Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
M ireille felt refreshed when she awoke from her nap.
Or at least she did for the split-second before glancing out the window to see the first bruised hints of dusk breaking through pines.
“How long did you let me sleep?” she grumbled.
“As long as you needed,” Ronin murmured from the armchair, elbows on his knees, hands clasped beneath his chin. A chessboard, mid-game, perched on the table before him.
Anxious energy buzzed through Mireille’s veins, and she shot to the bathroom.
She wanted to lash out at him. Ask him why the fuck he let her sleep so long. The stakes of this assignment were so much higher than she’d imagined. And now that she’d fully re-committed herself to it, there was so much they needed to learn. She should have spent the afternoon doing anything other than napping.
Chewing on her irritation, she scrubbed her face with cold water then ran a brush through her tangled hair. Despite her annoyance, she had to admit she felt better. Clearer. As if the food he’d insisted she eat and the rest he’d encouraged her to take had lifted some invisible weight. The weight that had convinced her she couldn’t do this? That she’d needed to run in the first place?
Such an odd thing, for someone else to recognize her body’s needs. To know what she needed even as she pushed herself to the brink.
“You alive in there?” Ronin called out.
Mireille exited the bathroom, and as she sank into the chair across from him, he assessed her.
“Don’t even think about it.”
“What?” He moved a piece across the board, the picture of innocence.
“I got plenty of rest. While you were playing with yourself?” She gestured to the game.
He chuckled. “Gotta keep my skills sharp. My sister is ruthless. We have a decades long tournament going at the moment, and I am way behind.”
A flutter stirred Mireille’s chest. He continued to surprise her, this Butcher of Aethalia. So full of contrasts.
“Do you play?” he asked.
“No, I never learned. Where did you find the board?”
“Top shelf of the closet.”
Mireille gnawed her bottom lip, her mind churning.
“Nope,” Ronin said, popping the last syllable.
“Nope what? You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
“I know exactly what you’re going to say. But we can’t go sneaking around the estate right now. While you were snoring away in dreamland, this arrived.”
Ronin handed her a cream card as she fought to suppress her embarrassment. Had she been snoring? She was amazed she’d let herself be that vulnerable in front of him, to sleep that deeply.
When she slept next to her marks, she’d lie on the edge of wakefulness the whole night. Even if she managed to drift off, not a single mark had survived long enough to mention her snoring.
As if he could read every twitch of her face, he added, “Don’t worry. It was less snoring and more a delicate whistling noise. Like an off-key clarinet. Fucking adorable.”
She blushed, glancing down at the card. Printed in swooping script, it read: Master Matakos and Mistress Valette - your presence is requested this evening in Master Otto’s private dining quarters. A servant will arrive to fetch you at seven o’clock. Please dress appropriately.
“Please dress appropriately?” Mireille snorted. “What does that mean?”
“You’ve seen the shit he wears.” Ronin moved another piece across the board. “I think the technical term for it is absurdist whimsical chic .”
She couldn’t help the rumbling laugh that poured out of her as she crossed to the closet. She flipped through the dresses she’d brought, most of which she’d worn on previous assignments. “What time is it?”
“Quarter past six,” Ronin answered, not looking up from his game.
“Are you kidding? It’ll take me half that time just to shower. Why didn’t you wake me up earlier?” She flew back into the bathroom to get ready.
Forty minutes later, she emerged to find Ronin waiting at the door with his back to her, dressed in a sleek black shirt and pants. Which he’d topped with a pair of checkered suspenders, of all things.
He turned at her snicker, his breath catching as his eyes traveled the length of her shimmering gold gown. She’d left her hair down again. Not for him, she lied to herself.
He continued to stare, his heated gaze a physical weight upon her body, stealing her breath.
“Ready?” she wheezed out, frozen in place.
Rather than opening the door, he prowled toward her. “You forgot a piece of your armor.” His voice was low and silky as he tugged her across the room.
He wrapped his tattooed hands around her waist and hoisted her up onto the vanity, grazing her knee with his fingertips and encouraging her to spread her legs. As he settled between them, she had to restrain herself from wrapping her thighs around his waist.
He plucked up her lipstick and wrapped his hand around the back of her neck.
“Part your lips for me, love.”
There was no reason for him to call her that in the privacy of their suite. Part of her wanted to scold him, maybe even tease him, but his proximity chased away her ability to speak.
