Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
S omething hard and sharp dug into Ronin’s ass cheek.
He groaned awake, lifting his hips and pulling out a black chess piece—the bishop. He tossed it to the foot of the bed where the board and remaining pieces lay in a haphazard pile.
He took a moment to study Mireille’s peaceful, sleep-softened face on the pillow beside him. So different from the hard-ass exterior she put on while awake.
He was growing to appreciate both sides of her.
Maybe too much.
He barely remembered what had happened last night, but his head was blissfully clear thanks to the blood she’d given him.
And likely also thanks to her listening.
He brushed a strand of red hair behind her ear, then tugged the blankets up to cover her shoulder, running his thumb over a freckle. The two puncture wounds from his bite last night had faded.
He got out of bed, then cleaned up the chessboard.
“Another round?” Mireille murmured into her pillow.
Ronin chuckled. She’d been a very quick learner, absorbing the rules and strategy more quickly than any novice he’d ever played. Not that he was surprised, with that cunning, steel-trap mind of hers.
He hadn’t gone easy on her. He’d won the first three games, then had been genuinely thrilled when she’d won the fourth. She’d accused him of letting her win, and he couldn’t tell which had turned him on more: her fiery anger that he’d gone easy on her or her sheer joy when he’d insisted she really had beaten him.
Her eyelids drooping, she’d demanded they play again. But by then, dawn’s mauve light was crowning the Blackspurs and he’d convinced her they should get some sleep. She’d told him about her impending meeting with Otto this morning, and he wanted her to meet it fresh and alert.
He was surprised he’d been able to sleep at all. He’d struggled these past few nights, without the aid of the Delirium. And after their little liaison in the chair last night, he’d yet again been completely sober.
But as he’d fallen into bed with Mireille, close but not touching, her soft breaths and sighs had lulled him into his own restorative slumber.
It was…nice. Sharing a bed with a female without trying to fuck her.
Not that those thoughts had been too far from his mind as he’d drifted off.
She pushed up from the mattress, the bright morning sunshine haloing her silky hair and glinting in her silver eyes.
His heart somersaulted in his chest.
Ours , his wolf whined.
Not yet , Ronin answered. But…maybe someday .
You should offer to clean her. A proper tongue bath to help her wake up. Start with the fur between her legs.
Honestly, I thank the High Gods every day that I’m the only one who can hear you.
His wolf chuffed, then panted as Mireille raised her arms above her head and exposed the taut planes of her stomach.
Ronin turned away, not needing that particular distraction, and headed for the bathroom.
“You chickenshit, Butcher? Afraid you’ll lose again to someone who just learned how to play your silly horse and castle game?”
Ronin crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder against the door frame as Mireille’s gaze blazed a trail across his bare torso.
“Pretty cocky for a female who only won because she dipped her neckline down to distract me with her gorgeous breasts while I was trying to concentrate on my move.”
Mireille cupped those gorgeous breasts, and Ronin’s wolf howled. “I will never understand why males are so distracted by these, but I thank Faurana the Mother for them every day. Makes at least one of my jobs so much easier.”
Ronin hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Mind if I shower first?”
Mireille waved a permissive hand. “All yours. Try not to drown in the tub again, please. I need my partner.”
Ronin laughed, loving that she could be playful about last night. He should have been so fucking ashamed of the state she’d found him in. And under other circumstances, he might have been.
But the beautiful, fierce little female now performing her morning stretches had chased all that away.
He gazed at her from the bathroom doorway, reluctant to turn away, when a knock broke the silence.
All the contentment drained from Mireille’s face, their little bubble of false peace burst.
She darted fearful eyes toward him as she opened the door, and he sauntered over, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.
That silver-haired servant stood in the hallway, breakfast tray in hand. There was no hint of recognition or wariness in the man’s eyes, as if yesterday’s episode wasn’t even a distant memory.
“Master Otto requests your presence in his study, Mistress Valette.” The servant passed the tray to Ronin.
“Immediately.”
The servant rapped on the door to Otto’s study, and Mireille straightened her shoulders and donned her mask. The aloof one she’d abandoned so many times this week.
With Ronin Matakos, of all people.
“Enter.” Otto’s voice slithered into the dim hallway before the servant pushed the door open, encouraging Mireille to step inside.
Seated behind his desk, that leather ledger open before him, sunlight sparkled around Otto’s edges, shadows casting him in silhouette.
Beside him, Nostrata Otto dozed in an indigo chair, her snake-head cane leaning against the armrest. The ancient female appeared far less regal this morning, dressed in a plain white nightgown and shawl. She startled awake when the door snicked shut, loosing a series of hacking coughs.
The harsh morning sun was not kind to the old Deathstalker, her fragility more apparent than it had been in the dark ballroom last night. She seemed entirely drained. How many more trips to the Halfway could she manage?
