“And when will that be?” Tristan turned to Ione.
“Soon,” Ione said, grasping Tristan’s hand. “There’s something I’d like to discuss with you first.” She nodded to Seraavi. “Thank you for your time today, General.”
The Deathstalker bowed before loping through the maze of cots to assist with the healing.
Tristan’s rage was still surging through his veins as Ione tapped her cuff and portaled them back to Lebaedia.
CHAPTER NINE
Tristan couldn’t get visions of those wounded Fae in Lodesvale out of his head.
They drowned out nearly everything else, save for the ever-present longing in his chest for Cassandra. He wanted to solve the two problems simultaneously: save his loveandhis people.
Behind him, Ione banged around her kitchen chopping herbs, stirring pots, and softly cursing. She’d always been a mess while cooking. Far messier than Tristan. But somehow, her culinary sorcery always won out in the end.
Though as the bitter scent of burnt onions wafted, he thought perhaps he shouldn’t judge anything yet.
As soon as they’d returned, Ione had invited him to dine with her. After everything she’d done for him, it didn’t feel right to refuse. He’d offered to help her cook, but she’d insisted with something like hope crawling through her eyes.
Tristan hadn’t commented on it.
Hadn’t commented onanythingsince she’d rescued him. At least, nothing personal. Beside a few lingering looks and overly familiar touches on her part, things between them had been nothing but professional. And while Tristan was inclined to keepit that way, he had a feeling he was about to discover her true intentions.
He was more tense now than he’d been in that cell beneath the Vicereine’s palace.
“Are you sure you don’t want any help?” he offered over his shoulder.
“I’m fine!” she called back, cursing again. “Almost ready!”
Outside her window, the setting sun cast bands of gold and salmon across the vine-covered buildings. A softly cleared throat tore Tristan from the view, and he turned to see Ione standing by the table, two tapered candles flickering shadows across the feast she’d laid out.
“Dinner is served,” she said quietly, tucking a strand of honey hair behind her ear and untying her apron. “Pour us some drinks while I change? Be right back.”
Ione slipped down the hall and up the stairs to her bedroom while Tristan began perusing her wine rack.
For a rebel base in the middle of the jungle, she had quite a selection—buttery whites from the coasts of Akti, plummy burgundies from the hills of Nephes, and even a few sweet, fortified wines from the southern human colonies.
He looked toward the table, saw that Ione had prepared seafood, and selected a bottle of white. He popped the cork, then glugged out two glasses and placed them next to the opulent spread.
Ione had gone all out.
On a platter surrounded by roast potatoes and thick stalks of asparagus, an entire silvery-scaled fish peered up at him through a glassy eye. Next to it, an ice-filled plate held six oysters on the half-shell, a mignonette of shallots and vinegar floating atop the creamy flesh.
Tristan swallowed his discomfort. There was no way the oysters hadn’t been a deliberate choice. Not only were they aknown aphrodisiac, but they’d certainly come from Vaengya, the small colonial town where Ione’s human parents had lived before journeying to the continent to work for Tristan’s mother, Empress Mila.
They were also the source of that pearl ring Tristan had given to Ione lifetimes ago.
He took a gulping sip of wine, and then nearly choked on it as Ione returned from her room. Her freshly-brushed hair cascaded down her shoulders in two shining, golden sheets, and she’d changed into what looked more like a slip than a dress. As she approached the table, the sage-green silk shifted, barely held in place by two thin straps.
Certainly not an outfit one would wear for dinner with a mere colleague.
Amatu fuckingsavehim.
He couldn’t deny that she looked beautiful. She always had. And now as Fae, she was downright staggering. Any other male would’ve crashed to his knees and begged to worship at her feet.
But he’d rather be dining with someone else.
“Shall we?” Ione demurred, taking her seat and sliding three oysters onto each of their plates. She raised one toward him, a silent toast, and he did the same before tipping the shell to his lips and swallowing. The briny liquid combined with the acidic mignonette and sweet, creamy oyster was divine. But he’d expect nothing less from the woman who’d taught him to cook.
