“I’m sorry, Brela. He told me—“
“To leave a reminder,” Brela whispered, tilting her chin to look in the mirror. In the right light, they wouldn’t be visible, but they were still there. “It’s okay. I have a part to play.”
A part she had played too many times before. His second bodyguard disguised as his escort while another man acted as his primary. Probably Emril, judging by the formal tie in his hair and the distinct smell of soap on his body.
Her job was to be the distraction—the pretty woman who got attackers to lower their guards or take her for granted—and that’s exactly what her dress was designed to do. Green fabric of all shades, some places so dark it looked black while pale in others to add to the distraction. Shaped to every curve in her body to highlight her form, revealing as much skin as possible. Sheer and iridescent along the planes of her stomach with leaves of silk stitched along her chest and the plunging neckline, tight over her left shoulder to hide the Veil shard, and darkened from her hips to just above her knees. Another thin, iridescent green skirt dragging to the ground and swishing with each step.
Perfectly placed green silk and gold embellishments covered the fabric, as if Ovir had memorized every scar she had and made an effort to hide them. Though he didn’t care about the ones along her back, the dress mostly open and held together by delicate gold chains that jingled with each movement she made. Only the sheaths at her thighs could hide a weapon in this outfit, though, with half of her white-blond hair tied in a braided flower at the top of her head, Trellis had stuck enough long pins to be used as weapons. At least she hadn’t touched Elias’s braid that hid the scar on her scalp, only adding a couple more gold rings and braids around it to make it look like it was part of the design.
Brela’s gut clenched as she stared at herself in the mirror. This dress wasn’t just designed to make her seem like a pretty thing on Ovir’s arm. It was designed todrawattention. At the Earth Festival, no one without magic showed this much skin. No one dared show their skin without tattoos, and here she was with bare arms and back.
Her punishment, because one wrong move in this dress would reveal the shard in her chest in front of people who would kill her in an instant. But her reward was that they wouldn’t suspect who she was—what she was capable of.
She didn’t acknowledge Ovir who had joined them shortly after Trellis had finished strapping on the last of Brela’s knives against her leg, afraid that Brela would mess up her hair if she did it herself. The man was already in his deep green tunic, pants, and boots of the finest material, stitched with the matching designs and gold embellishments to Brela’s dress. Of course, his outfit covered his non-tattooed skin and probably hid the large number of daggers and weapons that Brela wished she could carry with her.
He stood behind her, tracing the muscles in her back with his fingers as she watched him through the reflection. Pausing on the scars, his smirk twitching slightly. Probably remembering how he had given her each one. His eyes darted to the new scar on her neck, the fabric over her shoulder close enough to make it seem like the scar was meant to be seen.
She had lied and told him that she got it after sneaking out the broken window in Gerrart’s home, and that the scar remained because there was hellthorn. Thank the gods he believed her.
“My little nightmare,” he whispered into her ear. His fingers slid up her back and ran over the raised skin. Studied the light green and yellow bruises Trellis had left behind. Licking his lips as if he enjoyed that memory too. “You look absolutely stunning.”
“I’m sure there’s a cost to being dressed in something so… revealing for you.”
“For tonight, this dress is a gift,” he replied, his breath still hot on her neck. “Eyes will be on your beauty, not on your… title.”
She knew by his tone he meant more than just her assassin’s name. Tonight, she was to play the part of his plaything. No one would bat an eye at her scars, or the bruises, which is why it almost surprised her that he let Trellis heal them at all. Ovir was a dangerous and horrible man, but the men at the castle tonight were far worse. They would call her names and look the other way. They always looked the other way.
He ran a hand down her spine, fingers dancing over the gold chains. “I don’t expect trouble tonight. You’ll be by my side until I meet my informant. Emril will be inside, but you’re free to do as you please while keeping an eye on anything outside. After we exit, the night is yours.”
“I can leave after your meeting?” she asked, surprised.
Those deep blue eyes met hers in the reflection. “Brela, I am not sentencing you to death.” That hand along the small of her back lifted as he shifted her to face him, leaving his hands around her hips with thumbs tracing her ribs. “I don’t want to lose you to those cruel men, my little nightmare. This is still your punishment, but I know you can behave for a few hours. You may choose to stay longer and see who wins their bids on the Veil artifacts, but that is your choice. Emril will be with me the rest of the evening.”
Brela loosed a breath. Things might not go as poorly tonight as she expected. Though she desperately wanted to take Ovir up on his offer to get one of those objects back, remaining in the belly of the beast for longer than necessary was a threat to her life; a life she wasn’t quite ready to give up on yet, not after she got her father’s dagger back.
The real trick would be refraining from gutting Gerrart in the middle of the auction.That, however, would be a great way to go out—using her shadow magic to place an illusion that made him watch as she tore out his insides with her hands, and then she’d laugh as he looked into her purple eyes while his life left him. Brela would only regret that Night Carver couldn’t taste Gerrart’s blood before her head was removed from her body.
That fact—that Night Carver would miss out on his namesake of carving—was the only reason she would resist killing the man tonight.
Or it was the threat that Ovir left whispered in her ear while his lips traced against her skin. That one wrong move and he’d not only reveal her secrets and leave her to die in the dragon’s lair, but he’d torture everyone she loved. Trellis. Her friends. Anyone who had ever shown her kindness.
Which made her stomach clench when Emril met her at the bottom of the stairs, dressed head to toe in formal green armor, a beaming smile, and a glimmer in his eye as he beheld her in her outfit. The third deadliest assassin who still lived under this roof, only behind Pierce and Ovir, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
After Emril’s endless chatter and playfulness as they dined, his cruel mask was put in place the minute they left the grounds in the carriage. And the look Ovir gave her was telling enough. If she screwed up tonight, he would make sure she saw Emril gutted before the dragons ate her alive.
As Brela looked up at the castle of the Rooke royals, she focused on her fortress and channeled her own mask. One of calm. One of beauty. One of a shadow wolf cloaked in skin that belonged to the man next to her.
She let Ovir’s hand on the small of her back guide her toward hell.
13
The Belly of the Beast
The Earth Festival auction at the castle was a grand event of greens and grays over the walls and laced through the crystal chandelier, though none of those fabrics seemed to be on the bodies that crowded the space below. At least these outfits were more formal than the event in the forest, though Cason still saw more tattoos than clothing. It made it easier to pick out the men who were more interested in the auction of Veil artifacts that were heavily guarded in the alcove attached to the large ballroom. Those men were the ones in the armor of their families and kingdoms. Gold and red for Anfroy, pale blue and white for the few who came from Itherel. Cason and Serill were currently the only ones wearing the midnight blue and silver for Severina, and to no surprise, an absence of bronze and yellows for anyone from Dycorus.
The King of Severina’s arrival was more of a spectacle than the swirling of green dancers on the main floor, his personal security decked in the same deep blue tunics and jackets lined with silver that Cason wore. At least King Ingram had the decency to wear more clothes than the other attendees, his suit made of such delicate silver fabric that it looked like he wore the moonlight itself. His face, though, indicated he did not really want to be here, even if he wore a smile.
Those midnight-clad guards fanned across the room to their positions and another two were stationed to walk with the king, instructed by Boelyn, the First Captain of the Guard. Cason’s mentor and the man who worked with the prince to create a second captain position specifically for Cason.
