Chapter 3 #3
His eyes gleamed. “Alderrath wants me mated to his sister. He believes the union will ensure his family’s control over demon society in the decades to come.”
He sipped his lemon water again, as if the entire thing were a minor inconvenience rather than a calculated attempt at political maneuvering. “Disrupting his plans is an added benefit, and an absolute joy.”
Her eyes raked over him, searching for some sign of deception, some indication she was walking into a far greater trap than she realized.
But all she found was patience. A quiet, knowing patience.
As if he had already guessed her answer before she’d even spoken it, and was contentedly waiting for her to resign herself to it.
“Only one night?” she asked.
“One night.” Then, he added, “Plus a few appearances over the coming two weeks to set the stage.”
Her fingers curled around her cup. It wouldn’t be a single evening but a sustained performance, one that would require her to step into his world again and again. To be seen with him. To make herself the subject of gossip, the object of condescension.
This was the moment. The precipice. On one side, the certain loss of the orphanage she loved and the children’s future.
On the other, a pact with a creature of immense, unknown power.
He was either the saviour who would demand a terrifying price, or the final, elegant disaster that would finish what Alderrath had started.
But he would be a disaster she could utilize. A disaster that, for the first time, gave her a weapon—even if she didn’t yet know how to wield it.
“Fine,” she said, the word feeling heavier than any she had ever spoken. “I’ll do it. But I have conditions.”
Arkenoth leaned back and waited, as if he’d expected nothing less.
“This is a performance,” she told him. “Nothing more. You don’t touch me without my permission. When the ball is over, we walk away clean—no debts, no obligations, no strings attached.” She held his gaze. “Are we clear?”
His expression changed—not with amusement or even irritation, but something closer to respect.
“Crystal,” he said.
She sat back. “Then, Varil Arkenoth, I accept your bargain.”
As the words left her lips, the air in the teahouse shimmered. For a heartbeat, she felt a faint pull deep in her chest—like an invisible thread had just been tied to her core, a stake plunged deep. Their agreement was magically sealed. Her conditions, his terms, all of it bound together.
Arkenoth’s eyes glinted as he nodded. “A pleasure doing business with you, Miss Aura.”
He drew an antique gold pocket watch from his waistcoat, a frown appearing as he glanced at it, and moved to rise.
“Not so fast,” Cassia said.
He stopped.
She leaned forward, holding his gaze. “You have my word, bound to my magic. That’s no small thing for a witch. What do I have of yours?”
His lips twitched. Without a word, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and produced a small, silver-handled penknife.
With one smooth move, he severed a lock of hair from his temple and laid it on the white linen tablecloth between them.
It was jet black, but in the teahouse’s warm light, it held a coppery gleam.
“A token of my sincerity,” he said. “Is this sufficient collateral?”
Cassia picked it up. It was softer than she expected, and surprisingly warm. She could feel the hum of his magic emanating from it. She tucked the lock safely into the small, inner pocket of her coat, right over her heart.
“It’s a start,” she said.
He smiled—a slow, perceptive smile. Softly, he said, “I was bored. Now, I’m invested.” He placed more than enough bills on the table to cover their tea. “I’ll be in touch.”
As he turned to go, she nudged the bakery box she’d been tugging along toward him. “Take this,” she said. “Consider it . . . a perk of having a baker as a Chosen.”
His gaze traced the embossed label on top. “‘The Witching Flour.’ Your bakery?”
Cassia nodded. “It’s in Little Mineola, though not the kind of place your lot usually frequents.”
“A Kitchen Witch, then?”
“Like my mother before me.”
He offered a brief, acknowledging smile. “I bid you good night.” A deliberate pause. “Cassia.”
The sudden intimacy of her name on his lips lingered. She ignored the warmth in her cheeks. “Do I call you Arkenoth? Or does this fake engagement come with fake familiarity?”
“The people closest to me call me Ark. That includes you now.”
She couldn’t believe this was happening. The absurdity of it pressed against her ribs, threatening to bubble up as a laugh or a scream—she wasn’t sure which.
“Are you really as idle as they say you are?”
Ark paused, watching her with that same unreadable glint he’d worn all through their tea. Then, with the barest smirk, he said, “I suppose that’s for you to discover, now that we’re engaged.”
He inclined his head and strode out of the teahouse, disappearing into the night. Cassia remained seated, fingers brushing the pocket holding the lock of hair. A shiver ghosted down her spine.
A path had unexpectedly opened up before her.
But why did she feel as though she’d just handed a match to a man surrounded by gunpowder?