Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
M ireille returned to their suite the next morning, cheeks reddened and blood flowing.
She’d woken before Ronin, had spent several indulgent minutes watching him sleep. His rhythmic breaths stirring his snowy hair. The soft curve of his plush lips. His tattooed hand rising and falling where it lay across his bare chest.
She had immediately decided that a run through the frozen estate was the best option to keep her from doing something very stupid.
Like pulling down those blankets, kneeling between his legs, and waking him up with her mouth.
The short jog had only partly helped. She’d wanted to let her wolf out—she was feeling a bit feral after three days without shifting; High Gods, was this how poor Ronin felt all the time?—but didn’t think it wise to run around the grounds in that form. None of the other Beastrunner guests had done so this week.
Every puff of frosty air that left her mouth tasted like his tongue. But fortunately, by the end, the exercise had done what exercise normally did for her—cleared her mind, allowed her to focus on their assignment rather than on how much she wanted to tangle herself up with her partner again. Surely just a side effect of the lack of shifting.
She’d made a second pit stop on her journey as well—a trip to the greenhouse.
She had the bounty she’d acquired tucked into her jacket pocket as she strode through the door to find Ronin dressed for the day. He was seated in an armchair, their breakfast tray spread out onto the low table before him.
The silver serving platter was filled to capacity with a basket of steaming biscuits, two fluffy omelets, and crispy potatoes, plus a bowl of berries, a carafe of coffee and a pot of tea.
The delectable scents only served to make Mireille keenly aware of her hunger. She stripped off her jacket and plopped into the seat across from him.
“Good morning.” Her voice came out far more high-pitched and squeaky than she’d intended, so she cleared her throat and tried again. “Good morning.”
Ronin smirked, as if he knew exactly why she was nervous. But he didn’t tease her as he filled a mug with coffee, then added two spoonfuls of sugar and a splash of cream before handing it to her.
She couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. “You remember how I take my coffee?”
“Well,” he said, his own lips turning up, “since you wouldn’t share your kinks with me, I had to remember something.”
She took a tentative sip of the scalding drink, the sweet, creamy bitterness releasing some of the tension in her shoulders, then dug into the omelet and potatoes.
“Fuck,” she said around a crispy mouthful. “This is really good. Why do the insane ones always serve the best food?”
Ronin polished off his own omelet in three bites, then shoveled the entire pile of potatoes in his mouth.
Mireille snickered.
“What?”
“You eat like a wolf,” she said, amused.
“Old habits.” He brushed his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Where’d you go this morning?”
“Took a little jog to clear my head.”
His grin exposed a hint of fang and her neck prickled. As if her body remembered just how incredible they’d felt on her neck last night. “Why’d you need to clear your head?”
She ignored his question, hoping the flush from her run was hiding the new flush blooming on her cheeks. “Who dropped off the tray this morning? The silver-haired man? Same one we saw in the crypt last night?”
Ronin nodded, plucking up a strawberry and sinking his teeth into it. High Gods, why did that look so enticingly obscene? Her thighs clenched, and she turned away to rummage through her jacket.
She pulled out a pile of soft pink petals, then spread them onto a napkin.
Ronin’s brows rose. “I saw those in the greenhouse the other night. While Nero was drooling over you. They were under glass. I assumed they were poisonous.” His eyes scanned her face, as if he were worried she’d inadvertently hurt herself.
“Not poisonous.” The tension in his shoulders melted away. “But they are extremely prone to dehydration. They dry out faster than almost any other flower. They’re called Bleeding Hearts. The dried petals can be brewed into a tea that makes someone…let’s just say, very susceptible to suggestion. And if I mix in some of those dried Lethaphyll leaves from the cigarettes Mattias gave you.” She brought her fingers to her temple, popping them out to mimic a small explosion. “That servant won’t remember a thing after.”
Ronin’s brows rose further, a broad smile forming. “You’re a fucking genius.”
She smiled back. “Told you I’d surprise you one day, Matakos.”
He shook his head. “You being a genius doesn’t surprise me at all. Gonna have to try harder than that. When can we use it?”
“It’ll take about twenty-four hours for the petals to fully dry out. We can brew the tea tomorrow morning and give it to our servant when he comes back to pick up the tray. And then persuade him to let us into Otto’s office.” Mireille folded the napkin over the petals, then hid the parcel on the top shelf of the closet.
