by Zoe Chant
A spark of mischief gleamed in Rafa’s eyes. “Well, Nick did ask us to. Can’t refuse a teammate’s request.”
Rafa took her hand and clasped it just long enough for it to seem like an intimacy rather than mere politeness before he shook it. “There. Now we’ve been introduced in the styles of your country and mine. I do hope you’ll stay until Lucas comes back— I’m sure he’d be disappointed if you left before his return. And he told us so much about you, I’d be very sorry to miss making your acquaintance.”
“Rafa, are you fucking done yet?” Nick demanded. “You’ve got a fucking job to do.”
“Nick needs help getting dressed,” Rafa explained to Raluca, making it sound like he was teaching his toddler son to tie his shoes.
Nick flushed red, with embarrassment or fury or both. “Because that fucking white tie outfit has something like nineteen fucking parts that all have to be fucking perfect.”
“Exactly. Let’s start getting them on,” Rafa said smoothly.
He led them to the locker room, where Raluca retrieved her hoard pack from Lucas’s locker. Its contents sang to her soul, lightening her heart. Nick might not enjoy the evening — in fact, Raluca was quite certain that he would not — but she would. And at the end, she’d abandon him and fly away, taking her hoard with her. This whole American trip had obviously been a bad idea, but at least she’d end it on a high note.
Vengeance, gold, and the open sky, she thought. The three treasures of the dragon. Tonight, I’ll have them all.
Her dragon stirred within her. That is not the saying. It is honor, gold, and the open sky.
Raluca shrugged. Close enough.
She took her time arranging her hair and selecting her jewelry, knowing by the muffled sounds of swearing that Nick was indeed not having an easy time with the complex and precise components of a man’s formal white tie attire. When she finished, she sat running her fingers through her gold and gems, imagining how ridiculous he’d look and feel, just like she had standing in front of gigantic fake lobsters and fake bacon. It would serve him right.
Finally, the swearing stopped.
“Raluca?” Nick called. “Are you ready?”
“I have been so for the last half-hour,” she called, then opened the door and stepped out.
Nick did not look ridiculous.
He looked stunning.
The black tailcoat and pants and white shirt fit perfectly, showing off his broad shoulders, muscular chest, and narrow hips. His physical proportions, which had previously been partly hidden under his ever-present leather jacket, were perfect. He was a vision in black and white, with his clothes echoing and enhancing his pale skin and midnight hair. The one touch of color — his emerald eyes — took her breath away. Everything about him was pure classic perfection.
Fascinated, she took in the little details: the cufflinks of mother-of-pearl, the polished black shoes, the pearl studs on his shirt, the white kidskin gloves that concealed his tattoos, the pressed white linen handkerchief folded in his pocket with a half-inch showing, the white carnation on his lapel. He had shaved very closely, leaving his skin looking smooth as silk; usually he had stubble on his chin, but not tonight.
Rafa, grinning in the background, looked rightly proud of himself. “All right. I’ll leave you two crazy kids to it.”
With a wink, he stepped out and closed the door behind him.
Nick was hot in leather and jeans. He was hot, period; that was the problem. So he wasn’t more sexy in formal attire, just differently so. But it was such a surprise that Raluca couldn’t take her eyes off him. She’d been so certain that he’d look awkward and uncomfortable. Instead, he stood tall and cool as the hero of a black and white movie from a more sophisticated time. He looked elegant and suave, which were not adjectives she’d ever thought to apply to him.
If he wore a concealed weapon, she couldn’t see or sense it. But he couldn’t conceal his edge of danger. It showed in how he moved, and in the intensity of his eyes.
Not a black and white hero, Raluca thought. He’s licensed to kill.
She pushed that thought out of her mind. Certainly, he looked good in formal attire. But someone else had selected it and made sure everything was worn correctly. Once Rafa was no longer present to coach him, could Nick manage formal dining, dancing, etiquette, and most of all, speech?
Raluca doubted it very much.
