Xenia’s eyes widened. “Wow. I’m impressed you thought to bring that.”
“Come on, Zee,” he said with a cocky grin. “You think this is the first time I’ve had to make a daring escape into the Desolation from some crazy asshole’s filthy sex dungeon?”
“Um, yes?”
He snickered. “I’ve been holding onto this tin since Alexei gave it to you. Figured it would come in handy eventually. And looks like I was right. Now hold still while I rub some on your feet, and try not to whine like a baby when it stings.”
“Wait.” She wrenched her foot from his grip. “I thought you said you didn’t want to carry my ass all the way to the foothills?”
“Not what I said at all.”
“It most certainly was!”
“No, I said I didn’t want to carry yoursweetass all the way to the foothills. You missed the most important word in that sentence. Now quit fucking arguing and give me back your feet so I can heal your blisters.”
Xenia bit her lip to keep from laughing and couldn’t help the mushy feelings twisting her insides at his insistent description of her ass. She placed her feet back in his lap and tried not to groan with pleasure as he massaged the cool salve onto her hot, aching soles.
He pocketed the tin and slung the canteen over his shoulder. “Ready?”
“I—eep!”
He didn’t give her a chance to respond as he ducked down and pressed his shoulder against her stomach, effortlessly lifting her. He banded an arm across her backside, his strong hand gripping her hip.
“Enjoy the ride, Blondie.” Though she couldn’t see his face, she could hear the wink in his words.
But the small smile tugging at her lips died as she looked down his back and saw the evidence of Maksym’s cruelty. A vicious, jagged scar peeked out of the slat in his shirt where his wing should’ve been.
Her eyes stung.
Some wounds were not so easily healed.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE
Cassandra barely recognized the temptress staring back at her from the floor-length mirror in her bedroom.
This morning after their workout, Hella had received a windwhisper from Tristan, informing them that Cassandra’s presence had been requested at a party at the Vicereine’s palace this evening. Where she was expected to pose as his mortal consort, sidle up to the councilors, and see if she could gather any hints about who might be working with the rebels.
Any calming effects from her session with Hella had immediately dissolved, her nerves swelling at the thought of being surrounded by the most powerful individuals in the colonies—not to mention the Emperor, who she was actively defying in her work with the obliviates—but also at the thought of posing as Tristan’s consort again. And everything that would imply, if only for one evening.
In an attempt to shake off her buzzing energy, she’d walked the few blocks to the Fang and Claw to ask Reena if she could borrow something to wear. Reena had practically purred at the opportunity to play dress-up, then sent Cassandra back to the bungalow until she arrived an hour later with an armful of silky, colorful fabric and a case full of cosmetics.
They’d spent the afternoon prepping and primping Cassandra for the part she had to play: a woman sultry and confident enough to have caught the eye of an exiled Fae Prince. Not a meek, cowering Sister who’d been denying herself pleasure for years.
And staring at her reflection now, she had to admit Reena had done an excellent job transforming her. Maybe too good.
Her chocolate waves were gathered into an artfully-mussed side braid, her cheeks dusted with the barest hint of powder, just enough to even out her complexion without hiding her freckles—a playful contrast to her burgundy lips. Reena had also applied some kind of lengthening cream to thicken and darken Cassandra’s eyelashes. She looked fresh-faced and naturally beautiful while her lips promised a hint of naughtiness.
Naughtiness echoed by her attire.
She and Reena had agreed that since she was posing as Tristan’s consort, it would be appropriate to dress in black, the color that signified both the Empire and the Erabis family’s wings.
A layer of iridescent chiffon covered the silk dress and, when she turned in the light, different colors shimmered across its surface, mimicking Tristan’s feathers. Around each middle finger, a small loop of fabric ensured her sleeves stayed in place to hide her tattoo. A daring slit bared her right leg to the hip, and her back was exposed to her tailbone. She’d strapped a Typhon-steel dagger—borrowed from Hella—to her left thigh; she didn’t dare attend this party unarmed.
“Cass?” Tristan’s voice tripped into her room on shaky feet, followed by a soft knock at the door. “You ready?”
Was he nervous?
His nerves triggered her own, and a frenzy of bubbles churned in her stomach as she crossed the room and opened the door.
