Chapter 27

TWENTY-SEVEN

Tempest

She had no words when she saw the dress laid out on her bed, waiting for her. Tempest stared at the garment, then at Nyx, then back at the dress again.

"This is—wow, Nyx. Thank you."

"Don't thank me," she replied, an amused glint in her eye as she handed Tempest something she very much recognized—an elaborate, bone-white wolf mask. "This was all my brother's doing. Do you need any help getting dressed or would you prefer to be left alone?"

"Alone," Tempest said, a few seconds too late, so absorbed in the idea that Pyre had picked such an unearthly beautiful dress for her to hear the question properly. Nyx squeezed her shoulder and exited, the door closing quietly behind her.

It was stunning.

The dress she'd been given to wear to her Hound coronation ceremony had been elaborate, but it did not hold a candle to the work of art gracing her bed.

It was sleeveless, with a tight bodice and a flowing, feathery, voluminous skirt that split down the front and would trail behind her for several feet. It was made of layers and layers of impossibly light, translucent blue and silver material. The bodice itself was constructed of dozens of interlocking snowflakes and was cut low in the back. Beside it was a pair of silken hose and a formal pair of snow-white boots.

Feminine and fierce.

It was too beautiful.

She ran her fingers along the fabric. To wear such a dress required more than putting it on. Tempest strolled to the vanity and sat. She cleansed her skin, the perfumed water causing her skin to tingle. She applied salve beneath her eyes that made her seem dewy and alert. Carefully, she used some silver from a pot to line her eyes and flutter through her eyelashes. It wasn't anything like the court fashions, but it was her.

Once finished, she unwove her braid and brushed her long hair, the waves tumbling along her shoulders. Tonight, her hair was her crown jewel of beauty. She'd not hide who she was. She pulled pieces up here and there, and finally decided to implement a series of small and thickly woven braids at the crown of her head, leaving the bulk of it to flow free and wavy down her back, and a few pieces to frame her face.

She glanced at the balcony. Someone had been in her room earlier to add new fuel to the lanterns, but they had also strung garlands of tiny snowdrops and bluebells across the balcony. Wandering over, Tempest plucked a few of the flowers and returned to the mirror, threading them into the braids. That would have to do .

Standing, she moved back to the end of the bed and eyed the dress. How in the blazes was she supposed to get it on?

You should have accepted Nyx's help.

Quickly, she shucked her clothing and slipped on the painted hose. Winter's bite, they were soft and comfortable. If only it were acceptable for her to wear them all the time. Her uncles had vetoed the garment years ago, claiming them to be indecent on a woman. Eyeing the mirror, she understood why. They clung to her every curve.

Next, she stepped into the gown, which was easy enough, but lacing the back was a bloody nightmare. It was only with some clever finger work—and constant glances in the mirror—that she managed to secure the dress in place.

When she caught her reflection, she hardly recognized herself. A creature of snow, ice, and liquid silver stared back at her.

"That is… really me," she breathed, touching the glass with her fingertips. The kitsune had done well. While the gown was the loveliest thing she'd ever beheld, it was also practical. The split at the front of the skirt made movement easy and gave glimpses of her painted hose. The boots felt like butter and hugged her calves and knees. There'd be no pinched toes or twisted ankles tonight from impractical shoes. A huge smile graced her face as she discovered hidden pockets with slits. The perfect way to keep her daggers on her.

Pyre had thought of everything, that sly bastard.

That was when she noticed the pair of elbow-length, delicately embroidered lace gloves that were also set on the bed for her, as well as a plain white box that sat next to the mask. While the gloves were pretty, they were not practical. If a situation went south, she did not want anything to restrict her movement.

She moved to the bed, her dress rustling softly. With care, she opened the box and blinked. It was a silver choker adorned with opals, diamonds, and sapphires. She blinked again. How did he come by something so fine? It rivaled anything she'd seen worn in court, even the jewels the king had gifted Temp. Her fingers shook as she pulled it from the box and clasped it around her neck, the cool metal embracing her skin.

Next came her weapons. A garrote hidden in a bracelet Dima had gifted her when she'd won her first match against him. Poisoned hairpins from Aleks that he'd given Tempest when she'd managed to discern the top ten most deadly poisons in Heimserya. And finally, the daggers Maxim brought back for her when he'd returned from a trip to the Fire Isles. She strapped them to her thighs and hid one in each boot.

Feeling a bit more like herself, she reached for the final item.

"And now it's just the mask," she whispered, picking up the beautiful wolf mask and inspecting it. The mask was made of porcelain or something similar. It was fragile and liable to shatter, but that only made it more precious. With gentle fingers, she tied the silver ribbon of the mask around her head and hid it beneath her braids, so that it looked as if the mask was sitting on her face unaided.