Otto stood, his silky, poppy-patterned dressing gown billowing around him, and Mireille settled into a chair. An expectant smile curved his lips. “Good morning. May we offer you something to eat or drink? We apologize for asking you to skip breakfast, but after Nostrata and I discussed your vision, we thought it imperative we speak with you as soon as possible.”
Mireille glanced around the room, not seeing a breakfast tray anywhere, wondering where Otto would conjure his offer from. Then realized he likely expected her to refuse it.
Was he so sure of all her answers this morning? It unsettled her. All this information he was withholding.
She decided to throw him off.
“Thank you, Jurgev.” She purred his name, a lover’s caress. “I’d love some coffee.”
Otto frowned, then barked for another servant to have a carafe brought up before turning back to Mireille. “Far be it for us to deny the wishes of our most honored guest.”
Mireille was so sick of his slimy confidence, his certainty that the Fae he’d lured here were mere puppets dancing on his tangled strings.
She’d never been able to stomach bullies, even as she recognized that she herself often was one. Perhaps that was why Otto bothered her so much. She saw too much of herself within his careful lies and constant scheming.
They waited in silence until the servant bustled in with a carafe of coffee, three mugs, and a basket of honey-soaked pastries.
Mireille took her time indulging in the spread, relishing Otto’s obvious impatience. She stirred sugar and cream into her coffee, then sipped it slowly between bites of the flaky, sweet pastry. When she was finished, she licked the sticky glaze from her fingertips, and Otto’s forked tongue darted erratically as her mouth held him in rapt attention.
She pushed her cup and plate aside, then folded her hands atop the desk. “Why am I here?”
Otto cocked his head, as if trying to decipher what she meant by here. Here in this office? Here at the estate? Perhaps even here on Ethyrios. “Therein lies the question. Do you remember what we said to you all during the arrival party?”
“You said many things during that speech. That we’re all living in delusion. That our hearts and minds would be forever changed by our experiences with you.”
“We did say that, didn’t we?” Otto flicked through the ledger, and adrenaline scorched through her veins as she saw what page he’d landed on. The one with her own family tree. And in place of the question mark, Otto had scrawled a star. The ink gleamed, still wet. “Have your heart and mind been changed yet, Mireille?”
Her thoughts instantly turned to Ronin. To the feel of his teeth on her neck, his hand fisting her hair, his powerful body beneath her. To his tears and vulnerable confessions. To his laughter and teasing over a trivial game of strategy.
And to waking up this morning to his citrus and pine scent after the most restful sleep she’d had in centuries.
How much could Otto read on her face? Her impervious mask was cracking, her efforts to hide her true feelings disintegrating.
Mireille wrangled herself under control. “That would be quite a feat for you to pull off after only four days, wouldn’t it?”
Otto leaned over the desk, propping his chin on interlaced fingers. There was dirt caked into the beds of his normally pristine fingernails. “It has happened in less time than that before, we assure you.”
Mireille’s mind strayed to Mattias Bisere, to his sister Larissa and the strange dream he’d had after she’d disappeared. Mireille wanted to probe, see what she could get Otto to reveal, but couldn’t quite conjure an angle to get there without exposing her own deceptions.
“We also mentioned stories, if you’ll recall,” Otto crooned. “So many stories, told by so many different groups of people. What stories have you been telling yourself ?” She sat up straighter, her eyes involuntarily darting to the ledger page dimpled by Otto’s elbows. “Have you figured out the meaning of your message from the souls last night? Figured out who that cloaked figure was, pounding on the door of your cabin, desperate to reach you?”
Cold fear sluiced through Mireille’s limbs, sweat slicking her palms as she raised her chin. “It was my father. Obviously.”
Otto’s serpentine eyes sparkled with smug amusement. “Odd for a choreographer to be carrying a sword, don’t you think?”
Mireille would never forget that grinning skull pommel. She’d never seen its like, despite all the missions she’d executed for the IA.
Otto stalked to an overstocked shelf and fished out a tiny book.
Mireille’s fingers trembled as he handed it to her and she beheld the title, scrolled in golden print across the tattered fabric cover. One of the few titles written in the common tongue rather than Aramaelish.
A Comprehensive History of Ethyrian Weaponry.
The air in the room thinned, and a pounding rush overtook her mind as her lungs tightened.
“Turn to page one-hundred-and-ninety-four, if you’d be so kind.” Otto returned to his seat.
Mireille did as he asked, arriving at a page with an illustration of her father’s sword with all the parts identified—fuller, edge, cross-guard, point, grip.
And pommel.
Mireille’s vision swam as she attempted to read the words.
The skull pommel represents mortality, a common symbol used across various human weapons.
This had to be some kind of trick. This book couldn’t be real, just another of Otto’s lies.
Her breakfast threatened to crawl up her throat as Mireille gripped the edge of the desk, certain she was about to pass out.
“You lied to us the other night, Mireille,” Otto said, basking in her confusion. “Your father was not a choreographer. He wasn’t even Fae.
“Your father was human .”