Chapter Twenty-Seven
The safest mask is worn so well
Even its maker cannot tell
Ronyn stumbles out of the tavern like a man drowned in ale. His feet trip over one another, unstable and uncooperative, an almost-empty bottle of amber liquor dangling from his hand.
He lets out a loud belch, and promptly hiccups. Loud enough so those on the tavern’s balcony can hear. He rounds the corner, out of sight of the tavern, and tosses the bottle, stands upright, and clears his throat.
Fucking idiots.
He knew he was right—ale loosens lips. So does winning easy coin from a stranger.
Ronyn steadies his gait into a smooth, lethal stride. The way he always walks when he’s tracking. The steady scrape of a blade whispers in the humid night air, and he follows the sound.
“Jaxxy?” he half-whispers, half-yells.
A noncommittal grunt travels from the narrow alley—practically a personal signal from Jax.
He checks over his shoulder for anyone following, casts a gaze across open windows for leering eyes, and when he thinks he’s safe, cuts around the corner into the alley.
Jax leans against the grime-coated wall, unfazed and at ease. A woman comfortable with both beauty and blade, desire and dirt. She has one boot propped against the wall while she knives dirt out from under her fingernails.
She doesn’t look up, so Ronyn takes her in. Deep-brown eyes, raven-black hair that falls across her back and shoulders all the way to her waist, deep-red lips that look sensuous and soft, but spit more venom than any woman he’s ever met.
And he loves it.
A woman of fire and rage, and something undeniable—something that means being liked isn’t on her agenda. She is unabashed. Unapologetic. Stripped back to the marrow of herself.
It is godsdamned magnetic.
Finally, she pushes off the wall, dragging her eyes to Ronyn, silencing his thoughts immediately.
“You look rather pleased with yourself,” she teases, a little bite in her tone.
“I’m always pleased with myself, Jaxxy,” Ronyn counters, slapping that goofy smile on his face that he knows she secretly loves.
“I suppose you did put on quite the show tonight. Very impressive,” she condescends, but he knows she means it. He knows compliments taste like vinegar to Jax. Perhaps it’s because warmth is where betrayal happens. Or because kindness feels like weakness.
But Ronyn knows there are rules with Jax, too.
Rule one: Let the snide remarks go.
Because beyond the taunts, there is another side. Softer. Tender where the pain hasn’t reached.
So he changes the tone.
“Feel like putting on a little show of your own, Jaxxy?” He wags his eyebrows suggestively.
She stares at him, unflinching, the slightest look of exasperation on her face.
Then she laughs.
Not big, but real. A little giggle that reminds him of the woman beneath the wounds.
Rule two: Make her laugh.
She saunters toward him, hips swaying seductively—their rhythm godsdamned hypnotic.
Her hand reaches up, gripping his chin firmly between her fingers.
“First, we swap information. Then, maybe little Tarrakai can come out for a ride,” she moans the words, gripping his crotch firmly in the palm of her hand.
Holy fucking Stars, this woman.
Ronyn sucks in a sharp breath at the pain, but the smile that tears free on his face is downright sinful.
Rich, gravelly words rumble through Ronyn’s mind.
Tell the angry human woman that there is nothing small about me. Tarrakai’s words are not just annoyed, they’re enraged. Insulted at the insinuation.
Ronyn can’t help the huff of laughter that rips from his throat.
“Tarrakai would like you to know that my dick is huge, actually,” Ronyn quips, a smirk tilting his mouth.
Tarrakai’s voice gets louder in his mind. Not what I fucking said, vessel.
Jax pushes her breasts to his chest, closing the remaining gap between them. Her hand grips tighter at his crotch. “It’s moderate, at best. I’ve taken a ride on this little dragon before, remember?”
How in the fucking Stars could he forget?
Ronyn swallows thickly. This woman could make him do terrible things in her name. For her, he’d blindly comply.
“Seem to have forgotten, actually. Might need to be reminded,” he teases, angling his head downward to get closer to her lips.
She huffs a laugh, dropping her voice into a low, breathy whisper. “I’ll make it unforgettable.” She bites her lower lip between her teeth, her eyes all seduction and sin. “But first, information swap, and strategy.”
Ronyn groans in frustration.
Jax tugs on his arm, leading him through the streets of Vyrhal.
“Okay, how about this: naked touching while we information swap?” he says with a flourish, trying to transform his words into a legitimate proposition.
“No,” Jax snaps. “Don’t be offended, Ronyn, but you’re not much of a multi-tasker. If your hands or cock are working, your mouth certainly isn’t. And unfortunately, I need your mouth for the information.”