She did as he’d commanded—trying to ignore how much she liked taking commands from him—and his eyes fell upon her mouth as he smoothed the creamy color across her lips.
His gentle attention was so different from the brutality she knew he was capable of. Such a contrast to the feral, caged beast lurking beneath his skin. She was certain he could hear her rapid heartbeat.
He placed the tube beside her, then pulled back to inspect his work, running a thumb beneath the swell of her lip to wipe away a smudge.
Their eyes connected and all the air sucked out of the room, a magnetic pulse flowing between them.
He leaned in closer. So close that all she’d have to do was inch upward, and their mouths would be touching.
She settled her hands on his hips, and a low growl scraped up his throat. His grip on her neck tightened.
He poked his tongue out to lick his lips and she swore she felt it on her own.
Her muscles tensed, half of her wanting to close the hairsbreadth of space between them, half of her screaming that it would complicate her assignment. Her life .
Do it , her wolf whispered.
“ Ronin ,” she breathed out, pushing up, their mouths grazing?—
The quick knock at the door broke the spell.
Ronin closed his eyes and pulled back, a soft breath shuddering through his chest.
“Master Matakos? Mistress Valette?” the servant called out. “Master Otto is ready for you.”
Ronin helped Mireille off the vanity, chasing away his heated intensity with a familiar teasing smirk. His go-to tactic to hide his true feelings. Mireille recognized the play, one she often executed with icy indifference.
“Guess I shouldn’t mess up my handiwork,” he said as he opened the door.
She huffed a laugh, grateful for the eased tension, as she took his proffered arm.
And tried not to think about how much she wanted him to make a complete and utter mess of her.
“How do you know how to apply lipstick?” Mireille murmured to Ronin as the pair followed the servant down a hallway in the west wing.
“Twin sister, remember? My only sibling. We were each other’s sole entertainment.”
“And what’s with the suspenders?”
“Gotta keep up with our fashionable host.”
Her lips curled into a tiny grin, and he tried not to stare at the outfit she had changed into. The outfit that had caused whatever madness had just transpired between them.
The glittery gold dress was practically painted on her, clinging to every tantalizing curve. From his vantage point, the scooping neckline offered an incredible view of her stunning cleavage, and the high slit down the front bared a shapely leg with every other step.
High Gods, what he wouldn’t do to kneel before her again, worship those legs. But maybe this time, he’d throw one over his shoulder, kiss and lick up that sculpted thigh, slow and teasing until she was begging him to put his mouth?—
“We’ve arrived,” the servant uttered, dissolving Ronin’s fantasy as they stopped before a pair of double doors carved into the shape of a curving snake.
He needed to clear his head and focus . This dinner would be a test of wits. They’d need to learn all they could about Otto’s plans without giving any hint of their true intentions. Ronin would need his sharpest headspace to accomplish that. He couldn’t afford to have it tangled up with thoughts of the varied and numerous filthy things he wanted to do to his partner.
His friend .
When was the last time he’d been just friends with a female? He honestly couldn’t remember.
The servant swung open the door into a cozy, candlelit room. Beyond the round black table in the center, Ronin spied the other side of that stained glass window, the one depicting the High God Stygios on his throne. The second pair of watchful, serpentine eyes that Ronin would have to contend with this evening.
Their host stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, wearing another suit that Ronin would definitely describe as absurdist, whimsical chic. As Otto turned to welcome them, Ronin noticed that what he’d thought were dots within the maroon-and-indigo paisley pattern were actually tiny skulls.
Not creepy at all.
“You may go.” Otto signaled to the servant, who bowed then shut the door with a quiet snick. Ronin swore he felt Mireille tense, and he placed a hand at her lower back. “Ronin. Mireille. Thank you for joining us for dinner this evening.”
Did we have another choice? Ronin thought, before noticing how Otto had addressed them. “Dispensing with the formalities tonight, Master Otto?”
“Please,” their host preened, spreading his palms. “Tonight, we are simply…Jurgev.”
Ronin bit back a snicker. He didn’t think there was anything simple about the Deathstalker male who plucked up Mireille’s arm and led her to her seat. The one closer to himself, of course. Ronin was forced to take the third seat on the other side of the table.
As she sat, Otto pushing in her chair, she shot Ronin a conspiratorial look. We’re in this together , it seemed to say, and he offered her a subtle nod, returning the sentiment.
Otto slid into his black chair, then poured Mirielle a glass of red wine from a sculptural decanter. “We’d offer you some, Ronin, but we believe you have different drink preferences.”
