5. Just Rocks #2
The room itself borders on absurd. Pale stone walls surround rugs thick enough to swallow the soles of my shoes, and the side tables look suspiciously like solid gold.
Back home, luxury means a hotel that includes breakfast and doesn’t overlook the service alley.
Here, precious metal apparently counts as practical furniture.
A wide archway to my right opens onto the bedroom, where a single matrimonial bed dominates the room. It is large enough to make the rest of the suite look modest. Pale silk spills over the mattress, and the pillows look capable of burying me without assistance.
The contract warned me that we might have to share a room. Cassian was also painfully specific about the public intimacy our arrangement could require. Reading that in Sigurd’s office was one thing. Standing in front of an actual shared bed is another.
“Tell me they host giants here,” I say, mostly because saying something is preferable to staring. “That mattress violates several zoning laws.”
Sigurd looks past me into the bedroom. “Does it really?”
“Yes.”
“My apologies, Valerie. You’ll have to sleep on the illegal mattress.”
Before I can answer, he walks into the living room and stops beside a huge velvet couch beneath one of the windows. Even by Mt. Qaf standards, it looks impressive. But for all its size, it definitely isn’t large enough for Sigurd. At least, not if he’s planning to use it for what I suspect.
“Sigurd, you can’t be serious,” I immediately protest. “You’re not sleeping there.”
He glances at the couch. “Why not?”
“Because it’s a couch, and you’re enormous.”
“It’s a djinn couch.” His tone makes that sound like a complete explanation. “Rakan entertains guests with wingspans of twenty feet. I’ll fit.”
I look at the couch again. Maybe the couch is magical, like everything here, but that isn’t really the point.
He could have assumed we would share the bed. The contract allows the appearance of intimacy, and no one here would question it. Instead, he took one look at the room and decided the bed belongs to me.
“You don’t have to do that,” I tell him.
“I know.”
He picks up one of my bags and carries it toward the bedroom. “Take the bed, unpack your armor, and rest. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”
I take the bag from him at the bedroom archway. “Fine. But if you wake up unable to move your neck, I’m not accepting responsibility.”
“I’ll have my legal department prepare the waiver.”
I laugh as I carry the bag into the bedroom. Tomorrow means Solveig, Maren, and whatever else Mt. Qaf has waiting for us. The thought still knots my stomach, but not quite as tightly as it did on the plane. Whatever happens, I won’t be facing it alone.
The afternoon sun beats down on the upper terraces of Mt.
Qaf, reflecting sharply off the paved paths.
I keep my hand against the small of Valerie’s back as we walk.
The contact is supposed to be a calculated part of our illusion, but the warmth radiating through her silk dress is a distraction I haven't fully accounted for.
The estate gardens are sprawling, an endless maze of lush flora. “This is beautiful,” she murmurs. “How are these flowers even real?”
“Many of them only grow here,” I reply, though my attention remains on the way the sunlight catches the stray hairs framing her face.
She slows beside a cluster of pale blossoms and examines the petals without touching them. I match her pace until she is ready to continue.
We turn a corner onto a secluded stone walkway and step into a wall of scorching desert heat.
Rakan stands in the center of the path. He’s seven feet of matte obsidian skin and ancient magic, with living fire flowing beneath his skin in an even gold rhythm. Beside him, Iris Beckett stands at ease, her glasses fogging slightly from her mate’s body heat.
Rakan has been my closest friend for several thousand years. I have seen him furious, grieving, impossible to reason with, and bored enough to create problems purely for entertainment. Seeing him this content beside Iris is still something I’m getting used to.
Iris steps forward. “You made it.” She offers Valerie a warm smile. “I was worried Camille was going to scare you off. I’m Iris. It’s so nice to meet another human who understands how exhausting these guys can be.”
Valerie lets out a light laugh. “Valerie. And yes, the dramatic flair is a lot to process. The tailor shop alone nearly gave me a panic attack.”
Rakan steps up beside his bride. His golden gaze flicks over the draping of Valerie’s dress.
“We merely appreciate aesthetics, Valerie,” he drawls. “Sigurd, however, possesses the aesthetic range of a concrete block. I’m shocked he managed to find you a dress.”
“I outsourced it,” I tell my friend. “I’m a CEO, Rakan. I delegate.”
Rakan smirks. I recognize the expression immediately. I was equally insufferable when he first met Iris, so I can hardly object now.
Iris hooks her arm through Valerie’s, and we start down the emerald path together. “Ignore him. What do you actually do when Sigurd isn’t dragging you across the world for weddings?”
“I’m a librarian in Saltweather.”
Iris’s attention sharpens. “Really? I spent years studying ancient Mediterranean trade routes while working in a coffee shop. I practically lived in libraries whenever I wasn’t behind the counter.”