Ronyn sees the opening. “But my mouth can do so many other things that are far more important.”
She scoffs. “Debatable.”
He lets the barb go, as she continues pulling him down the street, and at this point, Ronyn has no idea where he is. But he follows, blindly, willingly, desperately. Like a puppy following after its handler.
“Okay, ignore that. I have something better. What about… you tell me what you know while I’m licking your sweet little—”
“No!” Jax shouts, but she can’t help it—she laughs.
It’s real. Rich and throaty, and absolutely fucking decadent.
“Fine. Play by your rules. Boredom then the bedroom,” he grouses, acquiescing to her demands. As he always does.
Jax scoffs. “Cute of you to think we ever play by rules other than my own.”
He doesn’t. But he loves giving her the illusion that he’s hopelessly at her whim.
“Well that’s just rude, isn’t it?” Ronyn grouses, but he doesn’t stop smiling.
Rule number three: Let her be in control.
Jax cuts around a corner, and pulls up in front of a quaint building with a hanging sign. Vyrhal’s Luxury Inn.
The faint glow of guttering candles flickers through the shutters, and the sweet aroma of burnt rosemary wafts under the door like an invitation.
Jax boots the door open like she owns the place, and strides toward the front desk. “Room for two for the next few nights,” she says, and the words sound gruff, intolerant.
People always look surprised when they hear her speak. As if beauty were meant to quiet a woman. As if softness were the price of being seen. Jax has never paid it. Never would, if Ronyn knew her at all.
The world loves beautiful women most when they’re silent. When they’re afraid. Easier to manipulate. Easier to dominate. Easier to convince of their own inferiority. Jax has never subscribed to that particular stupidity, of course.
Neither has Ronyn. Because only a fool would look at a woman and see inferiority—they’d see the only thing that can bring a man to his godsdamned knees. He knew far too many brilliant, powerful women to do anything other than revere them.
Being beautiful has never obligated any of them to be quiet.
And thank the gods for that.
“We’re full up, dear,” the timid, elderly gentleman behind the desk says.
But Jax isn’t convinced. She leans over the desk, teeth bared. “Is that for everyone? Or just outsiders?” The words come out all venom, the challenge in them undeniable.
She hits a nerve, because the old man swallows thickly, a bead of sweat appearing on his brow.
“Look again. I think you’ll find something just opened up,” Jax croons, tone as sweet as honey. But everyone knows: this is a threat.
The man drags an ink-stained finger down the parchment. “Ah! Yes. You’re right. Room 26 available for the next three days. Must’ve missed it,” he says, submitting to her, and dropping the room key on the bench before her. “Two coppers should do it.”
Jax hands over the coins with a grunt and no gratitude, and ascends the stairs two at a time.
Ronyn follows, bounding up the stairs behind her, and following her down a long, carpeted hallway.
She opens the door in the only way she knows how: with her boot and a decent amount of force.
The room isn’t extravagant—a simple, large bed fills the space, a small dresser is pressed into the corner, and a velvet green chaise is set back against the wall. But it’s clean, warm, inviting.
Fawny-brown rugs blend beautifully with the forest-green of the drapes and furniture, the smallest accent of gold filigree lining the dresser and headboard.
Simple, but elegant.
A claw-footed bath is drawn in the corner of the room, filling the space with the scent of wild orange and vanilla. Bubbles settle on top of the water, as if this room had been prepared for an imminent guest.
“I suppose this room really was full,” Jax giggles, showing no remorse.
“Devilish plans are kind of your thing, you know?” Ronyn quips, removing his weapons, his leather vest, and shucking them onto the chaise.
Jax does the same, her eyes fixed on Ronyn, and he knows that look—the look she gets when she knows she’s in control. Or she’s about to be.
Good.
Jax strips down to her tunic. “Your punishment for trying to get me naked,” she purrs seductively, pulling her tunic over her head to reveal her perfect breasts and long, slender torso, “is that you have to watch me naked without touching me while we swap information.”
Jax hooks a finger under her undergarments, pulling them over her hips, down her thighs, and dropping them to pool at her feet.
Ronyn’s mouth goes dry, his cock already throbbing at the sight of her.
“This is so much worse than if you’d just stayed fully clothed,” he mutters.
But Jax smiles. “I know,” she admits, patting his chest condescendingly and sauntering to the edge of the bath, before slipping her legs over the edge and submerging herself.
“Fuck’s sake,” Ronyn complains.
The bath isn’t full enough to cover her completely—the gods would never be so kind. The bubbles part around her breasts, revealing them peaked and full, and she does nothing to help, slipping her long, lean legs from the water and hooking them over the edges.