Chapter 28 #3
To her surprise, Delphyne’s lips curved—just barely. She broke their gaze first, then turned and walked away without a word, her gown whispering against marble. The orchestra rushed to strike up another waltz.
Only when his mother joined the crowd did Ark exhale—a subtle release of tension Cassia felt in his arm.
“You made her smile,” he said, voice low with disbelief. “She hasn’t done that since her last political triumph.”
Cassia blinked. “That was a smile?”
“By her standards.” A pause, then he laughed. “It was practically a standing ovation.”
Relief flooded through her, almost dizzying. She hadn’t been thrown out. Hadn’t been publicly humiliated. The hardest part was over, and she was still standing.
She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been bracing—for the dismissal, the whispers, the moment Delphyne’s gaze would slide past her like she was nothing. It had happened before, many times, and though she knew how to survive it, tonight she’d wanted more than survival.
He offered his arm again. “Are you hungry? Let’s get you something to eat before someone accuses you of casting a spell on my mother.”
She looked at him, then at the buffet, then at the crowd—and back at him. The food smelled incredible. Her stomach gave a traitorous lurch. But the thought of standing in that crowd, smiling, pretending to enjoy herself while her pulse still raced, turned her stomach for entirely different reasons.
“Actually,” she said, “is there somewhere we can sit for a while? Just the two of us?”
He studied her for a beat, then nodded. “There’s a conservatory at the end of the east wing. It’s my favourite place in this mansion. Quiet. Peaceful. No one will disturb us there.”
Cool relief suffused her chest. “Sounds per—”
A footman in deep-blue livery appeared beside them, his steps so silent Cassia hadn’t heard him approach. He bowed to Ark, his face carefully neutral, small charcoal horns curling back from his temples.
“My lord. The Daemaris requests your presence in the library.”
Ark’s frown deepened. “Now?”
“Her exact words were ‘at once,’ my lord.”
Cassia saw the refusal already at the tip of Ark’s tongue. She touched his hand, drawing his attention back to her. “Go. I’ll find the conservatory and save you a seat.”
His jaw tightened, but he nodded. He squeezed her hand once, warm and brief. “I won’t be long.”
As he followed the footman through the crowd, Cassia watched him go. What did the Daemaris want? Was it about her relationship with Arkenoth? Some delayed confrontation, perhaps—something his mother didn’t want to have in front of nosy guests.
She pushed the thought aside. She’d held her ground. She could wait in a conservatory.
The noise faded the farther she got from the ballroom in search of the east wing.
The corridor was cool and quiet, portraits of his ancestors in gilt frames lining the walls.
Marble busts watched from shadowed alcoves—stern-faced Varils, their carved eyes tracking her with the same cold scrutiny she’d just survived.
A beautiful mansion, she thought, but she understood why Ark had never called it home. It was more a museum—full of precious things, empty of the people who were supposed to fill it.
At the far end, she spotted a pair of arched glass doors—framed in white wood, slightly ajar—where lush greenery beckoned through the glass.
She slipped through—
—and entered an entirely different world.
The air was cooler here, fragrant with the rich, damp scent of earth, citrus, and jasmine. Above, a glass dome soared, fogged with condensation that scattered the moonlight into a soft, aqueous glow.
For a moment, she simply stood there, soaking up the stillness and the green. Here, alone, she could finally lower her guard. Her palms had gone clammy again. Her jaw ached from smiling. Though she’d survived, she felt as though she’d run a gauntlet lined with velvet and thorns.
Cassia sat down on a wooden bench, let her shoulders fall back, and closed her eyes.
She had come here as a Kitchen Witch on the fringes of society. And now she had danced with a demon lord, exchanged barbs with his mother, and held her own.
It felt ridiculous. Wonderfully so. A laugh slipped out—soft, startled, breaking the hush.
A male voice answered, low and rough. “Delphyne?”
Cassia froze.
“Delphyne . . . is that you?”
Soundlessly, she rose and stepped forward, skirting a sprawling potted palm with fronds like lacquered fans. As she rounded it, she caught sight of a wheelchair—and a man in it.
He sat reclined among pale orchids and climbing jasmine, plush blankets draped over his lap.
His horns curved back from his temples—sleek, ridged, mirroring Ark’s—with two smaller ones branching from the sides, a mark of advanced power.
Silver-streaked black hair fell across a furrowed brow.
His posture was composed, but not effortless; every breath seemed hard-earned, clawed fingers curled around the armrests.
Cassia’s gaze caught on the slant of his cheekbones. The set of his mouth—hard and soft all at once, as if humour and disdain lived side by side. The same quiet gravity.
This demon—frailer, older, broken in ways Ark hadn’t yet been—was the Daemar.
Ark’s father.