Page 129 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

“Not until you tell me what you’re so afraid of!” he shot back, his own control fraying. She’d never heard him shout before, and she couldn’t bear the sound. “I am not your enemy, Cassia! Why are you treating me like one?”

She was gasping, crying in earnest now, her carefully constructed resolve in tatters at her feet. He stood before her—angry and desperate, trying to understand a war she’d declared without explanation.

He saw her breaking. He saw it, and his expression softened into something agonized. “Please,” he whispered, the word a raw plea. “Whatever it is, I can take it. Just . . . don’t lie to me.”

It was the ‘please’ that broke her. The vulnerability from a demon who showed it to no one but her. She was hurting him, and he was asking for the truth as a mercy. She looked at him, at the man who had seen every part of her and chosen to stay. The man she was doing this for. She thought of Delphyne. Of the oath. Of the way Ark had looked at her last night—like she was something he wanted to keep.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, her tears sliding down to her chin. When she felt strong enough to speak, her voice was a broken thing, barely audible.

“You need to see your father.”

The silence that followed was absolute. The air itself seemed to still. She’d chosen her words as carefully as she could, but she didn’t know how unforgiving the Daemaris’s magic would be. She braced for the oath’s teeth, for the sear of power punishing her betrayal. For a jagged blade to puncture her heart, or lightning to strike her dead on the spot.

But she kept breathing. Her heart kept beating. No pain. No blood. Only the terrible silence, and Ark, staring at her. All the frustration, the confusion, the desperate questions on his face melted away, leaving behind a terrifying blankness.

Understanding dawned in his eyes. Slow, and then all at once, horrifying and complete. The colour drained from his face. He staggered back.

“My father,” he breathed. It wasn’t a question. It was the final, terrible piece clicking into place. She could see his mind racing, recontextualizing everything. He was putting it all together, and she could only stand there, exposed and raw, waiting for the blowback.

“Cassia,” he whispered. “What did you see?”

She shook her head, her vision blurring. “I can’t tell you why,” she said, her voice breaking. “But I need you to trust me. Please. Just go.”

He stared at her, searching her face. She could see him wanting to press, wanting to demand more—but something in her expression must have stopped him.

With a shuddering breath, she stepped close and placed her palm against his cheek. He flinched but didn’t pull away. She wished she could tell him the truth—that she was trying to do right by him the only way she knew how. But the truth would also bind her closer to him.

And that was something neither of them could afford.

So she looked at Ark, her hand still against his cheek, her thumb brushing just beneath his eye.

“You need to be with him,” she said softly. “Before it’s too late.”

32

ARK

He knew she was lying the moment she told him it was over. Cassia was many things, but she wasn’t a liar. Her truth lived too close to the surface, and that made it worse.

Because whatever she was hiding, it was terrible enough for her to burn everything between them. Sharp enough to turn her words into small blades, even at her own expense. He didn’t believe a word of it, but he’d seen the look in her eyes when she told him to see his father. Old grief. Empathy. Anguish.

That was all he needed.

He cleaned up and dressed quickly, barely aware of his movements. His hands moved like they were underwater, his heartbeat in his throat. Shirt. Trousers. Boots. Coat.

When he reached the door, he stopped and looked back, finding her in the centre of the room—dress still askew, a figure carved from silence.

“Stay as long as you want,” he told her. “Take whatever you need.”

And then he left, because whatever this was, it wasn’t something she’d let him solve by staying.

He took the car and sped toward his parents’ estate. The city fell away—glass, stone, frostbitten trees blurring past—until the black iron gates loomed ahead. The guards recognized him, let him through without question, though their brows lifted at the sight of him behind the wheel.

The estate was in motion. Servants hurried across the lawn, collecting ribbons and spent lanterns. Crystal shards were swept into neat piles. Someone shouted orders about empty wine bottles. Florists in thick gloves carried urns back to the terrace, their breaths misting in the cold. It was the lively chaos of post-ball cleanup, seemingly ordinary.

Ark didn’t slow down. He skidded to a stop in front of the grand steps, gravel flying. His father’s butler, Orlen, was already at the door, blocking the entrance as if the guards at the gate had called ahead.

“My lord. We didn’t receive word that you were coming⁠—”