Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
M ireille returned to the guest wing, then pressed her hand to the panel outside their door. “Ronin?” she called out as it swung open.
The main room was quiet. And cold. He hadn’t lit the fireplace.
The armchairs were empty, as was the bed. Which was still made and seemed unruffled. Relief rushed through her.
“Ronin.”
A rumbling grunt came from the bathroom as she opened the door, her hand flying to her mouth.
Ronin slumped in the bathtub, fully clothed, his long legs stretched out beneath the water and his white dress shirt plastered to his impressive torso. His tattooed muscles peeked through the transparent fabric.
His suit jacket was strewn across the floor and four empty bottles of Delirium perched on the lip of the tub.
A fifth, half-empty itself, was clasped in his massive fist, stopped halfway to his lips. His blue-yellow irises were tiny rings around his blown-out pupils.
The corner of his mouth kicked up as Mireille approached.
“My little she-friend,” he slurred, wet strands of white hair clinging to his black eyebrows. “I mean, my girl-wolf.” He shook his head and cackled, tipping over the bottle and spilling glowing Delirium into the bathwater.
“What are you… Ronin, what happened?” She knelt beside the tub, the floor cold and damp against her knees. Not cold. Freezing .
How long had he been sitting in here like this? She plucked the bottle from his fingers and he didn’t protest. Just stared at her face, blinking, water beading in his dark eyelashes.
“Amatu save me, you’re the most exquisite thing I’ve ever seen,” he breathed out, and her face flamed. “Are you real?” He brushed wet fingers against her cheek, jolting in disbelief. “You are real. My fucking lucky night.”
His eyes were glazed and hooded, and as he attempted to lift himself out of the tub, his arms gave out and he crashed down, sending a wave over the lip and soaking Mireille’s black dress.
“Sorry,” he giggled.
Tears prickled the backs of Mireille’s eyes. It was gut-wrenching to see him struggle like this. He’d been doing so well, avoiding Delirium for the past few days. He must have seen something truly awful during the seance to have gone overboard like this.
She rounded the tub, then bent down to snake her arms underneath his armpits. “Okay, Matakos. Come on. Get up.”
“Why?” he shivered, trying to wriggle out of her grasp. “I like it in here. It’s… well, it was warm.” His teeth began chattering, as if he’d just noticed how cold the water had become.
“Up.” Mireille hauled him to his feet. She didn’t know how in Ethyrios she managed it—Ronin was six-and-a-half feet of solid muscle and fucking heavy —but she was able to help him out of the tub without either of them slipping.
He stood, swaying slightly and pulling at his shirt. “Why’s my shirt look funny? I can see my nipples.” He howled with laughter, tipping backwards, and Mireille rushed over to steady him.
“Okay, let’s get you out of these wet clothes” —his eyebrows shot up and his lips curved into a grin— “and into some dry ones.” He pouted, but didn’t protest as she slung his arm over her shoulder and marched him into the bedroom.
She planted him at the end of the bed, then guided his hands to the footboard. “Hold on to this.”
“Mmmm.” His hum was a deep, surprisingly seductive sound given the state he was in. “I like where this is heading.”
“I’m going to undress you,” she stated.
“Now I love where this is heading,” he slurred, reaching back for her. The motion set him off-balance and he smacked his hand back to the footboard to steady himself. “Though maybe we should wait until another night. I’m not sure I’m capable of giving you my best performance right now.”
She stepped behind him, wrapping her arms around his torso to undo the buttons, then lifted each hand as she stripped the sleeves down and peeled off his shirt. His muscled back was no less tempting than his front.
She scolded herself. Her poor friend was clearly struggling, and here she was ogling him.
She trailed her hands down to his waistband and he thrust his hips forward.
“ Fuck, yeah.”
“Ronin,” she snapped, and he seemed to return to himself for a moment.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m not?—”
“It’s fine. Just hold still while I take your pants off.”
He groaned. “This is fucking humiliating.”
She unhooked the button and pulled down the zipper, trying not to make contact with the very impressive bulge underneath. Pushing his pants down his legs, she lifted his ankles one by one and shucked them off.
Free of his clothes, he rounded the footboard and toppled onto the mattress.
