Page 62 of The Dragon and the Dove

‘I did say the mead tasted shitty.’ A familiar voice rippled too close to her ear.

Val froze with her head in the vase.

Fuck.

‘No need to be embarrassed, kitten. You weren’t sober on the dance floor of Marvale either.’

She lifted her head. Even without the low growl of his voice, she would have known Caruso Dantes anywhere.

That towering frame was hard to mistake; the wide heft of his shoulders and impressive swell of his biceps, those long powerful legs and huge hands all hinted at the predator within. Then there was the short black hair webbed with a unique constellation of scars. Once, when she was drunk off her ass, he’d let her trace them.

And, of course, there was that slow-curling smirk.

That damn smirk.

Ignoring the dangerous murderer standing two feet away, Val snatched a napkin from a nearby server and daintily dabbed the sides of her mouth.

He watched her all the while, those searing blue eyes never blinking.

Caruso was a born killer, and he didn’t care who knew it. Barely a month ago, they’d journeyed across Valterre together. Drank and danced well past midnight, played cards and surrendered coin, killed and buried a man, even talked long into the night at Marvale, trading dark secrets and whispered dreams, like they weren’t enemies. Or even allies.

But … friends.

Despite her better judgement, Val had grown to like the unpredictable Dagger. Hopelessly drunk in the Paramour Inn of Marvale, she’d even fallen asleep in his arms, drooled all over his shoulder and lived to tell the tale.

Then it had all gone to hell at the Summer Palace. Bibi had died and Val had escaped. Caruso had stayed, staking his loyalty to Andreas and forsaking his promise to Ransom.

All for the lure of power.

Traitorous bastard.

She’d hated how much it had surprised her. How she’d walked the streets of Old Haven on the nights that came after, hoping he’d show up, hat in hand.

Pathetic.

She didn’t need to be the Saint of Truth to know that. Caruso had always been a selfish prick, remorseless to the last and smug as all hell. Lethal. Especially here, in his wolf’s mask.

An apt costume.

Those icy eyes missing nothing. He was looking at Val the way a wolf sized up its prey, and grinning like he was looking forward to devouring it.

‘Hello, Valerie.’

‘Caruso.’ She could admit, at least to herself, that some primal, reckless part of her was going to enjoy this. ‘Of all the ballrooms in all the world …’

He hitched a dark brow. ‘Miss me?’

‘Like a violent hangover.’

Instead of sounding the alarm, or dragging her out of here by her hair, he dug his hands into his pockets and said, without a breath of urgency, ‘What brings you here?’

‘I fancied a dance.’

‘You are good at those.’

Truth, whispered the old voice.

Her eyes flashed gold again.