Tonight, she wasMireille Valette. Prima ballerina and badass bitch.
“Ready.” She squared her shoulders, and Ronin pushed open the doors.
The humidity sighed over her, tightening her scalp as they stepped across the threshold. The greenhouse was kept warm by magical means to protect the plants from Kheimos’s inhospitable conditions.
She’d planned for the heat. Her silky, aquamarine cocktail dress—the color chosen specifically to match Ronin’s tattoos—was sleeveless and dipped into a vee at her sternum. The mid-length skirt fluttered around her shins as they walked into the party. Sweat bloomed on the back of her neck, and she cursed herself for letting Ronin talk her into leaving her hair down.
A small balcony overlooked a ring of stone pavers surrounding several rows of rose bushes, each one dripping with fluffy, baby blue blooms.
She leaned closer to Ronin. “Did you know that blue roses don’t actually exist in nature? They appear in so many other colors: red, white, yellow, pink, peach, even purple. But not blue. I wonder how Otto’s achieved such a beautiful color. Do you think he’s treating the soil?”
Ronin shook his head, staring down at her. “Nerd.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just curious if this is the kind of information you’re going to regale me with all night. We’re not supposed to be studying the plants. We’re supposed to be studying Otto and the guests.”
Mireille glared at him. “I know that. But there are plants in this building that haven’t thrived on the continent in centuries. Aren’t you the least bit curious?”
He shrugged. “Not really. Plants aren’t the type of thing that turns me on. Nowthat,however…” He gestured toward a Fae female standing near the low iron fence ringing the rose bushes. She was in quiet conversation with a male, her black and white hair twisted into two buns atop her head. Her dress wasn’t muchmore than a series of carefully-arranged strips around her chest and hips.
Mireille snorted. “Youwouldbe the type of male that gets turned on by a mark. Be careful with that one, though. Layla Fetar would sooner slit your throat than let you get close enough to fuck her for information. Not to mention, she’s already tried to have you killed.”
“I dolovethe violent ones.” He gripped Mireille’s hand and led her down the wrought-iron staircase into the heart of the party. He swiped a Delirium from the tray of a passing waiter, then cracked the cap off with his teeth. She watched the muscles of his throat work as he drained the bottle and tossed it onto a side table.
“Is that a good idea?”
“Back off, narc,” he grumbled.
She was about to protest, to order him to slow down, but there was an edge of desperation to his tone that she didn’t want to exacerbate.
As they stepped further into the crowd, several heads turned their way, followed by low whispers.
“The Butcher of Aethalia is here.”
“…heard they caged his wolf…”
“…odd sort of couple. I wonder how long they’ve been together…”
“…far more beautiful up close…”
Mireille smiled to herself before realizing that last comment could have been aimed at either of them.
Ronin plucked up another Delirium and Mireille tensed, though she didn’t scold him. Nor did she protest when he grabbed a glass of sparkling pink wine and pressed it into her hand.
Popping bubbles tickled her nose. The drink smelled sweeter than she’d anticipated, like berries and burnt sugar. She took a tentative sip. Delicious. And far too tempting.
She supposed she could say the same about the male standing next to her, sipping his Delirium with a hand resting above the swell of her ass. And just inside the line of her rules.
The conversation around them dampened, and Mireille tilted her gaze toward the balcony.
Otto had arrived.
The Deathstalker was dressed in a tight white suit embroidered with prancing horses. He surveyed his silent guests as he curled long black fingernails over the railing. His popped fangs ruined the intended effect of his warm smile.
“Friends, welcome to the Otto estate!”
The crowd clapped, throwing nervous glances at each other.
