“We escape together or not at all.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-NINE
Tristan signaled to a tuxedo-clad waiter standing against the dark-wood wall of the Secretariat’s small council chamber.
The mortal man rushed forward on quiet feet, then bent at the waist to whisper into Tristan’s ear. “What can I get you?”
“Cup of coffee,” Tristan said, stifling a yawn. All those late nights—or rather, early mornings—this past week at the Fang and Claw were taking a toll on his sleeping habits. “Cream, no sugar.”
As the man bowed in recognition of the request, Tristan bit down on his impulse to thank him. Such pleasantries were not offered to the mortal help within this building. And to offer them would inspire gossip and speculation that Tristan had neither the time nor inclination to combat. He was acting a role at the moment. Better to have the waiter think him rude than expose himself. It was harder than he’d imagined.
He’d made little—alright, no—progress searching for rebel sympathizers among the colony elite. The few one-on-one meetings he’d been able to secure had been filled with platitudes and politicking. Their careful words and inscrutable smiles had signaled, outwardly at least, their unfaltering loyalty to his brother, to the Empire.
Tristan had even thrown in some leading questions about the Fallen Goddess, about the rumors regarding awakening fire, water, and lightning magic. Dropped Maksym’s name when he got desperate, and still nothing. Not a misplaced frown or flicker of recognition from a single one of them. And nary a mention of the growing unrest rippling across on the continent.
Suspicions that this was just another fool’s errand, another way for his brother to keep Tristan under his thumb, were beginning to take hold.
Luckily Eamon hadn’t yet pressed him on the task. He’d been aloof and distracted at the one and only of these council meetings he’d attended this week.
Tristan had dashed out of that meeting as soon as the Vicereine had adjourned it, wanting to avoid Eamon’s scrutiny. He worried his brother might be able to read something on his face aboutanothergroup of rebels, those brave females who’d co-opted the Fang and Claw every night to defy his brother’s orders.
Spending nearly every night with Cassandra again was exquisitely painful. And though they never exchanged more than a few dishearteningly shallow pleasantries, watching her work with the obliviates and their families, seeing her glow with pride at the end of every session… It was nearly as comforting to him as if he’d been able to hold her in his arms.
Nearly.
And holy High Gods, the after-effects of her consuming his blood…
He’d dreamt of her every night this week. Her lips suctioned to his wrist, her tongue flicking across his pulse, her soft hand gripping his forearm. The sensations transformed into something far more intimate in those few fitful hours of sleep in his sad, lonesome barracks room. Every morning, without fail, he’d wake with a stiff cock and an unrelenting ache in his chest.
An ache he, unfortunately, was all too familiar with.
And though it was happening far quicker than it had the last time, Tristan knew what it felt like to be falling in love. He almost wished Letha had takenthosememories from him as well.
Then maybe he’d be able to ignore the punch to his gut every time Cassandra smiled. Or the way her laughter caused every cell in his body to light up. Or the way her stubborn independence inflamed his blood, made him ache to spar with her, force her to let him take care of her.
He tucked the feelings away, deep within that neglected corner of his heart that he kept cracked open for her despite the evidence that she wanted nothing more to do with him.
He’d content himself with feeding her his blood, his magic. And relish in his own quiet delight at just being in her presence night after night.
The waiter returned with Tristan’s coffee, setting the dainty cup and saucer before him—the fanciest, most pretentious cup of coffee Tristan had ever been served. He pinched the tiny handle in his massive fingers before draining the entire thing in a single, slurping gulp.
A frosty glaze shivered along his skin.
The Vicereine glared at him from the head of the oval table. Over his boorish table manners or the dazed gleam in his eyes, he couldn’t be sure. He’d missed the last fifteen minutes of the conversation as soon as he’d started thinking about Cassandra.
The Vicereine’s crimson mouth curved into a disdainful frown. “Well, Officer Saros? Were you planning to bless us with your thoughts on the matter or did you intend to just sit there all day looking vapid and pretty?”
Tristan leaned back in his chair, threading his fingers together and cracking his knuckles, taking as much time as possible to answer the Vicereine’s question. Let the curious gazes of the powerful Fae and mortals seated around the cherry table linger on him a bit longer.
“Sorry, Your Excellence,” he drawled, dragging a hand through his hair. “Mind repeating the question?” He aimed a crooked grin at the Vicereine, who opened her mouth to reprimand him before the Fae to her left piped up.
“Why are you even here?” August Lambros sneered, flaring his sapphire wings in an unmistakable show of aggression. “Dogs aren’t typically allowed a seat at this table, regardless of the palace they’ve crawled out of.”
Tristan chuckled merrily. “What’s the matter, Lambros? Still pissed my consort didn’t want to fuck you?”
Lambros narrowed his espresso eyes at Tristan, sputtering for a comeback as Tristan logged the reactions around the table. Mostly shock, but he did note three councilors either biting their lips to suppress laughter or covering their mouths with their hands.
“Enough,” the Vicereine bit out. “Save the dick measuring for my party tonight.” Tristan kept his face carefully neutral. Party? This was the first he’d heard mention of it. “Though August, hate to tell you, you’d lose.” She winked at Tristan and the three Fae that had been trying to suppress their laughter doubled over in audible guffaws.
