Page 54

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

O n the night of Mireille’s performance at World’s End, Cassandra peered out of the dark alley across from the tavern, searching for snow white hair beneath the gold-and-black striped awning.

“Wormwood show up yet?” Tristan’s rumbled from the shadows behind her.

“Not yet,” she said, tucking herself back beneath his camouflaging feathers.

The group had hashed out the minutiae of their plan this morning, just moments after Tristan had lazily woken Cassandra with his hands, mouth, and cock. Ronin had been glaring from the dining table when they’d emerged from her bedroom glowing and flushed.

“What?” she’d asked. “We were quiet.”

“Not quiet enough,” Ronin had grumbled into his tea. Behind his head, Mireille had winked, mouthing details later before handing Cassandra a plate of hard-boiled eggs, sliced melon, and toast.

The plan tonight was for Cassandra and Tristan to hide across from the entrance while Ronin waited for Wormwood to arrive. Once he did, Tristan would Ghostwalk himself and Cass into the tavern behind Ronin, then slink back to the private room where Mireille intended to lure the Koenig. And as soon as Mireille had knocked Aedelmar out, Cassandra would begin her hunt through his memories, and Tristan would head to Wormwood’s office to review the ledgers.

The plan had become more complex and the stakes higher, but also remarkably easier since Tristan and his camouflaging wings had appeared in Tartarus.

“How do you do that?” she whispered, scanning the underside of his feathers.

“Do what? Be so charming? Look so handsome? Fuck so proficiently?“

Cassandra huffed out a quiet laugh, running a thumb over his plush lips. “My arrogant Prince. No, actually, I was talking about your wings. How do you activate the camouflage?”

Tristan, seated on a barrel with Cassandra in his lap, sat up a bit straighter. “Actually, you might be able to do it, too.” He hesitated, brows furrowing. “Ione inherited my Ghostwalker abilities. You may have as well.”

“Really?” Cassandra straightened, lit up by excited curiosity. “And you don’t have to tiptoe around the subject of Ione, Tristan. I understand how much she means to you. But I’m your future. You told me that once. I believe you.”

He kissed her temple. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Never forget it.”

He pinched her side, making her yelp, before he began caressing her wings, which were tucked tightly against her back. She let out a breathy little moan. “Whatever you’re doing back there, please don’t ever stop.”

“I’m trying to bring your awareness to each one of your feathers. You need to command each individual one in order to activate the camouflage.”

“Dear wing feathers, please help me win the most epic game of hide-and-seek ever.”

Tristan laughed. “Something like that. It’s more like you need to believe it’s possible. Give them a little shake and let’s see what happens.”

Cassandra did as he’d asked, half her feathers rattling and half remaining motionless. Her wings looked moth-eaten, covered in tiny holes.

“Shake it off, then do it again. Close your eyes and concentrate. Feel each feather.”

She cracked her neck and shook out her feathers, managed to get a few more to activate.

“Not bad for a novice,” Tristan said. “But you’ll need far more practice before you can fully hide yourself. I’ll still need to carry you into World’s End.”

“Oh, darn.”

He chuckled, then pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “I’d carry you everywhere, Cass.”

She kissed him back, then peeked through his feathers, resuming her watch on the tavern entrance.

A few moments later, Wormwood sauntered up to Ronin and Tristan scooped her up.

“Show’s about to begin.”

“I’m a bit surprised you finally took me up on my offer,” Wormwood said, dragging dishwater brown eyes across Ronin’s tattooed, muscled forearms. He’d purposefully left them on display tonight beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his white tunic.

Wormwood handed Ronin a silver goblet with creamy mist leaking over the rim. “It’s called a Null & Void. House special. It’s not quite Delirium, but still strong enough to make you shed your inhibitions.”

Wormwood winked, slurping down a big, smoky gulp. Ronin took a small sip, then coughed.

The shit tasted like rubbing alcohol. Nothing like the pleasantly sour funk of Delirium. Creator, what he wouldn’t give for one right now. To sink into temporary oblivion and forget about everything and everyone.

The tavern’s main room overflowed with rowdy, hulking Brethren. They were crammed together at small, round tables, stacked three deep at the bar, and occupied every square inch of gilded wall.

The promise of leering at a half-naked Mireille drew quite a crowd.

And Ronin wanted to claw every single one of their eyes out before she even took the stage.

“Why did you take me up on my offer?” Wormwood asked, trailing a sharp nail down Ronin’s shoulder and across his biceps.