“So, what’s the plan for today then?” Ronin drained his tea to the dregs. “Where are we going snooping?”
Mireille turned back, smirking at him. “We’re not going snooping, we’re going hunting. For Fallen Goddess relics.
“Time to tour Otto’s galleries.”
Ronin’s footsteps echoed off the flagstone path that led to Otto’s famous galleries, a wide, white building that bled into the surrounding snow.
Beside him, Mireille was a coil of barely contained energy. He couldn’t decide where it was coming from—the run she’d taken this morning, her excitement at touring a private art collection that barely anyone on the continent had ever seen, or…
Their kiss last night.
He certainly hadn’t been able to get it out of his mind. More than once in bed he’d had to talk himself out of rolling over, grasping her soft body to him, and burying his fingers inside her. Doing some more rehearsing of their roles.
He’d almost confessed it to her last night. How he was feeling. How the lines between what was fake and what was real were starting to blur.
For him, at least.
The look she’d given him after that mind-obliterating kiss, all cool calculation and professional distance, had dissuaded him from revealing what was creeping into his heart.
They still had a job to do. He didn’t want to make things awkward.
He jogged up the shallow steps to the gallery entrance, then hauled open the heavy door and held it for Mireille. He certainly did not breathe in her sweet scent as she swept past him, her eyes widening as she took in the high-ceilinged room.
Rays of cold sunlight streamed in through the glass dome, illuminating the statues arranged throughout the hall. From this center gallery, four archways led off into what Ronin assumed were other galleries housing the paintings and more delicate artifacts that could be damaged by natural sunlight.
“Well,” he said, clenching his fists and trying to stop himself from putting his hands on her, “where should we start?”
Mireille didn’t acknowledge him as she approached the colossal statue greeting visitors just inside the entrance. It was, of course, another shrine to Stygios. This one depicted the High God embroiled in a battle with his famous pet, Nyctima.
The serpent was coiled around Stygios’s muscular—and very naked—frame, the High God’s wrathful face twisted toward the creature. He was holding something against his pursed lips.
Mireille bent down to read the plaque at the statue’s base, and Ronin crept up to peer over her shoulder.
“ The Taming of Nyctima, ” he read out loud. “I don’t recall that myth, do you?”
Mireille’s copper hair glistened in the sunshine as she nodded. “That flute.” She gestured to the instrument in Stygios’s hand. “The story claims he used it to call her forth from the depths of the planet. To mesmerize her, turn her into his reaper.”
Ronin shivered as Mireille moved further into the hall. A few other guests were milling about, quietly appreciating the statuary.
Ronin hustled to follow, but she didn’t stop at any of the other pieces. “Where are you going?” he whisper-shouted.
She halted abruptly and he nearly slammed into her back, placing his hands on her shoulders to steady himself. The heat of her skin burned beneath his fingertips and he snatched them back. He hadn’t been worried about touching her before, but now every touch felt… loaded .
If she felt similarly, it didn’t show on her face as she turned to whisper, “Nothing in this hall is old enough. Everything’s in the post-war style. If Otto’s got any artifacts from Adelphinae in here, they’d be housed along with more ancient pieces.”
Her gaze caught on a small sculpture at the far end of the hall and she sucked in a shuddering breath. She stalked toward it, dipping her hand into the pocket of her long black cardigan.
If Ronin hadn’t known any better, he might have assumed Mireille herself had been the model for this particular sculpture. The lines of the ballerina’s limbs were just as shapely and elegant as her own, though the face was different.
Far less striking.
Mireille pulled something from her pocket, nestling it in her hands, her silver eyes glistening. He glanced toward the plaque on the wall. “Irina?—”
“Amiel,” Mireille finished for him, her voice tight.
“Who was she?”
“A famous prima ballerina who danced with the Imperial Ballet in Delos.” She turned to him, opening her palm. The tiny ballerina figurine held the same pose as the statue before him. “This must be a replica of…” Her voice broke, as she held up the figurine. The paint was rubbed off in several places, the face cracked with age. A well-worn, long-cherished treasure. “This is the only gift I ever received from my father. It was in a music box he left for me when I was a child.”
