The quarters given to the "Saintess" were in the West Tower, the farthest spot from the King's chambers. The suite was dusty and drafty, unused for years, chosen to keep the "miracle" as distant from the royal family as possible.
The heavy oak door slammed shut, and the sound of a locking bolt echoed from the outside.
Revas stood in the middle of the room, taking in the faded tapestries and the single, lumpy bed. He turned slowly, his coat flaring as he moved.
"Charming," he noted dryly. "The décor screams 'we hope you die of pneumonia before morning.' I must say, the hospitality of your family leaves something to be desired, Mistress."
Mirabelle sank onto the edge of the bed. The adrenaline of the gala was fading, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. She rubbed her temples. "They locked us in."
"They did," Revas agreed cheerfully. He walked over to the window, peering out at the sheer drop. "And they stationed four guards in the hallway. I can hear their heartbeats. One of them has an arrhythmia. It's quite distracting."
He turned back to her, his violet eyes shining in the dim candlelight. He still looked like a gentleman noble, but his posture was that of a pure predator. He started to unbutton his long coat.
"So," he said, tossing his coat onto a chair, "now that we've terrified the court and eaten all the hors d'oeuvres, what's the plan? Do we sleep?"
Mirabelle looked at him. "You don't sleep, Revas. You wait."
Revas grinned, sitting on the floor at her feet, crossing his long legs. He rested his chin in his hand, looking up at her like a devoted dog. "True. I wait for you to tell me who to hurt."
"We need to be careful," Mirabelle said, lowering her voice. "My father is a coward, but Fiona is clever. She won't fall for the Saintess act forever. She'll test us."
"Let her test," Revas purred. He reached out, his fingers tracing the air inches from Mirabelle's knee, not quite touching her. "I like tests. I always pass."
Suddenly, a soft scratching sound came from the wardrobe in the corner of the room.
Mirabelle froze.
Revas didn't freeze. His head snapped toward the noise, his smile widening.
"Ah," he whispered. "Room service."
The wardrobe door creaked open. A figure slipped out...a man dressed in black, tight-fitting leather, a dagger clutched in his hand. He moved with the silence of a professional assassin, his eyes fixed on Mirabelle's back.
He raised the dagger.
"Ahem," Revas said politely.
The assassin spun around, eyes widening. He hadn't seen Revas sitting in the shadows on the floor.
Revas stood up, rising slowly to his full height. "It's terribly rude to barge into a lady's bedroom. Did your mother teach you no manners?"
The assassin didn't speak. He lunged, the dagger aiming for Revas's heart.
Revas caught the blade.
His bare hand closed around the sharp steel, but there was no blood. The metal bent and crumpled in his grip.
The assassin gasped, trying to pull away, but Revas held on.
"Oh, don't leave yet," Revas said, stepping closer. He looked at the assassin with genuine curiosity. "Who sent you? Was it the sister? She smells like envy. Or the fat priest? He smells like fear."
The assassin dropped the ruined dagger and drew a second one, slashing at Revas's throat.
Revas caught that hand, too.
"Now you're just being tedious," Revas sighed.
He twisted the assassin's arm. The bone snapped with a loud crack. The man opened his mouth to scream, but Revas's other hand clamped over his mouth instantly.
"Shh," Revas whispered, leaning in until his forehead touched the assassin's. "We are guests. We must be quiet."
He looked at Mirabelle over the assassin's shoulder. His eyes glowed, changing from violet to crimson red.
"Mistress," he asked, his voice thick with suppressed violence. "May I play?"
Mirabelle looked at the terrified eyes of the assassin. A man sent to kill her in her sleep. A man who likely worked for her sister.
"Quietly," she ordered.
Revas beamed.
He dragged the struggling assassin into the corner of the room, behind the privacy screen.
"Don't worry," Revas whispered to the man, his voice sounding like a lover's caress. "I'm going to take you apart very... very slowly. It's an art form, really. You should feel honored."
Mirabelle sat on the bed. She couldn't see them, but she could hear.
She heard wet, squelching sounds. She heard the soft snapping of cartilage. She heard the assassin whimpering into Revas's hand, a sound of pure, unadulterated horror.
And through the bond, she felt it.
She felt Revas' joy. It washed over her like warmth. The feeling was golden and euphoric, full of the thrill of the hunt and the satisfaction of dominance. Her head spun, and her breath caught.
The bond didn't only transfer pain. It also shared pleasure. For Revas, murder was the greatest pleasure of all.
Minutes passed. The sounds behind the screen stopped.
Revas emerged.
He was wiping his hands on the assassin's black hood. He looked refreshed, his skin glowing with vitality, his hair slightly mussed.
"He confessed," Revas announced casually, as if talking about the weather. "It was the sister, Princess Fiona. She paid him fifty gold pieces." He clicked his tongue. "Only fifty. I'm insulted on your behalf. You are worth at least a hundred million."
He tossed the bloody rag into the fireplace.
"The body?" Mirabelle asked, not looking at the screen.
"Gone," Revas said. He patted his stomach. "Butterflies are efficient cleaners. There isn't even a stain on the rug."
He walked over to the bed and sat down beside her. The mattress dipped under his weight.
"You enjoyed that," Mirabelle whispered, looking at her hands. "I felt it."
Revas reached out and took her chin, turning her face to his. The madness was gone, replaced by that terrifying, gentlemanly focus.
"And so did you," he murmured.
He leaned in, his lips inches from hers.
"We are going to have so much fun in this palace," he promised. "Now... scoot over. I want the pillow."