He’d dragged her to a block-long fake lobster, so it felt very appropriate that her vengeance would involve an oyster fork.
Chapter Four
Nick
With Rafa gone and Raluca standing so close he could feel the heat coming off her skin, Nick was burning up inside. It was exactly like he’d been locked in that fucking dressing room with Raluca, as if the fire in her dragon’s body had been passed on to him. But that had been pure sexual heat, while the burn he felt now was also fueled by the blazing rage that had engulfed him when she’d sneered that she wanted to see how his people — blue-collar, gangsters, riff-raff, trash — lived.
She said none of those words, his wolf growled. And she did not sneer.
His wolf had said that before. But Nick had been too pissed off to pay attention. But now he tried to recall her exact words and tone. What had she said?
And whatever she’d actually said... What had she meant?
Ask her! His wolf sounded ready to rip Nick’s throat out.
But the words — any words — stuck in his throat. Raluca was always beautiful, even when she was cranky and sweaty or just woken up. But now, in that dress that made her look like a mermaid, with her hair pouring down her back like a silver waterfall and her glittering dragonmarks swirling around her exposed skin, he couldn’t do anything but stand and stare.
She wore elbow-length silk gloves the color of the ocean in summer, clinging tightly to her slim arms and those long fingers that looked so delicate but could punch holes in steel. Her hair clip was a rose of reddish gold with silver leaves. A choker of diamonds encircled the ivory stem of her throat, with a single strand of them dangling down to end in a perfect star sapphire just above her cleavage. Tiny silver bells with golden clappers hung from each ear, giving out a chime when she moved. The sound was so soft that the only a werewolf or a man standing close enough to kiss her could hear it.
He didn’t know what she’d done with all the makeup she’d bought. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were still the same dark silver, her face still ivory, her lips still rose-pink. Maybe she looked extra-perfect, he couldn’t tell: she always looked perfect to him.
She wore high-heeled silver sandals with intricate straps, bringing her to exactly his height. He wouldn’t even have to bend over to kiss her.
Raluca was so fucking gorgeous, and he wanted her so much. And she could barely stand to be in the same room with him.
That is not so, his wolf said. You are mates. You drank from her hands.
Silently, Nick replied, That cuts no ice with the fucking dragon princess, buddy. She fucking hates me. Want to bet whether she lasts the entire ball before she calls Hal and asks to be transferred to Destiny?
Raluca cleared her throat, a polite but firm sound that she’d probably spent years perfecting. God knew what she thought he’d been doing. Staring at her breasts, probably.
“Brief me,” Raluca said. “I will remember everything.”
Nick choked back his feelings and tried to stay as cool as her. He gave her their fake names and cover stories, plus the hotel she was supposedly staying at and her fake itinerary.
Raluca was Katarina Petrescu, a wealthy tourist from Viorel, and Nick was Adam Peterson, an American relative — a distant one, to account for their total lack of family resemblance, but related enough to explain why they weren’t a couple, if anyone asked. He’d figured there was no way she’d go for fake dating, and Nick didn’t want to either. If he had to touch her romantically but in pretense, he’d lose his mind.
She repeated it back to him flawlessly, often word-for-word, h
er tone lightly mocking as if she thought she’d shock him with her total recall. He wasn’t shocked. She might be naïve, but she was the opposite of stupid.
“Great,” Nick said when she was done. He wanted to praise her more — most clients needed multiple repetitions and role-play before they got it right — but anything else, and she’d probably think he was condescending. If there was one thing he’d proved over and over, it was that he couldn’t do anything right as far as the princess was concerned.
They drove through the city in silence, Nick with half his mind on the road and security, and half mentally rehearsing everything Rafa had taught him.
Champagne glass farthest from you and centered above the other glasses, red wine glass below it and on the left, sherry next to red wine on the right, white wine below red wine on the left, and water below sherry on the right.
Or had he mixed up red and white wine? Or red wine and sherry? And what did it matter when a fucking butler was pouring and he could see and smell what everything was?