Ronin didn’t miss the judgment in the male’s tone as another human servant bustled through a hidden door and placed a glistening bottle of Delirium before him.
He slid his gaze toward Mireille, barely able to see her above the swollen bouquet of blue roses—a well-placed barrier that Otto had likely placed there on purpose.
Mireille’s silver eyes glistened in the flickering glow of the candles framing the bouquet. And despite the low light, the pleading within them was crystal clear.
Please don’t. I need you.
He could do this. He was going to do this. For her.
He pushed aside the Delirium, his wolf howling, and sweat dampened his palms. The mere thought of denying the elixir made the back of his eyeballs ache.
He nearly jumped out of his seat as Mireille’s foot climbed his shin. As if she could sense his struggle and wanted him to know that she’d support him.
He shot her a grateful look before snatching up his wine glass and shoving it toward Otto.
“Actually, Jurgev”—he loaded as much disdain as he dared into the male’s name—“I’d prefer wine tonight.”
Otto cocked a thin, black eyebrow. “Are you sure? We’ve got plenty of Delirium. We find that Fae like yourselves who drink it often don’t typically like to be without one.”
Ronin clenched his other fist, keeping his eyes glued to Otto and not casting them toward the glowing, seductive bottle.
“I’m sure,” he gritted out through a tight grin. “If you’ve chosen red for the meal, who am I to question your impeccable taste?”
He didn’t miss Mireille dipping her head, hiding a smirk.
Otto tilted his head, suspicion narrowing his eyes. But he kept quiet as he reached around the bouquet to fill Ronin’s glass. “Guest’s choice, we suppose.”
The servant returned, setting down small plates of salad.
Otto gestured to the Delirium. “You can take that away. It seems Master Matakos is breaking with tradition tonight.”
Ronin had to physically restrain himself from snatching the bottle from the servant.
Don’t let him! his wolf howled. We need that!
You’re gonna have to deal without it tonight, buddy, Ronin answered. She needs us present and focused.
His wolf barked out a frustrated growl that turned into a whine. I suppose we can manage for one night.
How magnanimous of you , Ronin added sarcastically. But to his wolf’s credit, he settled.
Ronin took a sip of the wine. Of course, it tasted incredible. Silky smooth, but with a lingering roundness after the swallow that tasted of currants and oak. Divine. But not what he truly wanted.
He picked up his fork, and across the table Mireille did the same.
“So,” she began, poking at her greens, “Jurgev. We’re delighted you’ve invited us to dine with you privately this evening. But I’d be lying if I said we weren’t curious about why.”
Ronin noticed her emphasis on the word we . Proving to Otto that he and Mireille were a unit. Something fluttered through his chest at her insistence. Something that made his aching desire for a Delirium slightly easier to bear.
“We’d be a little disappointed in you if you weren’t,” Otto said with an indulgent smile that he aimed solely at Mireille. Bastard scooted his chair closer to her, and Ronin’s wolf burbled a warning growl.
Ronin stabbed a sliced cucumber as Otto continued, “Since you two were a late addition to the guest list, we wanted to get to know you better. We’ve already researched the histories of the other guests, but we’re afraid we don’t know much about either of yours. At least, not more than the rest of Kheimos already knows.” He winked at Mireille.
She offered a tight smile that looked more like a grimace, then crunched down on a piece of lettuce.
“Why don’t we start with you, dear?” Otto hadn’t even picked up his fork, his salad untouched. Ronin wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the Deathstalker didn’t eat normal food at all. Maybe dined on the organs of his victims.
Mireille shrugged, her sparkling gold dress shifting in the candlelight. A portion of her coppery hair slid down her shoulder, and Ronin caught himself staring just as intently as their host.
Fuck, she looked even more radiant than normal tonight. There was a softness to her face that he hadn’t yet seen. Was it an act for Otto? Or could their truce this morning have had something to do with it? Ronin didn’t dare hope.
“What would you like to know?” Mireille lifted her glass to her burgundy lips, the lips Ronin himself had painted, and a small seed of warmth bloomed in his chest.
Otto’s forked tongue darted past his teeth. “Start at the beginning. Where were you raised?”
“In a small village in Cernodas,” Mireille answered, and Ronin noted how vague her answer was. A small village of two.
“And your parents? Where were they from?”
Ronin hoped Otto didn’t catch the flicker of pain that darkened Mireille’s gaze, the tension that stole through her body. She smoothed both out with practiced nonchalance.
