Page 120 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

Cassia sat down on a wooden bench, let her shoulders fall back, and closed her eyes.

She had come here as a Kitchen Witch on the fringes of society. And now she had danced with a demon lord, exchanged barbs with his mother, and held her own.

It felt ridiculous. Wonderfully so. A laugh slipped out—soft, startled, breaking the hush.

A male voice answered, low and rough. “Delphyne?”

Cassia froze.

“Delphyne . . . is that you?”

Soundlessly, she rose and stepped forward, skirting a sprawling potted palm with fronds like lacquered fans. As she rounded it, she caught sight of a wheelchair—and a man in it.

He sat reclined among pale orchids and climbing jasmine, plush blankets draped over his lap. His horns curved back from his temples—sleek, ridged, mirroring Ark’s—with two smaller ones branching from the sides, a mark of advanced power. Silver-streaked black hair fell across a furrowed brow. His posture was composed, but not effortless; every breath seemed hard-earned, clawed fingers curled around the armrests.

Cassia’s gaze caught on the slant of his cheekbones. The set of his mouth—hard and soft all at once, as if humour and disdain lived side by side. The same quiet gravity.

This demon—frailer, older, broken in ways Ark hadn’t yet been—was the Daemar.

Ark’s father.

29

CASSIA

Cassia replied softly, “The Daemaris isn’t here. I’m sorry.”

His lids lifted with a slowness that spoke of immense effort. Golden eyes met hers, their legendary sharpness dulled by a film of fatigue and pain, yet still unnervingly steady.

“You’ve found your way into a private retreat,” he observed, his voice a dry rasp. “The staff knows better than to disturb me.” His gaze narrowed. “But you are not staff.”

“No,” she swallowed, but she dared a step forward. “I’m one of the guests. Pardon me, I didn’t mean to intrude.”

A pause. Then, with dry detachment: “Guests at my mate’s events rarely seek quiet corners. They thrive in the glare. Are you certain you belong here?”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Frankly, I wonder the same thing.” She took a step closer. “Arkenoth brought me.”

His eyes flickered. “My son did?”

She nodded. Another pause.

“Then, do sit down,” he said. It wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t unkind either.

She moved to a nearby bench—not directly across, but angled, respectful. Only then did he shift, just slightly, but the motion cost him. His breath caught, sharp and deep with pain.

Cassia’s instincts surged.

“Can I help?” she asked, already rising. His brow rose slightly. “I’m a Kitchen Witch. I know a few things about healing.” Her eyes swept the planters. “There are some herbs I could steep into a tonic. It might take the edge off.”

He didn’t answer, but after a breath, he lifted the cup from the small table beside him and extended it toward her. Cassia took it, her hands falling into the familiar rhythm of a Kitchen Witch—knowing, sure. She plucked a few leaves, drew water from the air, held the cup to the small runic heater by his feet until it hummed with warmth. The steam rose fragrant with bitter zest and herbs—simple, honest comfort.

When she handed it back, the Daemar took it in unsteady hands and sipped.

Another beat.

“You know pain,” he said at last, leaning back.

“Enough to know how to ease it,” she replied softly. “Just a little.”