by Imogen Sera
After Mira had splashed water on her face and examined the room, pleased to find a bathtub, they’d gone back downstairs together to eat. She ate quickly, starving after the day, and then sipped at her wine, enjoying the music and the warmth of the hearth at her back and having a full stomach.
“You look relaxed,” Tarquin said, interrupting her peaceful silence.
“I’m always relaxed,” she said.
“You’re not.” He set down his drink and examined her across the little table. “I’ve almost never seen you truly relaxed. And you’re smiling.”
“I always smile,” she said.
“No,” he said, “you always laugh. You laugh at everything, even when it’s inappropriate— especially when it’s inappropriate. But I don’t think I’ve seen you relaxed and smiling in the whole time I’ve known you.”
She aimed a glare at him.
“Yes, that’s the Mira I know.”
“I’m comfortable,” she said, settling back in her chair and closing her eyes. “This music is nice. No one here knows me; no one’s judging me. I’m planning my bath when I decide I’m ready to go upstairs. There’s nothing uncomfortable about this moment. Of course I’m relaxed.”
“Are people normally judging you?” he asked. “You’re quite popular at the palace. All of the ladies look up to you.”
She couldn’t help the snort that escaped her. “They don’t look up to me,” she said, “they hate me. Half of them are afraid of me. I don’t know why.”
“I think you’re wrong,” he said, leveling his gaze at her. “They all wore gowns until you stopped, and a week later half of them dressed like you. Eloise cut her hair because yours is short. Even Ingrid is painting her lips red, occasionally, because of you.”
She opened her eyes and watched him. “Please stop,” she said. “I’m trying to be comfortable.”
“Yes, it’s so much more comfortable to believe that you’re hated.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why the fuck do you care what I think about anything?”
He shrugged. “I just don’t understand you. I don’t think that what I see when I look at you is anything like what you see.”
She wanted to ignore that, but found herself asking, “What do you see?”
His eyes searched over her face that she’d turned into an immobile mask. “Confidence,” he said, but then shook his head. “That’s the wrong word. Authenticity? You’re just yourself; I don’t think you know how to be anyone else. I admire it.”
She sat rigidly in her chair, staring at his dark eyes.
“Sometimes, though,” he continued, “I see someone underneath. Still you, still yourself, but you’re terrified and lonely and desperate for approval and companionship, and I don’t think you know how to get either.”
She narrowed her eyes again, ready to tell him to leave her the fuck alone, but he interrupted her.
“I don’t think you see that you already have those things, Mira. The women at the palace do look up to you. You said that awful thing about Maggie’s marriage and they teased you for it, sure, but a week later Maggie asked you to help her select a wedding dress. No one was holding a grudge against you about it, except for yourself.”
“They’re all friends and I’m just—” she stopped herself.
“You’re this untouchable figure, Mira. They’re friends because they spend so much time together, but you spend all your time stealing from the dead or hiding in your bedroom or fucking me. You don’t tell anyone about yourself, so to them you’re mysterious and probably up to important things. They don’t know that you’re wasting your days just as much as they are, except you’re doing it alone.”
“Except when I’m fucking you,” she spat.
“No,” he said, calmly. “You’re alone then too, because you’ve decided to close yourself off from the world. Even when I’m inside of you, I don’t get to see the real you.”
She rose from her seat, anger growing in her chest despite not really knowing why. She glared at him. “I’m going to have a bath, I’d like to be alone for it, please.”
“I know,” he said, infuriatingly relaxed. “Should I get my own room?”
“Don’t bother,” she said, sighing heavily as she looked down at him. “We both know where you’ll end up.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mira had bathed lazily, letting the tension from her travels ease out of each limb into the hot, sweet smelling water. She hoped Tarquin would come back to the room before she finished, she admitted to herself, hoped he would see her nude and reach for her and demand to fuck her. Then they could get back to the usual, comfortable routine of hating and fucking, instead of whatever that… conversation had been downstairs. It bothered her how well he seemed to know her; it was hardly fair, she never seemed to have an inkling of what went through his ridiculous head.
He stayed away, though, so when the hot water cooled to warm and then temperate she rose from her bath and dried off, pausing nude in front of the mirror— just in case. She mused to herself that the only time she felt naked around him was when she was fully dressed. Mira the whore— that was easy to be, easy to lose herself and forget her insecurities and worries and frustrations. Mira, just Mira— that was much worse, and what he’d said downstairs had cut straight into her so well that it shook her to her soul.
He couldn’t do it again. So she dressed in just a shirt to ward the chill from her shoulders, leaving her legs and bottom bare. When he came to bed, if he came to bed, it would be easy to just seduce him and then ignore him.
