By the time Mira dismissed her women, the first pale light of dawn had already begun to seep through the shutters of their rented inn room. The chamber smelled faintly of incense and sweat, the heavy air clinging to their skin.
Her voice carried no softness, only command, and her companions obeyed without question. Exhausted, they slipped away to their own rooms, each step heavy, their faces pale from the long night of indulgence.
The room finally stilled, leaving only the muted sounds of the inn—footsteps creaking on wooden floors, the distant chatter of early risers in the common hall below, and the faint clatter of dishes as breakfast was served.
Mira lingered. The night's entertainments had drained the others, but her restlessness remained sharp as a blade. She sat in silence for a long while, hair spilling over her bare shoulders, the pale dawn light creeping across her skin, outlining every curve.
Her thoughts gnawed at her, relentless. Adrian's face. Rosalyn's cries of rapture. That fleeting, unguarded fire she had glimpsed in them.
It had set her blood aflame, and though she sought to bury the hunger with cruelty and distraction, it only clawed back stronger.
At last, her body gave out before her mind did. She allowed herself to collapse onto the inn's modest bed, the sheets faintly perfumed with lavender soap.
They might as well have been plain straw for all the comfort she took in them. Mira's eyes fluttered shut, and though her mind fought for dominance, exhaustion claimed her in the end, dragging her into uneasy slumber.
When Mira woke again, the sun was already high. Its harsh midday rays pried through the shutters, gilding the cramped room with white-gold light. She stirred, hair spilling like molten fire across the sheets.
Her lips tugged into a faint scowl. She had overslept. She never overslept. Not once in her life had she allowed herself such carelessness. The realization gnawed at her pride, sharpening her frustration into anger.
The inn was alive with midday bustle. The clinking of mugs and laughter of merchants carried up from the common hall.
From elsewhere in the building came the muffled sounds of her companions moving sluggishly through their own routines.
They had recovered faster than she expected, though the weight of last night's excess still lingered in their steps.
A soft knock came at her chamber door. Mira's sharp voice cut through the silence.
"Enter."
The door opened to admit one of her maids, a pale-haired girl named Celinne, who had accompanied her since her household days.
Unlike the four women Mira had picked up on the road, Celinne was bound to her by far more than coin. She had been groomed to serve Mira in every way—body, mind, and soul.
"My lady," Celinne murmured with a bow, her voice carrying the respectful hush of one who knew precisely how dangerous her mistress's temper could be.
"I came to inform you. Lady Lira departed earlier this morning with her attendants. They went ahead to Everhart Manor. She bade me tell you she did not wish to disturb your rest."
Mira's jaw tightened. Of course Lira knew. Her younger sister's barbs were never delivered directly. No, Lira preferred courtesy sharpened into a dagger, her small slights veiled in politeness. "She knew, and she enjoyed leaving me behind."
"Very well," Mira said coolly, waving a hand as though swatting away a fly.
"Prepare me. I will not trail behind for long."
Celinne bowed deeper. "At once, my lady."
She crossed to the travel chest, drawing out Mira's formal garments. The gown shimmered faintly even in the dusty light, its fine fabric whispering of nobility, of wealth and status that could not be denied. Celinne laid it out with reverence before approaching her mistress.
Mira allowed herself to be undressed, arms lifted languidly as the maid's hands peeled the robe from her form. Celinne's fingers were steady, but Mira felt their tremor where they brushed her skin.
For a heartbeat, Mira considered indulging herself—testing how her body still had the power to draw shivers and gasps with the barest touch.
Her hand shot out, cupping Celinne's breast through the thin shift, kneading until the girl gave a muffled moan.
Once, such sounds had stirred Mira's blood, pulling hunger from her marrow. But now? Now they barely registered. She released the maid's breast, the ghost of a cruel smile flickering on her lips as Celinne caught her breath, blushing prettily.
"You still respond so easily," Mira said, her tone somewhere between amusement and disdain. "But I am not in the mood."
Celinne bowed her head, cheeks flushed with mingled shame and arousal, though she did not falter in her task.
Piece by piece, the gown was drawn over Mira's body, the fabric clinging and flowing in equal measure, sculpted to display her authority as much as her allure.
Celinne's hands worked deftly, fastening clasps, smoothing folds, adjusting the collar until her mistress looked every inch the countess she was.
At last, Celinne knelt to fasten Mira's shoes, the leather gleaming, the heels sharp enough to kill. Rising, she stepped back, her head lowered in reverence.
"My lady," she whispered. "You are ready."
Mira turned toward the narrow mirror hung by the wall, her reflection staring back in golden light. Black hair framed a face both beautiful and merciless, eyes hard as sapphire steel. She studied herself a moment, lips curving into a smile that never touched her eyes.
"Of course I am," she murmured.
When she returned to her chamber's center, the four women she had collected during her journey were waiting.
They had served their purpose—comfort, distraction, amusement—but they were not her household, not her blood, and certainly not fit to stand beside her during the formal proposal of marriage between Lira Blackthorn and Adrian Everhart.
Mira retrieved a small pouch from her travel chest, its weight heavy, the coins within clinking together like a promise. She tossed it onto the bed.
"Your service ends here," she said flatly. "Take the gold and do as you wish. I will not require you further."
The women exchanged glances, but none protested. The coins were generous—more than enough to live well for years to come, perhaps more than enough for their whole life.
They murmured their thanks and gathered their belongings quickly, bowing their heads before leaving her chamber.
Mira watched them depart with no trace of sentiment. She had never expected loyalty, and she had never given it. Tools were meant to be used, then set aside. Nothing more.
By the time she fastened her cloak and stepped outside, the sun had already climbed high into the sky.
The inn's courtyard buzzed with movement—travelers loading wagons, merchants haggling, children chasing one another across the packed dirt.
Yet Mira's presence silenced those nearest her. Heads turned, eyes widened, and the chatter faltered into whispers.
She moved through the bustle like a blade cutting through silk. Every step carried weight, every glance from onlookers met with cold indifference.
Her sister had left her behind, but Mira would follow. Seems like she would need to catch up with her sister.
As for the reunion with Adrian, she was looking forward to it, she wanted to taste the thrill Rosalyn was going through.