Ronin vented an easy laugh. “Don’t play dumb with me, Remy.” Wormwood’s pupils dilated as Ronin leaned in closer. “I know you’ve heard the rumors. About Cassandra’s training? There’s no way she’s going to win. I’ve come to request a place among the Brethren.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “And to say I’m willing to throw the fight if he’ll accept me.”

“Well,” Wormwood said, taking another sip of his cocktail and scooting his chair close enough that his thigh brushed Ronin’s, “we’ll see, won’t we?”

Murmurs rippled through the room as the Koenig swaggered in dressed like a casual conqueror, poured into tight leather pants and shirtless beneath a black fur vest. His flaxen hair was tied back, and his eyes were bare of kohl. Absent also were his baldric of knives and the warhammer. Locked away at the castle, no doubt.

The Koenig sank into his seat, a veritable throne of carved black wood right in front of the stage.

The best view in the house.

Under the table, Ronin dug his claws into his palms, seething at imagined visions of the performance Mireille would give that asshole tonight. And grateful that he’d only have to witness a small portion of it.

A quartet of musicians perched beside the stage began playing a slow, sultry song full of indolent strings and hypnotic beats. The room quieted.

“She used to be quite famous, you know.” Wormwood’s breath stirred Ronin’s hair. “The legendary prima ballerina of the Kheimos company. We’ve been begging her to dance for us since she arrived, but she has always refused.”

Ronin glanced toward the Koenig, who’d just been handed a tumbler of aquaver from a scantily-clad waitress. “He never tried to force her?”

Wormwood shrugged. “She paid a price for each refusal.”

Ronin recalled those scars he’d seen crisscrossing her body during sparring sessions. Recalled her stiff silence during Harvest Night, her improved fighting skills, that deadened glaze that often dulled her silver eyes.

Before guilt and self-loathing could fully consume him, Mireille sauntered onto the stage, her copper hair a braided crown atop her head, and…

Creator fucking take him.

Her firm, round breasts were barely covered by black triangles held in place with thin strings. A swath of black silk cradled her hips, no larger than a loin cloth. All her scars were on display, both old and new. That familiar silver gash down her right forearm. A slash up her left thigh. A jagged crescent from her ribcage to her belly button. The angry pink V of her sentencing brand just below her collarbone.

They were armor. They were art. The stories of her hard-won survival.

He’d never loved her more than he did in this moment.

She shimmied to the front of the stage, then smirked at the crowd. Shrill whistles drowned out the music, and her grin grew wider.

His wolf whimpered, then sucked in a breath like he was about to say something.

Not tonight , Ronin croaked. Please. Not tonight. I can’t bear it.

Despite his wolf’s obedience, Ronin could feel the creature growing restless as Mireille spent long minutes undulating her perfect body. The body Ronin had once mapped nightly with his tongue, his teeth, his fingertips.

The body that Aedelmar’s gaze was currently devouring with presumptuous intention.

Fuck, this was so much harder than he’d imagined.

Mireille offered the Koenig an impish grin as her sinuous hips gyrated and her arms swirled overhead, and the blatant lust pouring off the male nearly had Ronin snarling.

He took a sip of his disgusting drink to smother it, and saw Wormwood regarding him curiously. Ronin plastered on a rogue’s smile, then placed his hand on Wormwood’s thigh, whispering, “She’s a bit overrated, don’t you think?”

Wormwood chuckled, eyes hooded, then threw back the rest of his drink. “Another?”

Ronin nodded and Wormwood rose, snaking through the mesmerized crowd toward the bar.

Ronin fought to control himself as he returned his attention to Mireille. She finished her dance with a deep bow, revealing the swells of her ass, and Ronin had to close his eye to keep from echoing the anguished howl his wolf let loose inside him.

Mireille floated upright, her attention landing on Ronin.

You were fucking magnificent , he thought. You’re always magnificent.

And though he knew she couldn’t hear it, her steps faltered as she approached Aedelmar, who wore a covetous, closed-lip smile as he clapped his meaty hands.

At his applause, the tavern burst into cheers and whistles. Mireille’s cheeks flushed at the adulation before she settled into the Koenig’s lap. He placed a hand on her hip, tugging her closer and she whispered into his ear.

Ronin bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood. It did nothing to mask the bitter taste of his ravenous jealousy.

Aedelmar nodded at Mireille, grinning like a deviant schoolboy, then rose from his seat as she took his hand. They walked across the stage and behind the black curtain. Heading to the back room for his private dance.

Ronin was grateful the room was dark.

So that Wormwood couldn’t see the claw-marks gouged into the side of the table when he returned with Ronin’s drink.