She faced the mirror and studied her reflection. A warrior princess stared back at her. She spun on the spot, testing how much movement she had in the skirt, and was surprised further by how easy it was to move in the dress. The bodice was tight, but not rib-crushing like the dress she had worn at Destin's request. This was the kind of dress she could easily fight in, regardless of the several feet of feathery material trailing behind her.

Her gaze trailed to the necklace. It looked… like a collar. Tempest huffed. The Jester couldn't be trusted to be generous in everything.

Time to go.

She pulled open the door and half-expected Pyre to jump out at her, but no one was there. Tempest ran her hands down the skirt and then lifted her chin. Now was not the time to be self-conscious.

The corridors leading to the masquerade ball teemed with people. She ignored their stares as she worked through the crowd and entered the ballroom. While the masks hid everyone's identity, her hair gave her away. Masks swam before her gaze—swans, snakes, lions, dragons, cats and…

A kitsune.

The unmistakable figure of Pyre, dressed in the resplendent, deep claret outfit Tempest had initially seen him trying on weeks ago in his cave in the forest. His golden fox mask covered the top part of his face, and he paused as he caught sight of her, his goblet of wine hovering near his lips in his hand. A slow smile curved his lips, and his amber eyes seemed to glow behind his mask. Her steps slowed, and her heart beat a little faster.

Calm down.

He set his goblet down on a nearby table and excused himself from his company, the crowd parting for him as he made his way over to her. She took his arm when he proffered it to her, eyeing his costume and then her own. The color gradient they made together—white to silver to blue to lilac, to claret to crimson to gold—it became clear to Tempest why the Jester had picked this specific dress for her to wear.

"You are a vision," he murmured into her ear, a mischievous look on his face that told Tempest he very much enjoyed the attention they were gathering.

"Will I ruin the vision if I open my mouth to speak?" she asked, feeling just as mischievous as Pyre himself. There was something infectious about the night, and her dress, and the masked ball-goers, that made Tempest feel distinctly like another person.

You're not. Get yourself together. Focus on allies.

Pyre snickered, his lips touching the shell of her ear. "That entirely depends on what you say, Tempest."

He led her farther into the masquerade hall, which was full of elaborately dressed people, strange masks, and heartbreakingly beautiful music played by a string quartet on a central plinth. Soft lantern light glittered off decorations all around the vast, cavernous hall, from silvered candlesticks, crystal chandeliers, and ensconced torches alike.

There were spices on the air—vanilla and cinnamon and something floral beneath them—that Tempest eagerly breathed in. When a passing servant handed her a spindly glass filled with a pale gold, sparkling liquid, she gladly accepted, if only to do something with her hands. Drinking was not on her list of things to do. She needed her wits about her.

"Why am I a wolf?" she asked Pyre as they circled about the room, stopping here and there for him to say his hellos and to introduce Tempest to the guests she had not met before.

"Is it not obvious?"

"True," she murmured, taking a delicate sip of her champagne. A wolf mask was a fitting symbol of her status as Hound. A wolf among sheep. "But you always have an alternate reason."

He shrugged. "The mask has been in my possession for a while. When I met you—the first time I met you in the tavern—I thought your face was perfect for it. I cannot really explain it; but it was meant for you."

"I'm sure Brine won't appreciate the dog being a wolf for the night," she remarked with a wry grin.

"Oh, you and I both know that he likes you more than he lets on." Pyre chuckled. "You're a part of his pack now whether he'll admit it or not."

A flicker of guilt licked Tempest's stomach, and she was reminded of her actual goal for the evening. She had to work out who might rally behind her… and tell Pyre about her intention to marry King Destin. Though she had convinced herself before that he could find out second hand, now that she was level-headed and no longer sick, she knew it wasn't the right decision. Pyre might be sneaky and underhanded, but she couldn't be that way. Even to him.

She allowed Pyre to essentially show her off to all the factions, using the introductions as an opportunity to put names to voices and masks. But, as they wandered, her skin began to prickle. It felt like her time was short.

"What is it?" he asked after almost an hour of snatched conversations and throwaway comments.

She shook her slightly. "I… Pyre, you told me this masquerade was about securing support. About maintaining goodwill between factions for the war."

He cocked his head to one side. "Your point being?"

"It seems as if everyone is already prepared for war," she said, waving around them. "Everyone is behind you—that was clear as day to me. There is no support to gather. They're all… ready."

"Dance with me," he murmured, pulling her toward the dance floor before she had the chance to refuse.

"You really are like two completely different people," she said, studying his jaw as he took one of her hands in his. She gingerly placed her other hand on his shoulder. When he slid a hand around her waist to the small of her back, Tempest shivered in an entirely pleasant way. Rot it.

Pyre's fingers roamed just a little higher up her back, a knowing smile on his lips, clearly enjoying her reaction. "I could say the same about you, you know," he replied as they began dancing, quickly becoming one with the rhythm of the music. Tempest had never been one for dancing before, but it always came naturally. She chalked it up to swordplay. It was essentially the same thing. Except for the killing.

