He cuffed her throat, her pulse pounding against his fingertips, then traced the tip of his tongue down one of her fangs, careful to avoid the pointed end. She shuddered, the bitter scent of her venom prickling his nose.
“I’m not in the mood for seconds tonight,” he whispered against her lips before nudging her out of the way and heading for his locker.
Dimi’s hissing laughter followed her out of the humid room. “Someday, Matakos. You’ll cave again.”
Not fucking likely, he thought as he changed into his typical all-black uniform: a long-sleeved t-shirt, utility pants, and loosely-laced boots.
Shrugging on his leather jacket, he plopped onto the bench and opened the note. Messages from High Councilor Skanisse were rare, and since his caging, Ronin had done his best to stay out of the Imperial orbit. But given his history and reputation, the Empire—and its representatives—did occasionally come calling.
Written in the High Councilor’s familiar chicken-scratch was a short message:Imperial Affairs HQ. Tomorrow morning at eight.
Ronin groaned.Waytoo fucking early. Especially given his plans for the remainder of his night.
He ripped up the note, then tossed the pieces in his locker and slung his equipment bag over his shoulder.
As he rushed through the empty underground halls of the arena, he wondered what Skanisse wanted this time. When Ronin had previously been summoned, he’d been nothing morethan a glorified babysitter. Dragged around to some secretive event or another, the cornerstone of Skanisse’s wall of muscle.
Ronin slipped out a side door and into the hazy night, welcomed by the halos of magically-powered street lights. Snowflakes needled his face and hands, melting upon contact with his Beastunner heat.
As he trudged through the slushy streets, his thoughts turned to the Crystal’s new waitress and the plans he had for her taut little body.
Whatever Skanisse wanted tomorrow morning, he wasn’t about to let it mess with his post-fight ritual.
CHAPTER TWO
Mireille Valette disentangled herself from the scratchy sheets and glanced toward the clock on the nightstand.
Shit. She was due at the theater in less than an hour.
Get on with it,a low, sly voice sighed into her mind.We’ve spent far too much time with this disgusting specimen already.
Mireille snickered, ignoring her wolf. Though she didn’t disagree with the assessment.
Her current mark, the Deathstalker male she’d spent the afternoon with, was still sleeping soundly next to her, face down on the pillow with his pale arms circled above his head.
She rose from the bed as quietly as possible, trying not to wake him, then padded into the tiny bathroom to ensure the veiling potion she’d dosed herself with earlier hadn’t yet worn off. Though her facial features were still unrecognizable in the mirror, strands of copper now wove through the black hair she’d donned for this assignment.
She and her wolf would have to work quickly.
The Deathstalker’s back steadily rose and fell as she crept back into the bedroom, plucked up her discarded clothes, and dressed.
Slinking into the cramped living area, she asked her wolf,Where is it?
The creature sniffed at the shack’s stale air, retching.This place smells like a dumpster.But I’m getting a hint of something behind the couch.
Mireille padded over and eased the lopsided lump of torn cushions away from the wall. A bundle of dust-streaked cloth lay nestled against the trim. She reached down to grab it, then slid the couch back into place.
Crossing to the kitchenette, she unwrapped the bundle atop a crusty table and let out a satisfied grunt.
The scepter—a relic of the Fallen Goddess and one of many that Mireille had acquired in her work for the Empire over the years—was topped with a fire opal that glistened in the early evening sunlight.
How this male had gotten his hands on the scepter was completely beyond Mireille. She knew he wasn’t keeping it for himself. He was one of many links in a chain that would lead to the scepter’s delivery into the hands of someone far more powerful. And wealthy.
There were a number of buyers throughout the continent willing to pay hefty sums for these relics, and one buyer in particular here in the Northern Territories who Mireille was almost certain was the intended recipient. Most of these pieces were useless, their power having faded just as much as the Goddess who’d inspired their creation.
But every so often, about one in fifty jobs, she’d come across a functioning relic, one imbued with a power that could threaten the Empire’s dominance.
Which is exactly why they employed Fae like Mireille to hunt them down and ensure they didn’t fall into the hands of their enemies. Enemies who hadn’t counted on their errand boy being so easily undone by a pretty face.
