Page 12 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

She glanced up at him. “I assume Agmon Alderrath won’t be pleased about this arrangement.”

Arkenoth smirked. “An added advantage.”

“Aren’t you two . . . friends?”

He rolled his eyes. “Hardly.”

“But you were at The Ivory Club together.”

“Alderrath is ambitious. He tries to use people to his advantage, but we are not friends. In fact, I imagine our engagement will be particularly irksome to him.”

His tone—casual, almost flippant—made her pause. “And that’s part of your reason, isn’t it?”

His eyes gleamed. “Alderrath wants me mated to his sister. He believes the union will ensure his family’s control over demon society in the decades to come.”

He sipped his lemon water again, as if the entire thing were a minor inconvenience rather than a calculated attempt at political maneuvering. “Disrupting his plans is an added benefit, and an absolute joy.”

Her eyes raked over him, searching for some sign of deception, some indication she was walking into a far greater trap than she realized. But all she found was patience. A quiet, knowing patience. As if he had already guessed her answer before she’d even spoken it, and was contentedly waiting for her to resign herself to it.

“Only one night?” she asked.

“One night.” Then, he added, “Plus a few appearances over the coming two weeks to set the stage.”

Her fingers curled around her cup. It wouldn’t be a single evening but a sustained performance, one that would require her to step into his world again and again. To be seen with him. To make herself the subject of gossip, the object of condescension.

This was the moment. The precipice. On one side, the certain loss of the orphanage she loved and the children’s future. On the other, a pact with a creature of immense, unknown power. He was either the saviour who would demand a terrifying price, or the final, elegant disaster that would finish what Alderrath had started.

But he would be a disaster she could utilize. A disaster that, for the first time, gave her a weapon—even if she didn’t yet know how to wield it.

“Fine,” she said, the word feeling heavier than any she had ever spoken. “I’ll do it. But I have conditions.”

Arkenoth leaned back and waited, as if he’d expected nothing less.

“This is a performance,” she told him. “Nothing more. You don’t touch me without my permission. When the ball is over, we walk away clean—no debts, no obligations, no strings attached.” She held his gaze. “Are we clear?”

His expression changed—not with amusement or even irritation, but something closer to respect.

“Crystal,” he said.

She sat back. “Then, Varil Arkenoth, I accept your bargain.”

As the words left her lips, the air in the teahouse shimmered. For a heartbeat, she felt a faint pull deep in her chest—like an invisible thread had just been tied to her core, a stake plunged deep. Their agreement was magically sealed. Her conditions, his terms, all of it bound together.

Arkenoth’s eyes glinted as he nodded. “A pleasure doing business with you, Miss Aura.”

He drew an antique gold pocket watch from his waistcoat, a frown appearing as he glanced at it, and moved to rise.

“Not so fast,” Cassia said.

He stopped.

She leaned forward, holding his gaze. “You have my word, bound to my magic. That’s no small thing for a witch. What do I have of yours?”

His lips twitched. Without a word, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and produced a small, silver-handled penknife. With one smooth move, he severed a lock of hair from his temple and laid it on the white linen tablecloth between them. It was jet black, but in the teahouse’s warm light, it held a coppery gleam.

“A token of my sincerity,” he said. “Is this sufficient collateral?”

Cassia picked it up. It was softer than she expected, and surprisingly warm. She could feel the hum of his magic emanating from it. She tucked the lock safely into the small, inner pocket of her coat, right over her heart.