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CHAPTER SIXTY

T he Koenig’s throne room looked quite a bit more joyous than it had on the day Cassandra had arrived in Tartarus.

An arrangement of round black tables topped with lit candles ringed the room’s outer edge. Beside the dais, a quartet of musicians were plucking out jaunty tunes that powered twirling couples across the dance floor.

Aside from the decorations, the other difference was the sheer amount of Fae in the hall. Nearly every single prisoner from the city below had been invited to tonight’s pre-trial feast, it seemed.

The Brethren who’d delivered the invitation yesterday morning—just after Tristan had finally, after three days of trying, managed to contact Cael before the cuff’s magic had sputtered out—had also dropped off two garment bags, one for Cassandra and one for Mireille. Each held a dress with a note—a command really—to wear them tonight.

Cassandra, Mireille, Ronin and Tristan had spent a long hour debating what to do.

On the one hand, Cassandra felt she should spend tonight resting to prepare for tomorrow’s appeal. On the other, to refuse the Koenig’s invitation would be a grave insult. And he might very well send a few Brethren down to fetch her anyway.

They’d all agreed it was safer to play along. To keep indulgences to a minimum. And to leave as early as possible once they’d shown their faces. Well, three of their faces. Tristan would attend as a Ghostwalker only, hidden beneath his wings and a scent-suppressing potion Mireille had concocted. Cassandra had begged him to stay at the apartment tonight, to not risk exposure. Of course, he’d refused. She could feel his tense presence behind her now.

She spied Silas at a table in the corner in quiet discussion with a Beastrunner female from the Kennel volunteers. Cassandra nodded a greeting when they noticed her, then scanned the room for humans.

She breathed a small sigh of relief when she didn’t find any.

As they pushed deeper into the hall, many heads swiveled toward Mireille. Not that Cassandra could blame them.

Mireille’s burgundy silk dress featured a strapless, gathered bodice that hugged her shapely figure and cascaded layers of chiffon past her feet. She looked stunning . And when she’d emerged from her bedroom earlier, Ronin looked like someone had punched him in the chest.

Cassandra’s own dress was lily-white silk in a halter-style to accommodate her wings. In a likely unintended consequence, it also showed off the results of her training: her sleek, muscled shoulders, her toned upper arms. Tristan had smiled appreciatively at her new Fae strength on proud display, then murmured something about the bastard having excellent taste.

The dresses were undeniably beautiful.

But that’s all they were.

A blatant attempt by Aedelmar to put Cassandra and Mireille on display for him and his Brethren. To transform the females into decorations instead of the weapons they were.

Ronin hadn’t received a costume from the Koenig, so he wore a pair of slim leather trousers and a sky-blue cotton shirt. To which he’d clipped a piece of maroon silk from the underside of Mireille’s skirts in solidarity.

At the far end of the dance floor, just in front of the dais, long tables were piled with roasted meats, potatoes swimming in butter and rosemary, honey-soaked cakes topped with edible flowers—the Koenig showing off the bounty he’d provided with the hammer’s magic.

In the center of the table, a large swan with pristine white feathers gleamed in the candleglow. Its wings were raised to expose a bulb of glazed meat from which several slices had already been removed.

Cassandra raised her chin and flared her own pristine white wings, fluttering her silk dress.

Wormwood scurried over, wearing a preening smile. He winked at Ronin, who offered him a fanged grin in return.

“Challenger Fortin,” Wormwood said. “You look like a lovely, delicate blossom. Come.” He plucked up her forearm and rested it atop his own. “I’ll have someone fetch you some food.” He snapped at a servant, then flicked toward the buffet. “Let us not be enemies tonight. We will dine, drink, and dance to honor Vestan.”

Cassandra didn’t bother responding. Stoic and strong, that was her mask tonight. She’d be a careful observer, would protest nothing, and wouldn’t show a hint of nerves. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that Wormwood and nearly everyone else in this hall expected her to die tomorrow.

As Wormwood dragged her toward the dais, Ronin and Mireille slipped into the crowd. Cassandra sensed Tristan move away, as well. Likely to plant himself at the closest column to keep an eye on her—a silent sentinel ready to defend, maim, and kill for his female. Her lips twitched upward at the thought.

Anyway, she was more worried for Ronin and Mireille than herself. Cassandra still had the protection of the blood vow upon her; they did not. The Koenig or his Brethren might attempt to put them out of commission before the appeal tomorrow, weaken Cassandra’s chances.

Wormwood led her onto the dais, then sat her down next to the Koenig.

Aedelmar didn’t acknowledge her presence. Was signing toward a black-haired male on his left whose beard was bathed in juice from his roast pork.

A servant placed a plate before her—slices of swan and nothing else.

Excited speculations and critical gazes roved over her, prickling her flesh and ruffling her wings.

“…will never defeat him…”

“…does look a little stronger than when she first arrived. I wonder who has been…”

“…not going to last more than a few minutes…”

She ignored them as she dug into her meal.

Wormwood sauntered to the edge of the dais. “Dearest Brethren and our most esteemed challenger—” he aimed an oily smile at Cassandra “—welcome to our pre-trial feast! We hope you’ve enjoyed yourselves so far. Please, help yourself to the generous bounty of food and drink provided by our beloved Koenig. Tomorrow, life as we know it in our little city could change—if challenger Fortin is up to the task.”

