Page 50 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

She smoothed her skirt and lifted her chin, offering a serene, practiced smile to no one in particular. She hadn’t grown up in the polished circles of Angelene, but she had spent enough time being on the outside looking in to know how to look like she belonged.

Once menus were placed and glasses of chilled rosewine poured, Cassia leaned in and whispered, “So, how many people here are already wondering if I’m blackmailing you?”

Ark didn’t even blink. “Only the ones who don’t know me well.” He briefly paused. “Which is most of them.”

She lifted a brow. “And the rest?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned in his chair and leaned toward her, narrowing the space between them. The polite, presentable distance expected of a couple dining in public quietly dissolved.

Cassia’s heart skipped.

He inched closer, his lips a hair’s breadth away from her ear. “They’re wondering how quickly I’ll ruin you.”

His breath warmed her skin and the shiver rose before she could stop it, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she smiled—a confident, practiced thing. The smile of a woman who belonged at his side, who had nothing to prove because the story had already been written in her favour.

Even if it was all a performance.

He stayed close, and when he spoke again, his voice was a velvet whisper, soft and enticing. “Shall we order?”

A quiver traced up Cassia’s spine as she marveled at how even the simplest words could sound so indecent when dipped in his husky tone. She tilted her face just enough, her cheek a hair’s breadth away from his.

“I’m not familiar with their specialties.”

He hummed in response. “The pigeon, braised in a rich winterberry sauce, is quite the highlight here. Arguably the best dish on their menu.”

“. . . Pigeon?” Her voice was a soft echo of his intimate whisper.

“Mm-hmm.”

To anyone watching, he’d look like an ardent suitor whispering secrets meant only for the dark—his lips nearly brushing the curve of her ear, his breath warm on her cheek. But instead of promises or pleas, he was describing . . . poultry.

She turned her head slightly, her eyes locking with his. Too close. Too intense. “You really know how to charm a woman, don’t you?”

His smile was faint, alluringly enigmatic. “Wait until you hear the wine pairing.” A pause. His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. “Are you allergic to anything?”

“Only to bad food.” She paused, a playful glint in her eyes. “And dreadful company.”

“And how do I rate? When it comes to company?”

“Consider yourself tolerated.”

His chuckle was low and rich, resonating with warmth. Gently, he lifted his hand. His gloved fingers hovered near her jaw—close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from them, but he never made contact. She wondered why he was still wearing them. They had been inside for a while, and everyone else had long since removed their gloves. But his remained, as if he needed the barrier.

For a moment, something flickered in his golden eyes, something raw and unguarded. Then, his hand stilled. Slowly, deliberately, he let it fall.

“I will endeavour to not disappoint, then,” he murmured, his voice a soft caress.

She straightened slightly, putting a subtle distance between them as she cleared her throat. “See that you don’t.”

They ordered.

Moments later, the first course arrived: a delicate tartlet of caramelized endive and soft cheese, garnished with candied orange peel and slivers of cured ham, arranged in such a way that the elements were stacked on top of each other. It looked like something made for admiration, not eating.

Cassia stared at it, then at Ark. “You know this isn’t food. This is a sculpture.”

He didn’t so much as blink. “I was assured it was edible.”

She took a careful bite. The flavours were a precise, intricate dance—bitter endive, sweet orange, salty ham. Across from her, Ark’s fork remained untouched beside his plate.