“My mother was a Beastrunner. She ran a small school and travel lodge in our village. My childhood was rather uneventful. I left home at eighteen and came up here to Kheimos to dance.”
“And your father?” Otto asked.
Mireille’s fork screeched across her plate. She set the utensil down, then moved her hands into her lap. Likely to hide the shaking Ronin was sure had overtaken them. “I…”
“Mireille’s father was a choreographer,” Ronin chimed in, and Mireille shot him a shocked look.
“Is that so?” Otto’s viper eyes bored into Mireille, examining every nuance of her expression. To her credit, she’d stilled her shaking, offered Ronin a dreamy smile. Just a besotted female delighting in her lover’s thoughtful attention to her history. High Gods , it looked so real.
“Yes, he’s right.” Mireille scooped up her fork. “It was my father who taught me to dance.”
“Anyone we would have heard of?” Otto offered her an expectant smile.
“I doubt it. He worked for a small company in one of the larger towns not too far from our village.”
“What else can you tell us about your father?”
The servant bustled in to clear their salads. When he reached Otto’s, the Deathstalker snatched a cherry tomato from the plate. He bit into it, and the juicy insides spurted down his chin. It felt like a threat.
Mireille reached for her napkin, then cradled Otto’s face and wiped away the smear. Ronin tried not to howl with jealousy as hunger brightened Otto’s eyes.
“There’s not much more to tell,” she said. “He was a Beastrunner as well. A stallion bi-form.”
Ronin was in awe of how smoothly Mireille spun her lies. Though, he wondered if perhaps she’d already had this story ready. An invention to fill the hole in her heart where the truth of her father should have been.
“What part of the continent was he from?” Otto asked. “Not many stallion bi-forms are native to Cernodas.”
Ronin could almost hear Mireille mentally cataloging the home territories of the other guests. When she answered, she’d chosen a territory that hadn’t yet been mentioned by any of them.
“He was from a town in northern Nephes.”
Otto may have been slick, but he wasn’t completely unreadable. Ronin could sense the male’s disappointment and confusion at Mireille’s answer.
“Are you quite sure? How many generations of his family lived there? We’ve traveled all over the continent, and have never come across anyone from Nephes with the surname Valette.”
Mireille took a gulping sip of her wine, but was spared from answering as the waiter returned and set down their main courses.
It was some kind of savory pie, blood-red juices oozing from the tiny holes in the top. Ronin held his breath as he sliced into the flaky crust, slightly terrified of what he might find, then loosed it when he beheld the contents. Just chopped, cooked beets dotted with flecks of white cheese.
He took a tentative bite. The dish was unexpectedly delicious, the earthiness of the beets offset by the creamy tang of the cheese. The crust was perfectly crisp and buttery as well.
“This is divine, Jurgev,” Mireille said. “Do you grow beets here in your greenhouse?”
“We do,” Otto answered before taking a bite of his own meal. “At this stage in our life, we no longer have the stomach for meat. All the meals this week will be vegetarian. We do hope that’s not a problem, Ronin. We have heard you have a particular taste for flesh.”
Bastard. Needling Ronin with his wartime exploits. But Otto was going to have to try a lot harder than that to bait him. He shoveled in another mouthful of pie, smirking at Otto as he chewed.
“Valette is my mother’s last name,” Mireille cut in, severing the building hostility.
“What?” Otto asked.
“It worked better as a stage name, so I used that instead of my father’s last name.”
“And what was your father’s name, if you don’t mind our asking?”
“Amiel,” Mireille answered swiftly.
“Like Irina Amiel? The prima ballerina?” Otto cocked his head, considering.
“Yes, but I don’t believe they were related. Or if so, it was only distantly.”
“What a pleasant surprise that would be for you.” Otto sliced through his pie, and a rush of crimson juice spilled out. “Perhaps that’s where you acquired your talent.”
“Perhaps.” She dipped her chin, eyelashes fluttering.
Otto crossed his fork and knife atop his plate, then patted his mouth with his napkin, never once tearing his eyes from Mireille.
Ronin was beginning to feel like he were crashing their date. But he didn’t think it would be wise to force himself into the conversation. For now, he was content to sit back and observe. Why the hell had Otto invited him to this dinner anyway?
Otto trailed a finger down the long, silver scar on Mireille’s forearm. “And how did you acquire this? Rare to see such an ugly scar on a Fae.”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” Mireille shivered as Otto continued to caress her skin. “Just a childhood accident. Got a little careless with a friend’s Typhon dagger.”