Snickers erupted, and Cassandra ignored them, keeping her wings and chin up.

Wormwood raised a bronze goblet toward her. “May Vestan the Warrior bless your appeal. May he guide your weapons and your heart. May he offer you grace in victory and dignity in defeat. To the warrior!”

Cassandra darted a side-eyed glance toward the Koenig, but the male wasn’t even paying attention. Had a dark-haired Deathstalker beauty with jade green eyes and ebony skin perched in his lap. His hand was crawling up the thigh-slit in her salmon dress as she whispered into his ear.

Couldn’t even be bothered to pay attention to what could be his last meal. He was that assured of his victory.

As Cassandra drank from her goblet, a small sip of wine to take the edge off, she couldn’t wait for tomorrow.

So she could prove him wrong.

“He’s looking at you like he wants to eat you,” Ronin growled, shoveling a forkful of potatoes into his mouth.

Mireille glanced up to the dais. The Koenig was indeed staring at her. Ravenously.

Let the fucker stare , her wolf piped up. Maybe it will make Ronin so jealous that he’ll take us again as roughly as he ? —

Hush , Mireille hissed, not needing a reminder.

She hadn’t stopped thinking about it since.

But whatever madness was going on between her and Ronin—the knife-to-throat hand job, the rough sex in the alley—they hadn’t said a word about either since.

Maybe Cassandra was right about hate-fucking being a bad idea.

Mireille waved Ronin off, plucking up her goblet and gulping her wine. So much better than the vinegary swill they offered at The Other Place.

Ronin tossed his fork down, then stood and held out his hand.

She cocked an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

“Dance with me,” he said, voice tight.

“I don’t dance anymore. Only when lives are at stake.”

Ronin wiggled his fingers. “Lives are at stake. We could die tomorrow.” He sent a shit-eating grin toward the Koenig. “And figured I’d stake my claim to keep that mouth-breather away from you.”

Mireille huffed out a laugh, but didn’t rise.

“Come on, Valette,” Ronin coaxed. “One dance won’t kill you. I’ve never shown you my moves.” Mireille gave him an incredulous look and he rolled his eyes. “Never shown you my moves with a partner . That silly number in the woods doesn’t count.”

Mireille snickered, remembering Ronin botching those ballet steps to save her from Julius Kosera. The memory softened her.

High Gods, what she wouldn’t give to go back to that time.

She didn’t care about the sex.

Liar , her wolf purred.

Okay, fine, it had been mind-melting. The kind of sex that ruined her for anyone else.

But more than anything, Mireille wanted her friend back.

So she let him pull her from her seat. Let him lead her onto the dance floor. Let him envelope her hand in one of his massive, tattooed mitts as he placed the other at the small of her back. He pulled her into him, crushing her bodice against his chest.

His iced pine and citrus scent washed over her, and her eyes welled up.

This was a terrible idea.

She stared at his plush mouth as he twirled her across the floor. She wanted to kiss him so badly, she could barely breathe. But was terrified of his rejection.

Sure, they’d fondled each other, fucked each other. But kissing was… Well, it was too intimate. Something they’d likely never do again. She bit her lip to stall her tears.

Ronin placed a knuckle under her chin and tilted her face up. “Hey. Hey . What’s this all about? Am I that terrible of a dancer?”

She garbled out a wet laugh. “You’re fine.”

He smirked. “Glowing praise.”

“I…” She didn’t even know how to start this conversation. Didn’t even know what she wanted to say. Her soft question barely parted her lips. “Do you still hate me?”

Ronin tucked her head against his chest, blowing out a long sigh that stirred her hair. “I never hated you. Though I had every reason to.”

“ Have every reason to,” she murmured against his solid warmth. "Ronin, I’m so sorry about what I said about Selene. I didn’t mean any of it, I?—”

“Shhh,” he soothed, running a hand down her hair. “Creator, I’m so sick of it.”

“Sick of what?” She nuzzled into him. Savoring any contact she could get before he tired of holding her.

“I’m sick of trying to convince myself that we meant nothing to each other. I just…” He sucked in a shuddering breath, squeezing her closer. “I don’t know where to go from here.”

A tear stole down Mireille’s cheek, wetting his tunic. “What if we leave the past where it belongs—the bad and the good—and start over?” She gathered her courage, then pulled back to look at him, heartened by the affection in his eye. “If we survive tomorrow, can we do that? Just start over?”

He released her and held out a hand. “Hi. Ronin Matakos. Pleasure to meet you.”

She shook his hand. “Mireille Valois-Fortin.” Her mother’s true last name and her father’s last name. An honor to both sides of her heritage. If she was starting over, she might as well do it right. “Would you like to dance, Ronin Matakos?”

He swept her back into his arms, then spun her around the dance floor for hours, asking her a bunch of questions to which he already knew the answers and making her laugh.

But it was nice. The hope that they could start over.

As long as they survived tomorrow.

She tried not to dwell on it. Tried to enjoy the first stress-free night she’d had with Ronin since he’d arrived.

She should have known it couldn’t possibly last.