Page 59 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

“Oh—yes. That’s Anuck,” Cassia replied. A beat later, she added, “You’re not allergic, are you?”

“No.” But he had an inkling she would’ve kicked him out if he’d said yes.

“He’s very friendly.”

Ark glanced toward the hearth where the cat lay sprawled like a self-crowned king, one paw folded under its chest. With those narrow-slitted eyes still trained on him, ‘friendly’ wasn’t quite the word he’d use.

Calculating, maybe.

Judgmental, certainly.

Possibly ancient and semi-divine.

Without taking his eyes off the cat, he asked, “Have you had him for long?”

“A decade or so?” Cassia emerged from the kitchen with two mugs in her hands and a small box tucked under her arm. “My mother found him one night in the alley behind the bakery, half-starved and badly injured, like he’d picked a fight with the wrong tom. She brought him home, patched him up, and he never left.”

Ark watched the cat, who had closed its eyes and begun purring. “I see.”

Cassia handed him a mug, steam curling between them. He caught the scent—familiar, calming. Chamomile, maybe orange peel, with a hint of ginger.

Across the room, Anuck had reopened his eyes. Those yellow orbs gleamed in the firelight—unblinking, unsettling, like he was waiting for Ark to flinch. Or leave.

“I think your cat is sizing me up,” Ark said. “And I’m not entirely sure he doesn’t speak ancient Daemaric.”

Cassia let out a low laugh. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” he murmured, still eyeing the feline cautiously.

Anuck blinked once. Slowly, like punctuation.

Ark took a sip of the tea, trying to shake the feeling of having been quietly assessed and found severely wanting by a higher being. He made a mental note to look into old familiars, just in case.

Cassia sat beside him, closer now, the firelight painting soft gold across her features. “Your hand, please.”

Ark slowly tugged off his glove.

She looked at it and sucked in a sharp breath. “Gods, Ark.”

Blood streaked his palm, both dried and fresh, the wounds raw and angry. Red welts curved in a tight constellation across the pads of his fingers and the heel of his hand, swollen where the skin had broken and re-formed.

“Now I see why you kept your gloves on,” she said.

“I didn’t want to add one more grotesque element to the evening.”

Cassia didn’t reply, just reached for the small wooden box she’d set on the side table. She uncorked a small pot of salve and dipped two fingers into the thick balm. When she touched him, just the barest brush of her fingertips across his skin, Ark felt the jolt like a lightning bolt through him.

She inched closer, eyes trained on the injury, brow slightly furrowed. A strand of hair fell from her updo, brushing his knuckles. His uninjured hand twitched against the armrest, a reflex so sharp he had to clench his jaw to keep himself still.

The contract had included her terms, and he’d agreed to every one. He was not to touch her—but she’d said nothing about herself. Her thumb traced the edge of a blister, feather-light, and his breath caught. He felt her pulse through her fingertips, or was that his own, hammering back at her? She had no idea what she was doing to him. No idea that every brush of her skin was a small, exquisite devastation. That the loose curl drifting against his hand was a torment he couldn’t answer.

His entire body was a held breath, straining against the single, immovable truth of their bargain: She could touch him. She was touching him.

And he could do nothing but sit there and feel every second of it.

The injustice of it was almost funny. He could smother light and bend shadow to his will—and here he sat, undone by a Kitchen Witch with chamomile on her breath and gentle hands. Bound by a promise he’d made freely and would not break, even as every instinct screamed to turn his palm, lace his fingers through hers, and pull her close enough to feel her heartbeat against his.

“You’re lucky it didn’t get infected,” she murmured, her breath grazing his knuckles. “When did this happen?”