Otto may have been slick, but he wasn’t completely unreadable. Ronin could sense the male’s disappointment and confusion at Mireille’s answer.
“Are you quite sure? How many generations of his family lived there? We’ve traveled all over the continent, and have never come across anyone from Nephes with the surname Valette.”
Mireille took a gulping sip of her wine, but was spared from answering as the waiter returned and set down their main courses.
It was some kind of savory pie, blood-red juices oozing from the tiny holes in the top. Ronin held his breath as he sliced into the flaky crust, slightly terrified of what he might find, then loosed it when he beheld the contents. Just chopped, cooked beets dotted with flecks of white cheese.
He took a tentative bite. The dish was unexpectedly delicious, the earthiness of the beets offset by the creamy tang of the cheese. The crust was perfectly crisp and buttery as well.
“This is divine, Jurgev,” Mireille said. “Do you grow beets here in your greenhouse?”
“We do,” Otto answered before taking a bite of his own meal. “At this stage in our life, we no longer have the stomach for meat. All the meals this week will be vegetarian. We do hope that’s not a problem, Ronin. We have heard you have a particular taste for flesh.”
Bastard. Needling Ronin with his wartime exploits. But Otto was going to have to try a lot harder than that to bait him. He shoveled in another mouthful of pie, smirking at Otto as he chewed.
“Valette is my mother’s last name,” Mireille cut in, severing the building hostility.
“What?” Otto asked.
“It worked better as a stage name, so I used that instead of my father’s last name.”
“And whatwasyour father’s name, if you don’t mind our asking?”
“Amiel,” Mireille answered swiftly.
“Like Irina Amiel? The prima ballerina?” Otto cocked his head, considering.
“Yes, but I don’t believe they were related. Or if so, it was only distantly.”
“What a pleasant surprise that would be for you.” Otto sliced through his pie, and a rush of crimson juice spilled out. “Perhaps that’s where you acquired your talent.”
“Perhaps.” She dipped her chin, eyelashes fluttering.
Otto crossed his fork and knife atop his plate, then patted his mouth with his napkin, never once tearing his eyes from Mireille.
Ronin was beginning to feel like he were crashingtheirdate. But he didn’t think it would be wise to force himself into the conversation. For now, he was content to sit back and observe. Why the hell had Otto invited him to this dinner anyway?
Otto trailed a finger down the long, silver scar on Mireille’s forearm. “And how did you acquire this? Rare to see such an ugly scar on a Fae.”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” Mireille shivered as Otto continued to caress her skin. “Just a childhood accident. Got a little careless with a friend’s Typhon dagger.”
Ronin reached for the decanter to pour himself another glass of wine. Neither Mireille nor Otto glanced at him as he did so. He’d noticed Mireille’s scar, of course. It was hard to ignore. But he’d never asked her how she’d acquired it. He highly doubted what she’d just told Otto was the true story.
So quickly that Ronin barely saw him move, Otto snatched up Mireille’s forearm, then sniffed her scar. He ran his forked tongue along the puckered skin, and Mireille let out a breathy little noise. Otto whipped his eyes toward Ronin, victory flashing through them. As if Otto were winning a game that Ronin didn’t even realize they were playing.
“Hmmm,” Otto said. “We smell no traces of dragon fire. That tends to linger within scars caused by Typhon steel.”
“It was quite a long time ago that I acquired it.”
Otto blinked, his lavender lips parting into a sly smile. “That’s one explanation, surely.” He rose from the table, then offered Mireille a hand and helped her out of her chair. Ronin gulped down the rest of his wine before rising as well. “Thank you both for indulging an old Fae’s curiosity. Dessert is being served in the main dining room. Shall we join the other guests?”
As they turned away from the table, Layla Fetar stalked into the room. “Jurgev. A word.” She didn’t seem dressed for dessert, wearing her leathers with her throwing knives glinting at her waist.
Otto nodded to Layla, then trailed his fingers down Mireille’s exposed back as he guided her out the door. Ronin followed, fighting the urge to slap Otto’s hand off her. “We will join you downstairs shortly. Thank you for the enlightening conversation.”
Mireille gave him a shy smile as Ronin dragged her from the room, the double doors shutting behind them.
Once they were alone in the hallway, Ronin leaned down to whisper, “Well, that was?—”
