened his canines, nipping at Mireille’s earlobe as her fingertips reached the top of his zipper.
Otto observed the spectacle with barely concealed envy, his pupils dilating and his forked tongue darting past his lips.
Ronin struggled to maintain control, wondering how low, exactly, Mireille was going to dip her hand.
Sweet fucking Amatu, she was good at these games.
Taking pity on Otto—or determined to give Ronin a nasty case of blue balls for messing with her hairbrush—she pushed out of his lap.
She bent down to sniff a rose as Ronin adjusted himself in his pants. “Oh, these were from you? They’re beautiful. Thank you, Master…?”
Otto quickly smoothed over his outraged expression, and Ronin covered his mouth to hide a smile. “Otto. Jurgev Otto. You are quite an extraordinary dancer, Mistress Valette.” Mireille dipped her head, fluttering her long lashes. The picture of coquettish humility. “Though we did notice a little misstep tonight? During your final solo?”
Mireille cocked an eyebrow at Ronin before returning her attention to Otto. “You’re very perceptive, Master Otto. Only a male with an extraordinary attention to detail would have noticed such a thing.”
Otto pinched a strand of Mireille’s hair, running it over the sharp black points of his fingernails. To Mireille’s credit, she didn’t flinch. Though Ronin’s hands involuntarily fisted on the back of the couch and his wolf released a burbling growl.
“Too many distractions?” Otto’s pale yellow eyes slid to Ronin.
And even though Ronin knew it was fake, the incandescent smile Mireille aimed at him radiated through his chest. “Oh, he’s the best kind of distraction. Do you two know each other? This is?—”
“Ronin Matakos.” Otto spat his name, sneering at Ronin’s salt-crusted boots. “We doubt you’d find a single Fae on the continent who hasn’t heard of the Butcher of Aethalia. Though we would have said the same thing about ourselves.”
Ronin rose from the couch, unable to stomach Otto’s oily covetousness. He slung an arm around Mireille’s shoulder and she pressed a hand against his stomach again, Otto’s eyes flying to the contact.
“You’ll have to excuse her.” Ronin trailed his fingers through Mireille’s hair. It was just as soft as it looked, liquid silk flowing through his fingertips. “She’s a woman possessed these days. Only has time for her dancing and, well…me.” He gnashed his teeth on the final word.
“A pity.” Otto turned to Mireille. “Surely you don’t intend to keep up such a rigorous schedule now that your season has ended? We’re hosting a gathering up at our estate next week. You should join us.”
“Oh, that’s unnecessary.” Mireille pressed herself closer to Ronin. “We couldn’t possibly impose.”
“You’d be doing us a favor, honestly. The other guests will be thoroughly impressed that we were able to lure the glittering jewel of the Kheimos Company to our event.”
Mireille feigned indecision. “Are you sure?”
“We insist. Bring your Butcher as well, if you must. We’re sure at least a few of our guests might be curious to know how he managed to fall down so many rungs of life’s ladder from war hero to cage fighter.”
Asshole.
“I must.” Mireille cupped Ronin’s cheek, as if to soothe the sting of Otto’s jab. “What do you think, my love? Fancy a holiday at a snowy mountain estate?”
Ronin grabbed her hand and kissed her fingertips. “As long as we’re together, I don’t care what we do.” The corners of her lips jumped at his sickeningly sweet smile.
Otto broke in. “Wonderful. It’s settled then. We will send a car to pick you up on Monday morning.”
Mireille broke out of Ronin’s hold and shook Otto’s pasty hand. “Thank you, Master Otto. We look forward to your hospitality.”
“Until then, Mistress Valette.” Otto pressed his lavender lips to Mireille’s knuckles before exiting the dressing room.
Ronin opened his mouth, but Mireille held up a hand, shushing him. She cocked her head, listening for Otto and Kosera’s footsteps to fade.
After several minutes, she breathed a sigh of relief and began gathering up her things.
Ronin eyed her with a new respect. “You’re good at this.”
“What, did you think Skanisse was lying when he said I was a skilled field agent?” Mireille fluffed out her costume and hung it on a rack in the corner.
“No, I…” Ronin leaned a hip against her vanity. “You’re just so…”
She whipped around, hands on her hips. “I’m just so what ?”
He scratched his cheek. “Different than I expected.”
Mireille snorted, bending down to pluck up her discarded tights. “Wish I could say the same. If slovenly beast was the look you were going for tonight, bravo, you’ve succeeded.”
Ronin tipped his head back, releasing a hooting laugh. “That’s more like it. Never change, Valette.”
He could’ve sworn he saw her lip twitch as she shrugged on her jacket and looped her bag over her shoulder. “See you at the archives hall tomorrow?”
Ronin nodded, then pushed up off the vanity and strode to the door.
As he stepped into the darkened hallway, he tossed a farewell over his shoulder. “Goodnight, my love .”
And tried not to snicker at the little growl of frustration Mireille released in his wake.