She’d never spoken to Ronin about her father before. At least not directly.
“He’s the reason I’m doing this,” she whispered.
“What do you mean?”
Her eyes filled with tears and Ronin’s heart broke for her. “I never… He left the gift, but I never actually met him. My mother wouldn’t even tell me his name. I’ve been seeking information about him for centuries. The Empire claims to have learned his identity. Skanisse is going to reveal it to me when we complete the assignment. If we complete the assignment.”
As if Ronin weren’t already determined enough, he now had an entirely new motivation to finish this job. To remove the centuries worth of grief he now beheld in his friend’s eyes.
“We will , Mireille. I promise you.”
She swiped a tear from her cheek, then donned a far more determined, and familiar, expression. “Let’s go. We’ve got a lot more rooms to explore.”
He shook his head as he followed, muttering under his breath, though based on her sly grin, she’d heard him perfectly clearly.
“Taskmaster.”
The rest of the galleries were much dimmer than the main hall, with cones of light spearing from small holes in the ceiling to illuminate glass-cased treasures and gilt-framed paintings.
A quiet peace settled over Mireille as she absorbed the curated beauty: sun-dappled landscapes painted by human artists before the war; burnished bronze masks with severe, animalistic expressions worn by the warrior women of Syvalle; blown-glass pieces by the masters in Nephes that were so thin and delicate it looked as if a shout might shatter them. All of it centuries old.
Mireille had always found it easier to experience emotions through art, be it a painting, a book, a piece of music. All necessarily solitary endeavors with no reciprocal expectations placed upon her. A one-way conversation, of sorts.
When she was forced to interact with sentient beings, that’s when things became difficult. She knew, of course, how to fake the appropriate emotional responses to manipulate her audience.
But a true, authentic expression of her feelings? Sometimes she wasn’t even sure what that was . Like that part of herself was buried beneath the severity her mother had drilled into her.
She suppressed the thought as she and Ronin sauntered into the final gallery. They’d found nothing in the others, no hints of the Fallen Goddess’s tell-tale fire opals anywhere.
Mireille was growing more and more frustrated by the minute.
The only thing calming her was the steady, silent presence of her partner as he drifted along beside her.
Ronin seemed… different today. Throughout their assignment, she’d often caught him staring at her with that heated possessiveness she so frequently inspired in males. But now there was something almost wistful in his gaze. Something soft and precious—and terrifying.
And even though her own emotions were difficult for her to interpret, she had centuries of experience reading others.
He was starting to feel things for her. She honestly couldn’t think why. She’d been nothing but horrible to him since they’d met. Maybe he was some kind of masochist.
Still, his care today had been a comfort. Had helped her maintain her focus.
Crazy that a caged wolf bi-form who could barely control his own impulses was keeping her in check.
She snickered to herself as she approached a long case containing an array of decorative vases. She stepped closer to examine the green illustrations on the first vase, then sucked in a sharp breath.
Ronin was instantly at her side. “What? What did you find?”
She grabbed his arm to pull him closer, definitely not testing his rock-hard biceps, and gestured toward the vase. “Look at these.”
They side-stepped down the glass, examining illustrations that seemed eerily similar to what they’d witnessed in the crypt last night.
On the first vase, a group of Deathstalkers—marked by their serpent’s eyes and elongated fangs—were gathered around a prone figure atop a wooden pallet.
On the second, a Deathstalker in a black robe—some kind of holy male, perhaps?—placed a round object onto the dead Fae’s eye.
On the third, flames licked across both the pallet and the body.
And on the fourth and final vase, the holy male had raised the stone, now surrounded by a radiating halo, above his head and beneath a word written in swooping calligraphy.
“Psychis,” Ronin uttered. “What does that mean?”
Mireille’s stomach dropped to her feet. “Soul. Psychis means soul in Aramaelish.”
“Are you telling me the diva’s soul is what made that anastasium stone glow?”
“That’s not all I’m telling you. Death is what activates the stones. That’s the source of Stygios’s power.” Her face was ashen as she turned to him. “Death itself.”
She rushed over to the plaque beside the case, Ronin right on her heels, and her fingers shook as they traced the provenance of the ancient vases.
Listhima.