“Oh no,” she said. “You need to sober up first.”
Though regular liquor didn’t give Fae hangovers, Delirium was another story. If he was going to be of any use at all tomorrow, to be alert and on guard for Otto’s continued madness, she needed to make sure he had a clear head before falling asleep.
He grumbled and whined, but sat upright as she strode to the closet. She found a black t-shirt and cotton pants, then handed him both.
As he dressed himself, she may have allowed her gaze to linger just a few seconds longer than necessary on his decadently sculpted torso, the powerful sweep of his thighs, the faint smattering of snow-white hair that trailed into his underwear. Though she did finally avert her eyes when he stripped off that particular article of wet clothing.
Once he was decent, she helped him into an armchair and lit the fireplace. She changed into her silk pajamas, then flopped down into the chair across from him.
“What will help?” she asked.
He leaned his head back, staring at her from underneath slitted lids. “What will help with what?”
“What can I do to sober you up? I’ve never… I don’t drink Delirium, so I don’t know how to counteract it. I’m guessing just water or coffee won’t do it?”
He shook his head, his wet hair squeaking on the leather.
“Blood,” he murmured.
“What?”
He leveled a wobbly gaze at her. “Your clean blood. It will speed my healing, help my body counteract the Delirium.”
It wasn’t the craziest suggestion. Fae blood did have healing properties.
“Okay,” she breathed out. “How?”
He didn’t answer, his head lolling on his shoulder and his ragged breathing slowing.
“Ronin.”
No reaction.
Fuck, he was worse off than she thought.
She bolted out of her chair and jerked his shoulders. “ Ronin .”
His chest stilled, and panic frosted her veins.
“ RONIN! ” She cocked her arm back and punched him in the jaw.
He surged to life, wrapping his arms around her waist, and hauled her into his lap.
And she tried not to scream as Ronin fisted her hair, exposed her neck, and sank his sharpened canines into her flesh.
A heady, succulent liquid flowed into Ronin’s mouth, singeing down his throat and through his veins.
It tasted like a snow-dampened bonfire, smoldering embers on the back of his tongue.
It tasted like a forest floor covered in pine needles and icy moonlight.
It tasted like a wolf.
Mirielle’s wolf. That familiar combination of musk and overripe flowers.
His own wolf howled, dissolving the Delirium stupor.
There was a soft body cradled in his lap. Feminine hips pressing against his cock. Muscular legs straddling his waist. Silky hair tangled in his fingers.
He slowly became aware of his lips on Mireille’s neck, his teeth piercing her flesh as he sucked down mouthful after mouthful of the most intoxicating blood he’d ever tasted.
Snippets of their conversation pelted him. Something about him needing to sober up.
Frenzied Dienses, what the fuck was he doing?
And why couldn’t he stop?
Pliant in his lap, Mireille whimpered as his throat worked, drinking her down.
Was she enjoying this?
Her delicate hands rested on his shoulders, steadying him. Or perhaps steadying herself.
As the fog of the Delirium lifted, he removed his mouth from her addictive flesh. He shortened his canines, panting as he pressed his forehead against her chest.
Fuck, she tasted good.
She stroked the back of his neck as he returned to himself, and when he lifted his head to look at her, there was fear in her eyes.
But not for herself.
For him.
As if he were fucking worth something.
“Are you okay?" she asked. “Did you take enough?”
He licked the smear of blood off her neck, and the two puncture wounds began threading back together. “I… I think I’m good.”
She made no move to remove herself from his lap.
He cupped her face, gratitude squeezing his chest. “So fucking brave.” Another shiver of pleasure ran through her at his praise.
His wolf was frantic, the infusion of Mireille’s blood stirring the creature into a frenzy of indecipherable yips and barks and howls.
Which was probably a blessing. Ronin didn’t want to hear any of the beast’s vulgar ideas, especially since his and Mireille’s limbs were still tangled together. Their faces were so close that he could feel her warm breath on his lips.
Her silver eyes searched his, scanning between them. Answering those questions he’d been too cowardly to ask her after their kiss.
His jaw ached, and he hissed as he brushed the tender spot. “Did you… Did you punch me in the face?”
