Page 37 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

Opalina said, “Start with his name.”

Cassia shifted, glancing at the door as if debating whether she could make a run for it. She couldn’t, Lilibeth had blocked the door.

“He’s . . . Varil Arkenoth.”

Opalina went utterly still. Lilibeth blinked, then blinked again.

“. . . The Varil Arkenoth?” Opalina’s voice remained steady, but Cassia could see the wariness creeping in.

“The Daemar’s son? The infamous Idle Prince? The Reluctant Heir? That Varil Arkenoth?” Lilibeth added.

Cassia sighed. “Yes, him.”

Lilibeth let out a strangled gasp and seized Cassia’s chin, turning her face from side to side. Then she grabbed Cassia’s wrists, inspecting her skin. “Wait—where’s the mark? Is there a mark?”

When Lilibeth reached for her breasts, Cassia jerked back. “Goddess above, Lili, what are you doing?”

“Demons mark their Chosen, you know.”

Cassia’s cheeks burned and she swatted Lilibeth’s hands away. “There is no mark.” She clutched the front of her cardigan, keeping it closed. “Because it’s not real.”

That silenced them.

“We met the night I went looking for Agmon Alderrath—at The Ivory Club.” She exhaled. “Alderrath refused me. Arkenoth saw everything and followed me out.”

Opalina’s gaze sharpened. “He offered you a deal, didn’t he? Saving Starlight in exchange for pretending to be engaged to him.”

Cassia stared at her. “How did you⁠—”

“It’s not a difficult stitch to follow, Cass. His friend just called you his Chosen in front of your entire bakery.”

Cassia swallowed and leaned against the wall. “Something like that.”

Lilibeth groaned. “And why, exactly, does the Daemar’s son need a fake engagement?”

Cassia hesitated. “To avoid his mother’s matchmaking scheme. I am to go to her Yulefrost ball as his Chosen.”

Opalina’s brows lifted. “So, you’ll show up with him at Varil Delphyne’s ball—the biggest, most anticipated event in demon high society—and that’s it? One night, and he’ll snatch Starlight back from Agmon Alderrath’s clutches?”

Cassia bit her lip. “One night, and . . . from now until the Yulefrost ball to craft the illusion of a couple.”

Lilibeth’s expression shifted—her usual playfulness replaced with something alarmed. “Cassia, that’s two weeks!”

“That’s not even long⁠—”

“A lot can happen in two weeks!” Lilibeth’s voice dipped lower. “One night is one thing, but two weeks of pretending? Two weeks of dinners and walks and looks?” She shook her head. “After last time, you swore you wouldn’t fall for another arrogant, bloodline-obsessed bigot.”

Cassia flinched. The wound still ached, no matter how much time had passed. The words still echoed in her ears: ‘There’s only one thing an Untethered witch is good for.’

She flung the memory away. It was a cold slap, but she refused to let it linger. Arkenoth had seen her magic, her defiance, her orphanage. He had never once made her feel lesser for what she was. That alone set him apart from every man who had looked at her and seen only her blood.

Or lack of it.

She swallowed the old hurt and met Lilibeth’s eyes. “This is different.”

“Different how?”

“I have no illusion of romance this time.”