“Because if you drink the wrong drink with the wrong course, you’ll blow your cover. And if you actually know what you’re doing, you’ll look like you’ll know what you’re doing,” Rafa had said, sounding annoyed.
Which was fair. That was the most basic principle of undercover work. Nick shouldn’t even swear in his own mind, if he wanted to avoid swearing when he was at the ball.
Next thing Nick knew, he was pulling up at the fanciest house he’d ever seen, a gigantic white thing with about a billion windows and pillars.
“The fuck?” he muttered.
“If you use that word here, you will seem out of place and attract unwanted attention,” Raluca remarked, a second after he’d mentally cursed himself out.
He handed over his keys to the valet, who wore a suit fancier than anything Nick owned. Unless you counted the suit Rafa had gotten for him, but Nick was hardly going to take it home and wear it again. It could live in Protection, Inc., with the other weird costumes the team had amassed for specific jobs.
Another valet opened the car door for Raluca before Nick could, then just stood there while she just sat there. Belatedly, Nick hurried around and offered her his hand, assisting her out of the car. Even through gloves, a jacket sleeve, and a shirt sleeve, her fingers burned like fire.
The valet took off without giving him a receipt. Nick hoped to hell that was normal. And how the hell much was he supposed to tip when he got his car back? Or was he not supposed to tip? Rafa hadn’t covered that.
He led Raluca into the house. She walked lightly, regally, as if she wore an invisible crown. Nick felt incredibly awkward in his fucking clothes that were so weirdly precise that he was sure he’d violate some fucking rich person’s law just by walking. Rafa had actually taken out a ruler to measure how much sleeve should show below his jacket cuffs!
Nick forced himself to focus. He gave the place a visual sweep, looking for anyone or anything suspicious, and saw nothing but an incredible amount of fancy stuff and people dressed just like him and Raluca, plus more people like the valets — butlers and maids, he guessed.
People came up and greeted them. Nick let Raluca do the talking, and just nodded and smiled and checked them for hidden weapons. There was nothing, just as there had been nothing anywhere they’d gone. Nick was beginning to wonder if either Raluca had ditched her assassins in Venice, or if her transformation there had scared off the entire plot against her. Sure, the assassin had carried dragonsbane, but it was one thing to know that dragons existed, and another to be knocked across the room by one.
All the same, Nick had a vial of heartsease in his pocket, along with a gun in a shoulder holster. They’d been easier to conceal under his black leather jacket, not to mention easier to get to in a hurry. But if it came to shooting or poisoning, all the rules were out the window anyway and he could just rip off his fucking stiff clothes.
Raluca coughed delicately, catching his attention. A pair of double doors had been opened, and people were headed toward a huge dining room. Nick took Raluca’s elbow, choking down the surge of unwanted desire that coursed through him every fucking time he touched her, and led her to the ridiculously long table beneath a ridiculously huge chandelier.
Hal had done his prep work: there were place cards under their fake names. Nick pulled out Raluca’s chair, then pushed it in for her as she gracefully seated himself. Then he started to pull out his own chair, only to have a waiter or butler or someone grab it. Nick forced himself not to jump — that guy had moved fast, and Nick didn’t like people doing that close to his client when he was on the job — but the waiter only seemed to want to pull out Nick’s chair for him.
Keeping an eye on the waiter’s hands, Nick let himself be seated. But he sat too soon, leaving himself too far from the table. Both Raluca and the waiter looked irritated, and even more so when Nick scooted his chair closer in, making an unpleasant scraping noise and probably damaging the million-dollar hardwood floors.
That was when he got his first good, close, non-distracted look at the place setting.
Nick had never seen Phantom of the Opera, but he’d heard that the big stunt was a falling chandelier. As he took in the horrifyingly large and complex array of forks and glasses and plates, all of which he needed to use correctly while guarding Raluca and pretending that he was a fucking rich snob, he wished the chandelier would come crashing down then and there.
As the drinks were poured and appetizers were served, Nick unobtrusively sniffed for poison, first for Raluca and then for himself, before giving her the little nod that meant it was safe. She took a delicate sip of her drink and began to converse charmingly with the people across from her.
