An insistent hardness pressed against her stomach, and a devilish glint shone in his eyes. “Shower?”
She nodded, and he rose from the bed, scooped her up and carried her into the bathroom. Where he proceeded tomassage her sore muscles, wash her hair, and clean her body. Then fucked her hard and fast against the shower wall, her ass smashed against the cool tiles. He let her come as soon as she wanted this time.
They were eating breakfast in front of the crackling fire, chatting about nothing particularly important, content to ignore the difficult day ahead when another knock interrupted them.
Ronin, dressed in the same outfit he’d worn during their dinner with Otto—the black shirt and trousers with the checkered suspenders, that, okay, fine, she’d admit she loved—went to open the door.
Mistress Klovia stood outside, a garment bag draped over her arm. “Master Otto sent this for you, Mistress Valette. Your costume for the performance today.”
Mireille, still wrapped up in a fluffy bathrobe, gestured toward the bed. “You can leave it there.”
Mistress Klovia spread the bag upon the bed, then exited the suite.
A pang of guilt gripped Mireille’s stomach. “Should we have warned her? About what’s going to happen?”
Ronin contemplated her question, sipping his tea. Such an amusing, contradictory sight, his tattooed fingers wrapped around the dainty cup. Who would have thought that a male who looked likethatdrank tea? And played chess. And cried at the opera.
And fucked like a God.
Though to be fair, that might be the only assumption she’d made about him that this whirlwind weekhadn’tobliterated.
She tried to banish those thoughts from her mind. They’d do her no good today. She needed to be on top of her game. In more ways than one.
“Too risky,” Ronin said, his own face hardening. “Whatever influence Otto has over the humans here might compel her to tell him everything you said.”
Mireille chewed her lip again, determined to ensure Otto’s human staff wouldn’t suffer today. She crossed to the bed and unzipped the garment bag.
Inside was a perfect replica of her costume from the Grand Ethyrian—the stiff tutu, the bejeweled bodice, the crimson pointe shoes. Had Otto or one of his minions returned to the theater to take it from her dressing room? Icy dread prickled down her spine.
Ronin stepped up behind her and turned her to face him.
He speared a hand into her hair, massaging the base of her skull as he stared down at her, worry tightening his handsome features. “You don’t have to do this, Mireille. You can stay up here, locked safe away, and I can finish this on my own.”
She grasped his muscled forearm, smirking. “What about your little speech about not abandoning your partner, huh?”
“That was before…” he sucked in a breath, “…before I knew the thought of you being harmed would make me feel this crazy. Like I want to go find Otto right now and tear his fucking throat out before you even take a single dance step.”
She shook her head. “We need that flute. If he’s killed before revealing it, it could be lost forever. Or taken by someoneworsethan Otto.”
“Like the fucking Empire?” Ronin grumbled.
Indecision wracked through her. Shecertainlydidn’t want to hand the artifact over to Skanisse, not now that she knew what it was capable of. But if they didn’t…
“Well, we needsomethingto give to the IA or your wolf will remain caged.”
“I don’t fucking care about that anymore,” he growled, then tilted his head back and clenched his teeth, the muscles in hisneck straining as his body went taut. Likely his wolf protesting violently. “I’d stay caged for the rest of my life if it meant keeping you safe.”
She leaned into his touch, his words bathing her heart in radiating warmth.
“We keep each other safe, remember? I’m doing this for you, too.” She rose onto her tiptoes and planted a sweet kiss on his lips. “Seems a little out of order after last night, but I amverymuch looking forward to our date once this is over.”
His hand tightened against her scalp. “As long as you bring a better list of questions this time.”
She laughed and kissed him again.
Then swept up the garment bag, strode into the bathroom, and changed into her armor.
The crypt looked even moresinister than Ronin remembered, lit torches flickering shadows across the fanged fireplace, roughly-hewn benches, and columns that arced like ribs—probablyactualribs, based on what Layla had shared—across the high ceiling.
