Page 170 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

Ark groaned against her skin, and then he was spilling into her with a ferocity that tipped her over the edge again. He held her flush to him, buried as deep as he could go, while the world fell away.

He collapsed over her slowly, careful even in his exhaustion, gathering her into his arms. One hand trembled as it brushed hair from her damp cheek, his thumb catching the remnants of her tears.

But she was smiling.

And he kissed that smile. Like it was everything.

Later, as she lay in his arms, her cheek against his beating heart, she whispered quietly, “Do you ever think about how we almost didn’t happen?”

Ark’s chest rumbled with a soft, dismissive sound. “No. It’s a pointless exercise. And I don’t like thinking about devastating things.”

She smiled against his skin. “It started as a transaction.”

“It started,” he corrected, his voice a low rumble beneath her ear, “as the most consequential decision of my life.”

She grew quiet for a moment, her fingers tracing a faint, silvery line on his chest. “And you don’t . . . regret it? Any of this?”

He shifted then, tilting her chin up so she had to meet his gaze. His eyes, ancient gold in the dim light, were utterly serious. “Regret?” He said it like the word was foreign. “Not a single moment. Not one.”

She traced a slow line down his chest. “You know, when I imagined my future, I never pictured a demon lord who doubles as an exorcist and artifact hunter at night.”

He chuckled and caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “And I never pictured a Kitchen Witch who’d make me want to be a better man.”

She snorted. “That’s a lot of pressure.”

“Good. I’ve never been good at small commitments.”

She smiled and kissed his chest. A beat of quiet.

Then Ark exhaled. “Talking about being a better man . . .” He turned on his side, propping himself on his elbow to look at her. “I’ve decided something.”

She tilted her head, looking up at him.

“I’m taking my seat on the Regency Council.”

Cassia stilled. He wasn’t just the demon who loved her now. He was something more—a player stepping onto a board he’d avoided for most of his adult life.

“My father needs someone at that table who isn’t jockeying for factional power,” he continued, his gaze fixed on her. “Someone who remembers the point of unity was to protect the vulnerable, not consolidate power.” He hesitated, the mask of the cynical outsider falling away to reveal the resolute core beneath. “It’s time I stopped watching from the shadows and started building something that lasts.”

“For someone known for breaking rules,” she murmured, “you might be the only one who can remind them of their original purpose.”

He offered a fleeting smile. “Alderrath was a symptom. There are other vipers in the grass.” His eyes grew intent, the gold flecks seeming to burn. “When I look at you—at the children—I see what I’m actually fighting for. I’ve been selfish, hiding in my own solitude. I want a hand in shaping the world they’ll inherit.”

Something swelled behind Cassia’s ribs—fear and fierce pride tangled together.

“What do you think?” he asked, his voice softening.

She reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his, anchoring herself to his warmth.

“Go,” she told him. “Be the firebrand. Shake their marble halls. But just remember: always come back to me.”

“Starling,” he said, and kissed her forehead. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

43

CASSIA

Yulefrost night had settled over the Varil estate. Cassia stood by the drawing room window, a cup of tea cradled in her hands, watching pale flurries catch in the corners of the high-paned glass. Along the eaves, lanterns swayed—glowing spheres enchanted to shimmer.