She pulled the heavy blanket to her chest and closed her eyes, hoping to be asleep before he returned— that would be easiest of all. Sleep wouldn’t come, though, no matter how long she slowed her breaths or counted them or thought about every single thing in her life that she’d ever done. So she laid still, eyes shut, resigned to pretending.
At least an hour had passed when he returned. She was surprised at the amount of noise someone who seemed so graceful was capable of making as he crashed around in the bathroom, and she wondered several times if she should pretend to wake. She didn’t, though, didn’t even crack her eyes to peek at him. The candles were blown out a minute later, and she held her breath as he climbed into the bed beside her. If he reached for her— fine, she would fuck him and be done with it. If he kept to his side of the bed— so much the better.
He did reach for her, but she didn’t respond right away, not wanting to give away the fact that she only pretended to sleep. His big hand grazed her side, gently, and she waited with bated breath for him to move his fingers up, under her shirt and over her breast, or down to the apex of her thighs. He did neither, though, just splayed his hand across her belly, positioning himself behind her. His other arm slid under her neck, resting her head on his hard bicep, then curled around her front to rest on her shoulder. His fingertips pressed into her, holding her tightly, and Mira tried to control her breathing, tried to guess where he’d touch next. Nowhere, though, she resigned herself to after a minute. Because he was behind her, holding her close to him, and he made no other move.
This was the worst option of all, she thought, as she laid in his arms and tried to ignore the fluttering in her belly, the fluttering that she’d never felt before in all of the times they’d come together.
“Mira,” he breathed into her hair and then pressed what could only be a kiss there.
She froze, waiting for more, waiting for him to lick her ear or bite her neck or press his length against her ass, but there was nothing else. His breathing evened soon after. Hers was hurried for most of the night, trying to figure out how to maneuver out of his grasp and wondering why she didn’t want to.
“Tell me about Cyrus,” Mira said, using the name she’d heard Tarquin say the night before. “He’s the man we’re going to meet?” She sat on the bed, wearing what she’d slept in, watching Tarquin dress for the day.
“I don’t know what to tell,” he said. “He’s… unusual. I’
ve met him a few times, and he’s been very different each time that I have. You’ll understand when you meet him.”
“Is he dangerous?” she asked.
“No,” he said, “I wouldn’t bring you if he was. He can be… infuriating, but he’s not dangerous.”
“I didn’t know I was coming with you. What should I do?” she asked.
“You don’t have to, I assumed you’d be bored here.” He shrugged.
“I would be bored,” she said. “I want to come.”
“Good,” he said. “Then just be you. He’ll try to intimidate you, but don’t let him. I don’t think you’ll have any problems.”
She didn’t think so either. The only person who was currently capable of intimidating her stood in front of her, buttoning his shirt.
“What do you need from him?” she asked.
“Information,” he said.
“And what will he want from you?”
“I suspect—” he said, pushing his hair back from his face, “—that what he’ll want in return is our company. That’s what he usually demands.”
“Will that be so bad?” she asked. “You seem annoyed at the prospect.”
“It’ll be fine,” he said. “He lives in luxury and he treats his guests well. I just easily tire of the games he plays.”
“And that’s how you’re dressed to go meet this man who loves finery?” she asked, looking over his traveling clothes and still-muddy boots.
“I hardly think it matters,” he said. “I’m just going to go… talk to him.”
She pursed her lips and looked him over. “Can I fix your hair, at least?”
The look he gave her was strange. Hopeful.
She ignored it, rummaged through her bag for a minute, then crossed the room to where he stood, her shirt brushing the tops of her bare thighs. She stood facing him, noticing the way his hair became wavy at the ends, to brush against the stubble on his jaw. She found herself staring, and when she chanced a look up at him, he was staring back. She ordered him to stay still and moved around behind him, then brushed her fingers through his hair, carefully. She heard him sigh, but ignored that too and gathered his hair at the base of his neck, then tied it with the length of cord she’d retrieved. She brushed her fingers over the back of his neck, and she wasn’t sure why, but when she heard his sharp intake of breath, she didn’t regret it. He was frozen in front of her, massive and sturdy and lovely, and when the desire to also kiss his neck overwhelmed her, she put her hands on his shoulders from behind and stood on her toes and pressed her lips there. His repressed shudder encouraged her, so she kissed his neck again, and then lowered herself on her feet and wrapped her arms around him, her hands on his chest, and pressed her cheek against his back.
“Mira,” he murmured, but she didn’t want to acknowledge what she’d just done, so she came around to his front and curled her lips into a smile.
“There,” she said, touching the hair along his jaw that was too short to be tied, “you look… exactly the same. I like it, though.”
He grinned at her. “I guess that’s my cue to cut it all off, then?”
