Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
S nowflakes drifted past the window, falling stars against the pitch-black night.
In the bed beside Mireille, Ronin’s breathing whispered a peaceful melody. He certainly hadn’t had any trouble falling asleep tonight.
Mireille, however, had been awake for hours, going over plans in her mind that seemed both too hastily thrown together and yet the only possible solution to acquire the flute and defeat Otto.
The plan was brutal in its simplicity.
Layla would hide the weapons Mireille and Ronin had chosen behind the statue of Otto’s ancestor in that alcove in the crypt. And as soon as Mireille began her dance, Ronin would grab them to make their final stand. She would have to give the most mesmerizing performance of her life to keep the Deathstalker billionaire and the guests enthralled.
The whole plan seemed patently ridiculous and hinged on so many things going right. But they were out of options.
And out of time.
Even with all those thoughts swirling, the one really keeping her awake was the bomb Otto had dropped into her own personal history.
Mireille was half-human .
On the one hand, it explained so much about her life. She’d always felt different from other Fae. Always felt like an outsider. In the past, she’d attributed it to her solitary upbringing.
But her sense of otherness had never gone away, not even when she’d finally joined society in Kheimos. Her fellow dancers had always been a mystery, puzzles Mireille couldn’t solve. Even Juliet, who’d seemed inclined to reveal her full picture. Mireille had thought she’d figured it out once, with Josef, but that disaster had only strengthened her long-held belief: she was different. And better alone.
She sighed, grabbing the small ballerina figurine from the nightstand.
The mattress shifted, followed by Ronin’s deep rasp. “Can’t sleep?”
She turned, tucking the figurine under her cheek as she shook her head.
“Are you worried about tomorrow?” he asked, tucking his own hands under his cheek. His tattoos shimmered across his biceps, and Mireille tried to ignore her sudden, intense desire for him to wrap her up in those impressive arms, hold her close, and tell her everything was going to be alright.
Just a stupid fantasy, really.
Mireille had pushed people away her entire life, drifting from performance to performance, never exposing her true self. She had made this bed and was now, quite literally, laying in it.
“No. I never worry about my assignments. I know I’ll be able to handle whatever gets thrown at me tomorrow. Even after all the shit I just learned, I trust myself.”
“And your partner?” He tossed her a sleepy smile, and she had to physically restrain herself from leaping for him, threading her fingers through his tousled white hair, and kissing his fucking face off.
“I guess I trust him, too.” She smiled back. “After all.”
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his palm lingering on her cheek, and a shiver coursed through her. “Wow, after only two weeks? You might want to sharpen those survival skills, Valette.”
She snickered, pressing her cheek into his hand. High Gods, had it only been two weeks? She felt like she’d known him far longer.
“How are you feeling about the other news you received today? About your father?”
They hadn’t had a chance to discuss it after their meeting with Layla. Otto had insisted everyone attend a raucous dinner party to celebrate the results of their readings.
Most of the guests had been just as jubilant as Nero, who’d spent the hours-long dinner regaling his seat-mates with his plans for his newfound power . Mireille had dropped as many hints as she dared that tomorrow may not go how he expected. By the end of the meal, a shred of doubt had started creeping into his eyes.
They’d discussed it with Layla, the possibility of warning the guests. Maybe even recruiting them to take Otto down at dinner. But they couldn’t risk the loss of the flute, couldn’t risk it slipping out of their grasp and into potentially even more dangerous hands.
Mireille pulled out the figurine, twirling the little ballerina on the bed between her and Ronin. “When I was younger, I had all these theories about who my father might be. A rich merchant, a skilled tradesman, a bladesmith perhaps? Maybe even some important advisor to the Emperor. But do you want to know what my favorite theory was?”
Sympathy shone in Ronin’s blue-yellow eyes. “Tell me.” A soft request. “Please.”
“You guessed it at dinner with Otto the other night. That he was a choreographer. The great mastermind behind the scenes at the Imperial Ballet in Delos. Providing the steps for every dancer who graced that legendary stage. Even Irina Amiel. What other reason would he have had to gift me the music box that contained this?”
Mireille held the figurine in a band of moonlight. Hairline cracks spider-webbed across the ballerina’s tiny, painted face.
“Ever since then, I thought if I could just be perfect, if I could manage all the steps, if I could follow life’s choreography…that maybe he would—” Her voice cracked and Ronin wrapped a large hand around her forearm, a comforting, though respectfully distanced, pressure. “That he would come back for me.”
She saw her own pain reflected in Ronin’s gaze.
The pain of doing everything right, but still being discarded.
The pain of locking down one’s true self.
The pain of being alone in the world.
She sucked in a shuddering breath, her eyes stinging as she asked the question that had dogged her for centuries.
“Why didn’t he want me, Ronin?”
Ronin’s chest ached at Mireille’s anguished question.
He didn’t hesitate, wrapped her in his arms and let her cry against his chest as her icy exterior melted away.
And though some callous part of him had taunted her days ago that there was nothing beneath it, deep down he knew that this is what her tears would reveal.
A shattered soul left to fend for itself. A vulnerability so deeply rooted that to expose it to anyone would require tearing out too many vital parts.
The very same things that were underneath his exterior. He and Mireille were more alike than he’d ever thought possible.
He stroked a hand through her hair, waiting for her sobs to ebb.
Once they did, he sat up against the headboard and pulled her into his lap. “Do you know what I like most about you, Mireille?”
She tipped her chin up to look at him, and her tear-soaked eyes were so unguarded he could barely fucking stand it.
“Your imperfections. Like this one right here.” He kissed the small freckle on her shoulder. “And this one.” He lifted her forearm, running his thumb along the silver scar. She released a shuddering breath, nestling in closer.
“And especially this one.” He tapped a finger against her temple. “Your mind works differently than anyone I’ve ever met. I don’t think it ever stops.” She huffed a small laugh.
“But the best imperfection?” He flattened his palm against her chest. “It’s this. Your broken heart.”
He lowered the strap of her silk camisole, pressing a gentle kiss upon the frantic organ. Then breathed his final confession against her soft, warm skin.
“Let me help you piece it back together.”
His words were kindling. She turned in his lap, her thighs bracketing his hips, and grasped his cheeks. Glistening fire blazed in her silver eyes as he wrapped his arms around her lower back.
And then her mouth was on him, and any worries he had about tomorrow or the day after or the day after faded away into blissful oblivion.