Ronin reached for the decanter to pour himself another glass of wine. Neither Mireille nor Otto glanced at him as he did so. He’d noticed Mireille’s scar, of course. It was hard to ignore. But he’d never asked her how she’d acquired it. He highly doubted what she’d just told Otto was the true story.
So quickly that Ronin barely saw him move, Otto snatched up Mireille’s forearm, then sniffed her scar. He ran his forked tongue along the puckered skin, and Mireille let out a breathy little noise. Otto whipped his eyes toward Ronin, victory flashing through them. As if Otto were winning a game that Ronin didn’t even realize they were playing.
“Hmmm,” Otto said. “We smell no traces of dragon fire. That tends to linger within scars caused by Typhon steel.”
“It was quite a long time ago that I acquired it.”
Otto blinked, his lavender lips parting into a sly smile. “That’s one explanation, surely.” He rose from the table, then offered Mireille a hand and helped her out of her chair. Ronin gulped down the rest of his wine before rising as well. “Thank you both for indulging an old Fae’s curiosity. Dessert is being served in the main dining room. Shall we join the other guests?”
As they turned away from the table, Layla Fetar stalked into the room. “Jurgev. A word.” She didn’t seem dressed for dessert, wearing her leathers with her throwing knives glinting at her waist.
Otto nodded to Layla, then trailed his fingers down Mireille’s exposed back as he guided her out the door. Ronin followed, fighting the urge to slap Otto’s hand off her. “We will join you downstairs shortly. Thank you for the enlightening conversation.”
Mireille gave him a shy smile as Ronin dragged her from the room, the double doors shutting behind them.
Once they were alone in the hallway, Ronin leaned down to whisper, “Well, that was?—”
Mireille raised a finger to her lips, then gestured toward the doors. She pressed her ear against one and Ronin did the same at the other.
Layla’s husky voice was low, but still discernible. “She’s refusing to come.”
“Why.” Otto’s short, sharp bark wasn’t even phrased as a question.
“She said she’ll only make the journey if you escort her personally.”
“We cannot leave our gues?—”
A metallic hiss sounded, likely Layla unsheathing one of her knives. “I could persuade her, if you’d like.”
“No,” Otto sighed. “No, that won’t help. She’s a stubborn old bitch, but she is essential to the next performance. She knows it must occur when the Scales of Nyctima grace the sky and the pathway opens.”
“Does she often use blackmail to attain your company?”
“More often than not.” Otto’s response held a hint of begrudging respect. “We will fetch her. You and Julius must keep an eye on the guests while we’re gone. Keep them entertained and…pliable. With any luck, we’ll return from Listhima by Thursday afternoon with not a moment to spare.”
Footsteps approached the door and Ronin grabbed Mireille’s hand, rushing her down the hallway and around a corner. He poked his head around in time to see Otto exit the room, followed by Layla.
“What was that all about?” Mireille whispered. “Open pathway to where? And who is she ?”
“I don’t know,” he answered, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. His head was pounding, the need for a Delirium throbbing through his veins.
“And did you hear the name of the village he mentioned? Listhima. That’s the village where anastasium originated. Do you think that’s where Otto is from?”
“Guess we’ll have a few days to poke around and try to figure it out while our illustrious host is away.”
She nodded, lost in thought. “That was pretty odd dinner conversation, too. He didn’t ask you a single question.”
“Of course he didn’t. He’s obsessed with you.” He couldn’t help the bite in his tone.
She waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, please. Don’t tell me it bothered you. It’s the whole point of why we’re here. Just think of it like your chess games. Moves and counter-moves, right?”
“I guess.” Ronin chewed his lower lip, and Mireille’s eyes darted there briefly, her cheeks reddening. The sight emboldened him. “How’s this for a counter-move then?” He stepped in closer, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?”
“You haven’t.” She gifted him an incandescent smile. He knew it was more real than any she’d offered their slimy host this evening. His chest squeezed, his jealousy dissolving.
“You look incredibly, breathtakingly beautiful tonight, Mireille.”
She dipped her head and hooked a strand of copper hair behind her ear, peeking up at him through her lashes. “I might say the same about you, but your checkered suspenders are ruining the effect.”
He bit back a laugh then plucked up her arm to lead her down to the main dining room.
“Don’t even try to deny it,” he said. “You fucking love them.”