Murmurs rippled through the room as the Koenig swaggered in dressed like a casual conqueror, poured into tight leather pants and shirtless beneath a black fur vest. His flaxen hair was tied back, and his eyes were bare of kohl. Absent also were hisbaldric of knives and the warhammer. Locked away at the castle, no doubt.
The Koenig sank into his seat, a veritable throne of carved black wood right in front of the stage.
The best view in the house.
Under the table, Ronin dug his claws into his palms, seething at imagined visions of the performance Mireille would give that asshole tonight. And grateful that he’d only have to witness a small portion of it.
A quartet of musicians perched beside the stage began playing a slow, sultry song full of indolent strings and hypnotic beats. The room quieted.
“She used to be quite famous, you know.” Wormwood’s breath stirred Ronin’s hair. “The legendary prima ballerina of the Kheimos company. We’ve been begging her to dance for us since she arrived, but she has always refused.”
Ronin glanced toward the Koenig, who’d just been handed a tumbler of aquaver from a scantily-clad waitress. “He never tried to force her?”
Wormwood shrugged. “She paid a price for each refusal.”
Ronin recalled those scars he’d seen crisscrossing her body during sparring sessions. Recalled her stiff silence during Harvest Night, her improved fighting skills, that deadened glaze that often dulled her silver eyes.
Before guilt and self-loathing could fully consume him, Mireille sauntered onto the stage, her copper hair a braided crown atop her head, and…
Creator fuckingtakehim.
Her firm, round breasts were barely covered by black triangles held in place with thin strings. A swath of black silk cradled her hips, no larger than a loin cloth. All her scars were on display, both old and new. That familiar silver gash down her right forearm. A slash up her left thigh. A jagged crescentfrom her ribcage to her belly button. The angry pink V of her sentencing brand just below her collarbone.
They were armor. They were art. The stories of her hard-won survival.
He’d never loved her more than he did in this moment.
She shimmied to the front of the stage, then smirked at the crowd. Shrill whistles drowned out the music, and her grin grew wider.
His wolf whimpered, then sucked in a breath like he was about to say something.
Not tonight, Ronin croaked.Please. Not tonight. I can’t bear it.
Despite his wolf’s obedience, Ronin could feel the creature growing restless as Mireille spent long minutes undulating her perfect body. The body Ronin had once mapped nightly with his tongue, his teeth, his fingertips.
The body that Aedelmar’s gaze was currently devouring with presumptuous intention.
Fuck, this was so much harder than he’d imagined.
Mireille offered the Koenig an impish grin as her sinuous hips gyrated and her arms swirled overhead, and the blatant lust pouring off the male nearly had Ronin snarling.
He took a sip of his disgusting drink to smother it, and saw Wormwood regarding him curiously. Ronin plastered on a rogue’s smile, then placed his hand on Wormwood’s thigh, whispering, “She’s a bit overrated, don’t you think?”
Wormwood chuckled, eyes hooded, then threw back the rest of his drink. “Another?”
Ronin nodded and Wormwood rose, snaking through the mesmerized crowd toward the bar.
Ronin fought to control himself as he returned his attention to Mireille. She finished her dance with a deep bow, revealingthe swells of her ass, and Ronin had to close his eye to keep from echoing the anguished howl his wolf let loose inside him.
Mireille floated upright, her attention landing on Ronin.
You were fucking magnificent, he thought.You’re always magnificent.
And though he knew she couldn’t hear it, her steps faltered as she approached Aedelmar, who wore a covetous, closed-lip smile as he clapped his meaty hands.
At his applause, the tavern burst into cheers and whistles. Mireille’s cheeks flushed at the adulation before she settled into the Koenig’s lap. He placed a hand on her hip, tugging her closer and she whispered into his ear.
Ronin bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood. It did nothing to mask the bitter taste of his ravenous jealousy.