“No, of course they are not real,” she said, with her wind-chime laugh. “They are temporary tattoos, painted on by a makeup artist. I was inspired by Alexander McQueen’s fashion show in Vienna.”
Nick had been focused on smell, not sight, so it was only then that he took in what he’d been served. It looked like a weird, tiny sculpture, but was presumably edible. Green liquid pooled around a piece of carved red jello, a gray blob covered in white foam was plopped atop the jello, and little black balls and even tinier green flecks were sprinkled over the foam.
He had no fucking idea what it was or how to eat it, but since it had mostly smelled like fish, he hoped the jello wasn’t cherry-flavored. Or wasn’t actually jello. Now that he thought about it, there was no way it could be jello. This was not a jello-type place.
Nick took a moment to recall his lessons before he touched anything.
“Silverware is used from the outside in,” Rafa had said. “The fork or spoon that’s farthest from you is the one you use to eat the first course. Forks are on the left, knives and spoons are on the right, juts like a normal place setting.”
Nick reached left, picked up the farthest fork, and poked the red stuff. It wobbled, exactly like jello. The foam dripped down, exactly like spit.
Wishing he hadn’t thought of that, Nick stabbed the entire thing and shoved it in, intending to swallow it whole. It came apart in his mouth, making that plan impossible. The jello tasted like bell peppers, the sauce was vaguely herbal, the black things popped between his teeth and released a blast of salty fishiness, and the spit — foam — turned out to have concealed a slimy raw oyster.
Nick battled the impulse to spit it out, which was a challenge as every single bit of it had a gross flavor or texture or mental association or all three, chewed, and swallowed. Then he grabbed the nearest glass and took a huge swig of whatever the fuck was in it, which turned out to be red wine.
He looked up to see everyone within a few seats of him staring at him. Raluca included.
A pompous-looking old dude addressed him in a voice that was helpful on the surface and condescending all the way down to the center of the Earth. “Young man, the oyster fork is on the other side.”
Nick took another look at his place setting. Sure enough, a lone, weird-looking fork
was on the right, farthest away from him. Everyone but him was using it to eat the oyster-jello-spit thing.
“My bad — apologies. The oyster was buried under the sauce, so I thought it was... something else,” he finished unconvincingly.
To Nick’s surprise, Raluca backed him up. “Quite true. I nearly used the fish fork myself. I adore the chef’s sense of mischief, hiding the oyster like a delightful little surprise gift, but it does put one in danger of making a minor faux pas with the silverware.”
The equally pompous old lady beside the old man gave a sniff. “Perhaps. I certainly saw my oyster. That being said, red wine does not go with either fish or oysters. And the caviar made it clear that the amuse bouche contained some form of fish or shellfish.”
Nick stifled the urge to throw what was left of his red wine in their faces and thought, What would Rafa say?
“I was so struck by the elegance of the presentation, I wasn’t looking where I was reaching,” Nick said.
Who are you and what did you do with Nick? His wolf growled.
That’s called being undercover, Nick said silently. That line fucking killed it and you know it.
“Humph,” the old couple said in a condescending chorus, then fell silent as the dishes were cleared and more drinks were poured.
Nick breathed in: no poison, no dragonsbane. He looked: no suspicious movements or expressions on anyone, guests or waiters. He nodded to Raluca, then decided to watch what she did before he made any moves himself.
The next course was tomato soup. She picked up the spoon farthest from herself, took a spoonful, then set it down and sipped at her white wine.
That seemed easy enough. Nick took a spoonful of soup. It was ice-cold, not hot. The surprise nearly made him choke, especially since the place was so fancy. Even the worst restaurants might serve soup Luke-warm, but not cold.
He looked at Raluca, but she was eating hers with a totally straight face. But that was her thing: she’d been trained to be excruciatingly polite. Or was hers all right? No one else was reacting. Maybe it was just his that someone had forgotten to heat up.