Page 95 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

I sat up abruptly, clutching the towel to my body, and slid off the table. “What’s next on this ridiculous spa itinerary?”

Kazimir’s expression shuttered, all traces of vulnerability vanishing. “How should I know?”

A quick glance around the room revealed a small card on a side table. I picked it up, scanning the elegant script. “Looks like we have a mud bath next, followed by the hot springs and a salt scrub.” I looked up at him with a sweetly venomous smile. “Doesn’t that sound delightful?”

His glare could have curdled milk. “I’ll pass on that, too.”

“Oh, no you won’t.” I grabbed my robe and slipped it on. “I’m not having you stand there glaring at me while I try to relax. You can either participate or get out.”

“Those aren’t the only options.”

“They are if you want to maintain our cover.” I yanked the sash tight around my waist. “The Spire expects us to be on our honeymoon. What kind of newlywed husband refuses to join his bride in a mud bath?”

His jaw worked, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “Fine.”

“Great.” I headed for the door, not bothering to check if he was following. “Let’s go roll in some cursed bog essence.”

The mud bath was located in a cavernous room dominated by a large pool of black scented mud. The attendant—yet another cult robe–wearing enthusiast—explained the mud was harvested from the shores of the Lake of Eternal Torment and contained rare minerals that drew toxins from the body.

“It also exfoliates!” she added brightly.

Kazimir looked like he was contemplating murder, but he dutifully removed his clothes once the attendant left. I absolutely did not watch. I definitely didn’t notice the faint violet glow from the scars on his chest, or how the mud barely rippled when he lowered himself into it.

“Are you going to sulk the entire time?” I asked as we settled on opposite sides of the pool. The mud was surprisingly warm and tingled against my skin in a not-unpleasant way.

“Probably.”

We glared at each other across the pool of mud. I was aware of how ridiculous we must look—two powerful sorcerers having a marital spat while covered in magical mud—but I couldn’t bring myself to care.

“Are there any other Syndicate members in residence?” I asked, changing the subject before I said something I’d regret.

Kazimir seemed relieved at the shift. “Not currently, but that means nothing. The Alchemist plays every angle.” He shifted in the mud, grimacing. “This feels like being slowly digested.”

“That’s probably what’s happening.” I sighed, sinking deeper into the pool. The mud made a soft glorp as I shifted position. “Griffin and Sebastian made it back okay last night.”

“I’m aware.” Kazimir’s voice was flat.

I counted to five, reminding myself that we were supposed to be maintaining appearances. “Griffin had a bump on his head. I healed it this morning.”

That got a reaction—Kazimir’s eyes snapped to mine. “What happened?”

“Some amateur tried a demon summoning outside the Gallows. Griffin attempted to help.” I examined my mud-covered fingernails with exaggerated interest. “Apparently, his advice was correct, but the summoner didn’t listen. There was an explosion.”

“Of course there was.” Kaz shook his head. “Was Sebastian with him?”

“They ran into each other afterward. Sebastian seemed fine—a bit embarrassed about something, but fine.” I paused. “Why?”

“Just making sure Griffin followed orders.” I didn’t even need my truth-sense to detect that lie but was too annoyed to push for an explanation.

The mud bath was followed by a visit to the hot springs—a series of pools carved into the bones of the Spire. We sat in separate pools, steam rising between us, pretending the other didn’t exist while being excruciatingly aware of every movement.

Kazimir remained stoic throughout, participating in each treatment with the enthusiasm of a man facing execution. But his shadows kept twitching at the edges of my vision, and sometimes I would catch a dark expression on his face that went beyond murderous and into more volatile territory. The salt scrub that followed—performed by sentient loofahs—at least had the benefit of making him wince when they attacked a particularly sensitive spot.

Small victories.

The final treatment was the most awkward—a steam room where we were expected to sit naked and sweat out more “toxins.” I peered down at my pruned fingers, then at the steam rising around us. After the mud digestion, the volcanic rocks, and the enchanted loofah assault, I was fairly certain if there were any toxins left, they were hiding in some very stubborn corners of my anatomy.

Before leaving, the attendant assured us the steam was infused with rare herbs that promoted “marital harmony and fertility,” which made Kazimir’s scowl deepen to previously uncharted depths.