Ronin didn’t mean to eavesdrop on the conversation at the other end of the bar, but given that he and the two ancient, chatty Windriders were the only patrons in here, there was no avoiding it. Nor could he avoid the surreptitious gazes the two males kept sliding his way. Not like he wasn’t used to it.
“’Sa damn shame, if you ask me,” the other male murmured into his beer. “Never liked the look of that younger one. High Gods help us all when he takes the throne.”
The continent was still reeling from the scandal involving the Imperial heir, though very few details had been leaked about precisely why Prince Tristan Erabis had been stripped of his title and exiled a year ago. The most persistent rumor was that he’d fallen in love with a human woman.
Ronin didn’t know which part of that rumor was more unbelievable—that the young prince had fallen in love with ahumanin the first place, or that he’d been willing to forsake his birthright for her. No love, especially not of a mortal, could have ever persuaded Ronin to give up that kind of power and prestige.
Ronin thought the young prince must be a fucking idiot.
Though to be fair, Ronin was feeling like an idiot himself at the moment.
Scrawled upon that card Skanisse had handed him was an offer he’d craved for centuries.
The Emperor was willing to uncage his wolf.
And he’d fled the IA building like a coward, his heart in his throat and his wolf howling in protest. Had barreled into the first open bar he could find to drown himself in Delirium.
He’d already downed one bottle, and as he brought the second to his lips, his eyes darted out the filmy window to the little storefront across the street.
The truth was, as soon as Ronin had read that note, terror had sunk icy claws into him. He couldn’t help but wonder if the Emperor’s offer was too good to be true.
He’d had a third of a lifetime to resign himself to surviving without his wolf, had worked hard to kill that most dangerous of emotions: hope.
Could he really trust Leonin Erabis? The male had branded him a monster, ruined Ronin’s life and reputation in one fell swoop.
Plus, the offer had come with some rather unsavory stipulations: an assignment where he’d not only have to outwit a dangerous Deathstalker billionaire, but would also have to pose as someone’s fucking boyfriend. A role he’d successfully avoided all his life.
Nor did he have any particular desire to do it with the bitchy, uptight redhead who’d already cut him to shreds this morning.
But none of those were the real reason why Ronin had asked for time to think before he accepted.
Thatreason was staring at him from across the street: the tiny purple door nestled between a tea shop and an apothecary.
He’d never visited a chronomancer before, didn’t even really know if he believed in the purported abilities of the Fae femaleswho claimed to have a gift for seeing both into the past and future. Most of them had been priestesses of the Fallen Goddess before the Empire had sacked her temples and forbidden her faith.
His twin sister Selene swore by their readings. Barely made a single decision more complicated than what she was having for breakfast without consulting the mystical females. And according to Selene, they’d yet to steer her wrong.
So, before Ronin made a choice that could drastically alter the course of his life, for good or bad, he thought it couldn’t hurt to get some spiritual advice beforehand.
“You want another, handsome?” The Beastrunner bartender propped her hands against the bar, leaning forward and pushing some very impressive cleavage into his face. Ronin’s eyes dipped to the sight as he knocked back the rest of his drink, and she licked her lips, shimmying her hips.
We could stay a bit longer, his wolf offered, calmed by the Delirium.
Not today, Ronin snapped back.
Prude.
Ronin paid for his drinks, leaving the pouting bartender a larger tip than necessary, then pushed out of the dim bar and squinted against the blinding noonday sun.
He crossed the street, the euphoric effects of the elixir tingling through his limbs, and approached the purple door. Before he could even raise his fist to knock, the door opened.
A calm, lovely female voice beckoned him across the threshold. “Welcome, Butcher. She’s been expecting you.”
Shewho? The Fallen Goddess? More likely, this was the greeting the chronomancer used on all her victims. Er, clients.
Though he couldn’t yet explain how she’d known it was him. He glanced around the doorframe, searching for an opticorder,but didn’t see one. Didn’t mean there wasn’t one there, just that it wasn’t visible.
He pushed through a gauzy curtain and entered a circular room. Seated at the table was a Windrider female with mint-green wings, wearing a shimmery white robe and veil. Her palms bracketed a white obelisk carved with a symbol that Ronin recognized.