She rolled her eyes and pushed at his shoulder. “Help me figure out what the hell to wear.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mira trudged alongside Tarquin, wearing her silk blouse underneath her cloak. Her breath curled in the air in front of her, and she stuffed her fingers in the pockets of her trousers to keep them from the chill. The streets were a mess from the rain the night before, and as she glanced down at her nice shoes that were buried under a thick layer of mud, she couldn’t help but feel silly for making fun of Tarquin’s boots.
They approached a light colored, massive building, covering an entire city block, completely out of place among the small dark houses with smoke rising from their chimneys. Mira supposed it was a compound of sorts, perhaps meant to house many families. She saw how wrong she was as they came closer. There was one gate in the front, one massive front door, and apparently only one man who lived inside.
They were greeted by four servants, two male and two female, each wearing nothing but billowing pants that were tight at the ankles. Mira unconsciously crossed her arms over her breasts as she tried not to stare, and when she heard Tarquin’s dark chuckle directed at her she narrowed her eyes at him.
Cyrus’s home was like nothing she’d ever seen. The front doors opened into a large, brilliantly white room with colorful tile mosaics covering every inch of the walls. The entire space in front of them, which should have been a wall, was just an open space covered in white, sheer curtains, leading to an outdoor courtyard of which Mira could see just a glimpse. The oddest thing was the warmth. The air inside was positively balmy despite the open walls.
They were led all the way to the back of the house, and then forward to greet Cyrus where he reclined on a chaise. He stood to meet them. Mira was a tall woman, and Tarquin towered above her; but Cyrus towered over Tarquin. He was very thin, his ribs visible on his shirtless, oiled abdomen. Tarquin hadn’t given her real details about the man, but it was obvious that he wasn’t a shifter, and it couldn’t have possibly been more clear that he wasn’t human. Slippery was the only word that came to mind as she watched him move.
“Oh Tarquin,” he said, his voice smooth and pleasant, but with some other quality. He sounded like he was trying to mimic human language. “It’s been such a very long time. I’ve missed you.”
Tarquin nodded slightly, but didn’t say anything.
He turned his attention to Mira and crossed the room to her faster than she imagined he could move. He brought his face down to hers, so close she could feel a strange heat radiating from him, then he moved his nose next to her ear and sniffed. “You’re lovely, darling,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Mira,” she said quietly, holding her breath until he’d retreated a few feet from her.
“Tell me Tarquin,” he said, “is she yours?”
Mira watched him carefully, and didn’t understand the disappointment that washed over her when he answered, “No.”
“I heard that you were mated,” said Cyrus, then leaned in close to Tarquin’s neck as he’d done with Mira. “And you positively reek of her.”
Heat flooded Mira’s cheeks, and she didn’t miss the quick glance that Tarquin gave her. “My mate is dead,” he said flatly.
“Hmm,” was Cyrus’s only response, then he gestured for them to be seated on the floor.
Mira crossed her legs in front of herself, and wasn’t displeased when Tarquin sat so close their legs were touching. This place was so strange, this man was so wrong, and Tarquin was warm and solid and safe.
“I like the new house,” he volunteered from next to Mira. “What happened to the Chateau?”
Cyrus pursed his thin lips together as he re-seated himself on the pillows he’d been perched on. “I summer there now. This is my winter home.”
“How is it so warm?” Mira asked, the question slipping out before she even knew she was talking.
“Sweet dove,” he murmured, watching her in a way that made her want to crawl out of her skin. “I’m a very wealthy man. I can afford to keep a mage or two on staff.”
Mira nodded and leaned slightly closer to Tarquin.
“I know you’re here for a reason, Tarquin,” he said after a minute of silence. “Tell me what you want of me.”
“I’m looking for my brothers,” he said.
“They’re in the royal palace, as you well know,” said Cyrus, something like a mischievous glint in his eye.
Tarquin set his jaw. “You know who I mean.”
“The twins,” Cyrus said.
Tarquin nodded and Mira turned to him, surprised. She’d known they’d all been separated before coming to Dragongrove, but had assumed that all of the brothers were together now. She didn’t know that there were more.
“I’ll look into it,” said Cyrus. “In the meantime, stay with me.”
“That’s unnecessary,” sa
id Tarquin. “We’ve already secured lodging.”
Cyrus smiled. “Yes, I know, and I’ve had your things brought here. If you want my help then you will stay with me.”
Tarquin turned to look at Mira, a question in his gaze. She nodded, nearly imperceptibly.
“I’m sure you’re tired, I’ll have you shown to your room… rooms?” Cyrus asked, his eyebrows raised slightly.
Tarquin glanced at her quickly, his expression unreadable, and she just leaned further into him. “One room,” he said, after a short pause.
“I was sure that was the case,” said Cyrus, then waved his hand slightly. A woman walked in, her body a golden tan, her breasts on display and her head freshly shaved. “Show them to their room,” he directed her, and she wordlessly gestured for them to follow her.