She rolled her eyes, chasing away whatever had just passed between them. “Trust me, you deserved it. And I was trying to wake you up. I thought you were… I was so…” She shook her head, chasing away a confession.
She pushed out of his lap, and his wolf let out a frustrated whine. She adjusted the waistband of her silk pants—to Ronin’s utter delight, the same she’d been wearing that night at the theater when they’d teased Otto—and pulled her collar up. It fell back down, exposing her shoulder.
And even though his lips had just left her skin, he wanted to put them back there. Immediately.
She settled into the chair across from him and tucked her legs up, the fire’s golden glow dancing in her coppery hair. “What happened to you tonight?” Concern twisted her features.
Had anyone, other than Selene, ever looked at him with such concern?
A deep ache gripped his heart, so intense he felt like he was dying.
“Otto said you woke up about ten minutes into the seance and fled the room. Said that Layla had to accompany you back here.” There was an edge in her voice when she said the other female’s name that he thought it wise not to comment on.
Ronin spread his legs, sinking deeper into the cushions with a long exhale. All the Delirium in the world wouldn’t dull the terror he’d felt as soon as he’d crossed into the Halfway.
And had seen who was waiting for him.
Once he’d awoken, gasping and sweating on the glass floor, he’d fled the ballroom. Layla had chased him back to the suite, then called down to the servants for a case of Delirium. She’d drank one with him, then left him to his own uncontrollable devices. She hadn’t hit on him—not any more than she had at the party beforehand—and now, with a clearer head, he wondered if this had been her plan all along. To disorient and distract him. To put him out of commission or weaken him somehow. Get him to abandon his task of protecting Mireille and leave her vulnerable to Otto’s machinations.
Luckily, Mireille seemed unharmed. Other than the two faded pink marks that he himself had placed on her neck.
“The seance…” he started, unsure of how to convey what he’d seen. No, not unsure. Ashamed . A writhing, oily, poisonous shame.
Compassion softened her gaze, as if she could sense his churning emotions. “Who visited you, Ronin?”
He crumpled forward, his forearms crashing to his knees. He scanned the room for another bottle of Delirium. High fucking Gods, he wanted another one so badly. Even the embarrassment of feeding from his partner couldn’t quell the craving.
This hurt .
It hurt so fucking bad, all the guilt, and his heart was going to pound through his chest, and he couldn’t breathe, and?—
Gentle fingers brushed across his scalp, and when he looked up, Mireille stood before him, his eyes level with the sliver of creamy skin between her waistband and her shirt.
“Let it out.” Her voice was so soothing he could hardly bear it. A garbled sob clawed up his throat as she knelt at his feet, clasping gentle fingers around his hand. Grounding him. “Tell me. Unburden yourself. That’s what friends are for, right?”
She looked exhausted. Letha only knew what kind of message the souls had offered her . But despite all the shit she was carrying herself, she still wanted to help carry his.
Something cracked open in his chest. Something vast and boundless and eternal.
So, Ronin opened his mouth.
And revealed his tortured soul to his friend.
“There were human soldiers,” Ronin whispered, his voice breaking. “Thousands of them.”
Mireille rested her cheek on his thigh, still grasping his hand. Just those two small points of contact. Any more than that, and she didn’t know what she might let him do.
Seeing him so vulnerable, so undone by his guilt, had shattered her last lingering perceptions of him.
She’d thought he was arrogant, narcissistic, lazy. Coasting through life thanks to his reputation.
But that hadn’t been true at all. Underneath those layers was a male haunted by the things he’d done.
Haunted by a pain so ingrained that he had to numb it with the very substance that had been the catalyst of his downfall.
Mireille didn’t often feel pity for anyone , believing that people deserved to suffer the consequences of their actions. Their choices.
But seeing Ronin struggle with his own had her tapping a well of compassion she hadn’t even realized she possessed.
Ronin sighed, his leg shifting beneath her cheek. “As soon as I crossed over, they swarmed me. And they weren’t…” He choked down a sob. “They weren’t even angry. That was the worst part. I could have dealt with that. They…” He swallowed. “They showed me the lives I had stolen from them. The wives and husbands and children they’d left behind. Grand-children they’d never even met. Not after I… after I’d killed them.” Glistening tears bathed his cheeks. “There were so many. A sea of human faces all blurred together, some glowing and some just visions. I could barely distinguish them. I did that. I caused all that devastation, and I can’t…”
She wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault. That he was just following orders. That those human soldiers had taken to those battlefields knowing the potential outcomes. But she didn’t think he wanted or needed to hear that right now.