"I am not literally two people though, am I?" she countered, raising an eyebrow that Pyre could not see behind her mask.

He laughed easily. "I suppose not. But still; when you fly into a rage you are rather different than your usual self, Temp."

"What can I say? You bring out the best in me."

"I can think of a far better way to channel that energy than merely fighting ," he said, his tone dripping with insinuation, before his lips caressed her skin. For a moment, she closed her eyes, and a small sigh caught in her throat. This was the banter she remembered, the Pyre she had grown to like, and thought was her friend.

This Pyre isn't real.

She stiffened, and her eyes snapped open; the magic broken. Dancing with him like this was a mistake. Flirting with him was dangerous. He'd already proven he couldn't be trusted to tell the truth, nor not to hurt her. If she let herself, she could lose everything to him. That couldn't happen. Too much was at stake.

"Tempest." She forced herself to meet Pyre's gaze, which was uncharacteristically serious. He pointed toward one of the balconies, which was unoccupied. "Could we speak privately for a moment?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice. Now was the time to tell him.

As they escaped through the throng of people, she tried desperately to work out how to word what she had to say. Each step they took up the stairs, her pulse leapt. By the time they reached the wintry air of the balcony, however, her mind had gone completely blank.

Pyre closed the glass doors behind them, cutting off the noise of the masquerade. It was just the two of them, surrounded by delicate, silvery lights and the darkness of a northern evening. She followed Pyre to the edge of the balcony, where an iron and stone wall protected them from a precipitous fall. A healthy fire roared in the pit, cutting the chill. She glanced down and gulped—precipitous was an understatement. She could not see the ground.

"Scared of heights, Temp?" Pyre teased. "To be honest, I'm not all that great with them myself."

"I've ridden a dragon," she said dryly. Her brows furrowed. "If you're not fond of heights, why build a palace in a mountain?"

Pyre pushed his mask up, an incredulous expression on his face. "Come now. You can't honestly believe that I built this place, do you? It's centuries old!"

Tempest felt foolish, and her cheeks burned at the comment. " I didn't mean you, I meant why choose this place as your palace?" she admitted. "Has the Dark Court always been here?"

"As long as the capital has stood."

She shook her head. "Unbelievable. How has it managed to survive for so long? An organized underworld older than most reigning families in Heimserya and its neighbors. It's—"

"Definitely a bit intimidating," Pyre finished for her, smiling softly. He turned his gaze to the sky. The storms had cleared, leaving a pure, unfettered night-time sky littered with stars and a far, full moon. He sighed heavily. "I owe you an apology."

"You do."

He cracked a smile. "Never one to beat around the bush. That's what I like about you." He sighed. "Tempest, I'm sorry I lied about my other form. I should have told you about Mal before you arrived here. I just… don't trust many people."

"That doesn't make any sense," she said, pointing at her mask. "What about this? I thought you said that was a test of whether you could trust me. I didn't tamper with the box."

"If only things were so simple." He laughed. He turned to face her, molten eyes keen on hers. When he raised a gloved hand to remove the wolf mask from her face, she did not protest. "I do trust you, though. But I had… other reasons… to keep you at bay."

Pyre stroked Tempest's cheek tenderly, causing her heart to constrict painfully.

"Your presence here, among my people, has done more good than you could ever know," he continued, still stroking her face. "I know we do not always agree on my methods—we probably never will—but know that your decision to help the rebellion will bring positive change to so many people as a whole. Speaking of the greater good is always difficult, but— "

"War is difficult," she said, smiling sadly, leaning into Pyre's touch without truly realizing it. "You said that before."

"You must know I was speaking the truth."

"Yes, but the truth is—"

"Difficult," Pyre interrupted.

Neither of them spoke for a long, tense moment. Tempest's skin pebbled, and nervous energy churned in her belly. She wasn't sure if she was to fight, run, or kiss the dangerous man in front of her. The latter would be a mistake for the both of them.

"But, despite all this, I know the truth," he whispered. "I was na?ve before."

Pyre leaned forward and kissed her. A press of warm, hungry lips on hers, the flick of a tongue, and the graze of pointed canines. She flushed hot and then cold. Her body longed to melt into the kiss. Longed for her to let the kitsune wrap his arms around her and make her forget about everything.

But her conscience was stronger.

"Stop," she mumbled.

"Never," he whispered, nibbling at her bottom lip, his hands framing either side of her face.

Tempest dug deep and pushed him away a few inches. "No more!"

He examined her face, and her pulse doubled its speed. "What is it, love?" he asked, his voice low and raw with desire. "After everything that's happened… I know this isn't one sided. You at least feel something for me—"

"Destin proposed to me," she said woodenly. "And I—I said yes."

Pyre grew as still as if he were made of stone. The air thickened around them, and all she could hear was her own frantic heartbeat in her ears. Claws extended from his fingertips, and his gaze burned her. He growled, and his fox ears went flat against his head.

The hair at the nape of her neck rose.

"No."