All he’d been able to drag out of her today were monosyllabic responses barely cobbled together while her attention was… elsewhere. Even when the police had put her and the other chefs through rigorous tests to determine if they’d cheated, she had allowed them to poke and prod without cowering or fighting.
Blai swore the tattoo had blocked all worrying memories of her past—though they wouldn’t say which—and had encouraged Nik toleave her alone to practice. She’d whipped through recipe after recipe, and was still going when their midnight rendezvous came around.
“What was your favorite thing about your mother?” she’d asked.
He’d sifted through countless memories. “No matter how much she washed her hands, they forever smelled of soil,” he’d replied. “You?”
She’d turned back to her work and away from him. “It doesn’t matter. I need to practice.”
Practice was one thing. What she’d exhibited in the last few hours was mania.
This wasnotthe same girl who’d held a butter knife to his throat, damning the risk of exposure to ensure she wasn’t taken advantage of. This was a docile creature, the doe-eyed ingénue Blai had suggested they find. The type of timid performer Nik had originally wanted.
This should’ve been a victory.
“Elouise!” a lofty voice called across the grand foyer.
Fiona Brady, the wretch who’d drugged Elara, sauntered away from the other three chefs.
“Patron, mind if we have a moment? Chef to chef?” She batted her lashes as if they would have any effect on him. Overly flirtatious had never worked for him. Well… almost never.
When he glanced at Elara, she nodded.
Stepping away was harder than it should’ve been. This was Elara’s realm, and he couldn’t interfere. The other Patrons didn’t. In fact, they were huddled together, awaiting the official summons into the ballroom.
Fiona stood with her back to him so he couldn’t even read her lips.
But he could read Elara’s face. Whatever Fiona said eventually broke her calm demeanor. Her face paled further, eyes flickering wide in a way that made Nik inch forward. Fiona tossed her copper braid as she smiled back at him, wriggling her fingers in a wave.
She whispered one last thing to Elara before skipping back to theother chefs, who dispersed immediately. At least they all felt the same about the insufferable girl.
Nik should’ve left well enough alone, but he needed to know what had frightened her. All night, he’d dreamed of her beneath his father’s knife, screaming in pain as her heart bled out.
Your chef cannot upset that balance.
Your chef.
She wasn’t his, but the idea of it made that terrifying feeling from earlier this week burn brighter. It had opened a cavity inside him, one that no amount of sketching could fill. This feeling hungered for something more, and he feared that feeding it even once would awake an insatiable appetite.
Nik took her arm. “What is it?”
“She’s been digging.”
Nik forced himself to remain still. “And what has she learned?”
“That I never apprenticed with Prevel.”
Shit. If they learned that, they’d know she was a fraud and demand to know more. There were ways of ripping the truth from someone, magie tattoo be damned.
“What does she plan to do about it?” he asked.
Elara stared at Fiona, who stood alone watching from across the glittering foyer. “If I don’t lose tonight, she’ll tell the Counseil.”
The girl was smart to use any angle to get ahead. She was likely under immense pressure to win and create a much-needed bridge between Cael and Anespérer. Enough to drug and blackmail the strongest competitor.
“Whatever happens tonight—”
The double doors to the ballroom opened a slice, letting in an Aspirant in Arts Visuels midnight blue.
