Their host stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, wearing another suit that Ronin would definitely describe as absurdist, whimsical chic. As Otto turned to welcome them,Ronin noticed that what he’d thought were dots within the maroon-and-indigo paisley pattern were actually tiny skulls.
Not creepy at all.
“You may go.” Otto signaled to the servant, who bowed then shut the door with a quiet snick. Ronin swore he felt Mireille tense, and he placed a hand at her lower back. “Ronin. Mireille. Thank you for joining us for dinner this evening.”
Did we have another choice?Ronin thought, before noticing how Otto had addressed them. “Dispensing with the formalities tonight, Master Otto?”
“Please,” their host preened, spreading his palms. “Tonight, we are simply…Jurgev.”
Ronin bit back a snicker. He didn’t think there wasanythingsimple about the Deathstalker male who plucked up Mireille’s arm and led her to her seat. The one closer to himself, of course. Ronin was forced to take the third seat on the other side of the table.
As she sat, Otto pushing in her chair, she shot Ronin a conspiratorial look.We’re in this together, it seemed to say, and he offered her a subtle nod, returning the sentiment.
Otto slid into his black chair, then poured Mirielle a glass of red wine from a sculptural decanter. “We’d offer you some, Ronin, but we believe you have different drink preferences.”
Ronin didn’t miss the judgment in the male’s tone as another human servant bustled through a hidden door and placed a glistening bottle of Delirium before him.
He slid his gaze toward Mireille, barely able to see her above the swollen bouquet of blue roses—a well-placed barrier that Otto had likely placed there on purpose.
Mireille’s silver eyes glistened in the flickering glow of the candles framing the bouquet. And despite the low light, the pleading within them was crystal clear.
Please don’t. I need you.
He could do this. He wasgoingto do this. For her.
He pushed aside the Delirium, his wolf howling, and sweat dampened his palms. The mere thought of denying the elixir made the back of his eyeballs ache.
He nearly jumped out of his seat as Mireille’s foot climbed his shin. As if she could sense his struggle and wanted him to know that she’d support him.
He shot her a grateful look before snatching up his wine glass and shoving it toward Otto.
“Actually, Jurgev”—he loaded as much disdain as he dared into the male’s name—“I’d prefer wine tonight.”
Otto cocked a thin, black eyebrow. “Are you sure? We’ve got plenty of Delirium. We find that Fae like yourselves who drink it often don’t typically like to be without one.”
Ronin clenched his other fist, keeping his eyes glued to Otto and not casting them toward the glowing, seductive bottle.
“I’m sure,” he gritted out through a tight grin. “If you’ve chosen red for the meal, who am I to question your impeccable taste?”
He didn’t miss Mireille dipping her head, hiding a smirk.
Otto tilted his head, suspicion narrowing his eyes. But he kept quiet as he reached around the bouquet to fill Ronin’s glass. “Guest’s choice, we suppose.”
The servant returned, setting down small plates of salad.
Otto gestured to the Delirium. “You can take that away. It seems Master Matakos is breaking with tradition tonight.”
Ronin had to physically restrain himself from snatching the bottle from the servant.
Don’t let him!his wolf howled.We need that!
You’re gonna have to deal without it tonight, buddy,Ronin answered.She needs us present and focused.
His wolf barked out a frustrated growl that turned into a whine.I suppose we can manage for one night.
How magnanimous of you, Ronin added sarcastically. But to his wolf’s credit, he settled.
Ronin took a sip of the wine. Of course, it tasted incredible. Silky smooth, but with a lingering roundness after the swallow that tasted of currants and oak. Divine. But not what he truly wanted.