“I’m a coward,” he howled. “I should’ve stayed. Should’ve listened to their grievances. But I just ran away again. Like I’ve done for the past three centuries.”
“You’re not a monster, Ronin,” she whispered.
“Yes, I fucking am. Someone with true strength wouldn’t have used it on opponents who were so much weaker. I deserve this cage.”
“Prove them wrong,” she said.
“Wh-what?”
“Prove them wrong. Once we finish this assignment—and we will —when they uncage you, don’t let the Empire use you like that ever again. Forge a different path.”
“What kind of path?”
She shrugged. “I can’t answer that for you. But what I do know is you have a choice right now. You can continue to beat yourself up, wallow in your regret, or you can change things. Be better . Do better.”
He exhaled slowly, brushing a finger along the bite marks on her neck. “Did I hurt you?”
She angled into his touch, letting him stroke her skin. “No. I, uh… kind of enjoyed it. In case you couldn’t tell.”
Ronin chuckled and the sound was a balm. “Mmmmm,” he purred, igniting sparks throughout her body. “Kinky. I knew it.”
She didn’t know what came over her. Perhaps it was his openness tonight. Perhaps it was this crazy, emotional roller coaster of an assignment. Perhaps it was just Ronin himself—so powerful, yet so vulnerable in his unmasking.
And so incredibly beautiful that looking at him was as glorious and painful as the harsh glare of the sun after days spent in darkness.
She forced herself to hold his molten gaze. “If we get out of this alive, maybe we could…go on a real date?”
He chuckled again, ran his thumb across her bottom lip. “That better be a promise.”
She shrugged. “We make pretty good partners.”
“The Butcher and the ballerina. Look out, Kheimos.”
“I’ll get you box seats next season, since I know how much you love watching the ballet,” she snorted.
Affection softened his eyes. A look that Mireille had rarely received from anyone. “I love watching you , Mireille.”
Radiant warmth stole through her as she stood, then offered her hand. Ronin took it, his calluses scraping her soft skin, and pulled himself to standing, so close that a breath would’ve pressed their chests together. “You okay now?”
He nodded, blowing out a long exhale. “I think so. Though I’m not sure I’m going to be able to sleep.”
Mireille stepped back, giving him space. “Me neither.”
Ronin cocked his head, scrutinizing her. “What did you see? In the Halfway?”
Her limbs stiffened, her gorge rising at the phantom taste of that stew on her tongue. The taste of her own fucking heart. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Ronin regarded her carefully, the decision not to push settling into his features.
She nodded her chin to the half-finished game of chess on the table. “You up for a game?”
Ronin smirked. “I thought you didn’t know how to play?”
“I don’t,” she said, picking up a piece that looked like a tiny turret. “What’s this one called?”
“Guess,” Ronin grinned.
“Castle?”
“Guess again.”
“Fortress,” she tried.
“Nope.”
“Stronghold.”
“Try again.”
“Turret. Tower. Citadel. Outpost,” she peppered him, earning shakes of his head every time. “What the fuck is it called then?”
Ronin’s soft mouth formed a delighted smile and she wanted to leap into his arms and kiss it off of him. “Rook.”
“ Rook ? That makes no fucking sense.”
He threw his head back and laughed. So different from his earlier gloom. “I didn’t name the pieces.”
“Why’s it called a rook?”
His dark brows furrowed. “I honestly have no clue.”
“Teach me. Payment for your fake dance lessons.”
His grin grew wider as he gathered up the board and strode to the bed where he sat cross-legged, beckoning her to join him.
Outside, snow continued to fall, large, fluffy flakes dotting the darkness and imparting a coziness to the room despite the lurking dangers.
She climbed onto the mattress and flung her hair over her shoulder as Ronin arranged the pieces with long, elegant fingers.
“Go easy on me, Matakos.”
The smile he aimed at her was a thing of dazzling, heart-wrenching beauty.
“Never, Valette.”