“They said you were a nautch dancer when you broke into my home,” said Delphine.

Laila smiled. She preferred this skirmish to the battle for her very life.

“They lied. I’m not a nautch dancer.”

“A small lie,” said the other woman, shrugging. “I understand that’s not far off from your actual profession. A courtesan, am I correct?” Delphine snorted, not waiting for her answer. “A euphemism for a prostitute, if I ever heard one.”

Laila wasn’t offended, though perhaps the other woman wished her to be. Delphine’s hands stilled, waiting. Testing.

“We have many things in common, Madame.”

“And how do you suppose that?” asked Delphine drily.

“Me and my ancient profession, you and your ancient Order. Me and my wiles to part men from coin, and you and your Order’s manner of forcing their hands,” said Laila, ticking off the reasons on her fingers. “The only difference being of course that my wares never go out of style. Corruption, murder, and thievery are, I imagine, not as easily welcomed into people’s beds.”

Delphine stared at her, shocked. And then, impossibly, she laughed. She reached forward, pouring the vodka into two delicately etched quartz glasses.

“To our shared interests, then,” she said.

Laila knocked her glass against Delphine’s, and when she’d finished, she found the other woman staring at her. She seemed as if she wanted to say something more, but then the doors of Séverin’s suite swung open.

Laila and Delphine sat up eagerly, and a House Dazbog servant poked his head out into the hall.

“Mr. Montagnet-Alarie will see you now,” said the servant.

Instinctively, Laila looked over her shoulder, expecting Enrique, Zofia, and Hypnos right behind her—but they were fast asleep.

“Very well—” started Delphine, but the servant shook his head.

“He did not ask for you.”

“It doesn’t matter if—”

“He specifically asked not for you,” the servant finally admitted, his gaze downcast.

Laila felt a pang of sympathy for the older woman. She’d been waiting so long to make sure he was well. Once, Séverin had confided that Delphine had treated him like her own child. When she abandoned Séverin, Laila thought her heartless. But looking at the matriarch now—her head bowed and lips pursed, hands clasped and ermine stole slipping off her shoulder like breaking armor—she wondered not at what she knew of her, but at what she didn’t.

“Good to see his fond enmity remains intact,” said Delphine lightly.

* * *

THE FIRST THING Laila’s gaze went to was the giant four-poster bed, covered in silver damask silk and pale sapphire pillows. A Forged canopy of thinly hammered ice shot through with strands of silver draped over the bed and moved lightly to an invisible breeze. An irregularly shaped rug stitched together from the pelts of various white-furred animals stretched out beneath it, and at its four corners curled the yellowed talons of dead beasts. Polished ice formed the ceiling, and she caught her reflection wavering on its mirrored surface. In the blue light and dressed in furs, she hardly looked like herself, and her mind conjured up Enrique’s tale of Snegurochka, the snow maiden. Perhaps that girl would have known what to do in this cold, beautiful room with a cold, beautiful boy waiting to see her.

As she took one step into the room, the diamond necklace on Laila’s skin felt like a collar of winter at her throat.

You have just agreed to spend every night in my bed for the next three weeks. I will hold you to that.

Sitting in a carved ice throne was Séverin. He looked up at her, his dusky eyes burning. She could tell someone else had changed him out of his clothes because he wore a black silk night robe that opened at his throat. He used to hate dark sleepwear after Tristan once said it made him “look like a bat striving for glamour.” The memory almost made her laugh when she noticed who else was with him.

Eva stood behind him, her hands raised, blood glistening on her fingertips. She didn’t smile when Laila entered the room, instead shooting a glance of dismay at Ruslan.

“It may not be safe for her to be here,” said Eva.

Ruslan made a tsk sound. “Oh hush, cousin.”

The doctor put away the last of his tools and bid them a good day. “How attentive of you to wait on him. You’re a lucky man, Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie, to have so many beautiful girls concerned for your health.”

Ruslan scowled, and Laila thought she heard him mutter, “What about me?”

When the door shut, Eva glided to the basin at the end of the room, plunging her bloody hands into the water. Laila glanced at Séverin, but he was sitting too still … altogether too quiet.

“What did you do to him?” she asked.

“Aside from save him?” shot back Eva. “I regulated his blood pressure, but it has a slight sedative effect. He could’ve gone into shock from the hypothermia, so his limbs are momentarily paralyzed to allow a heating effect to work through his body and restore him back to perfect health.”

Laila raised her chin higher. “You have our thanks,” she said icily.

“And what about your trust?” demanded Eva. “If you’d just let me work with you from the beginning, he wouldn’t even be in this state.”

“Cousin—” Ruslan warned.

“As I pointed out to Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie earlier, I am proficient in Forging affinities with ice. I could help when you return to the chamber tomorrow. You need me,” said Eva. She lightly touched her lips the way a lover recalls a caress. She looked to Séverin and then back to Laila. “But there were some benefits, at least.”

Laila bit back a glower. Eva and Ruslan had to leave … and there was only one way to do that. She walked to Séverin, placing her hand at his cheek and looking over her shoulder.

“What I need is time alone with him.” Laila smiled sweetly. “Thank you for taking care of him, but I can handle it from here.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Eva, crossing her arms. “He needs rest and sleep. Maybe you can retire elsewhere tonight, and I can watch him.”

“As it so happens, I know just how to put him to sleep.”

Séverin looked up at her, and for the first time, the haze in his eyes had subsided somewhat. She sank into his lap, and his body stiffened beneath hers. In her mind, she ignored what she was doing. But her body noticed. Every part of her remembered and catalogued the hardness of his muscle, sinewy and lean from days spent working alongside L’Eden’s workers for various installations; the heat that rose off his skin despite being in a palace of ice; and the faint scent of cloves that he could never get out of his garments.

“Put your hands on me,” she whispered in his ear.

Séverin glanced at his limbs, his jaw clenching slightly.

“I cannot,” he said, the words halting as if it took effort to fight the sedative. Séverin tilted his head forward, his lips at her ear. “If you want my hands on you, Laila, you’ll have to do it yourself.”

So she did.

The whole rhythm of their movements—of sinking against him, draping one arm around his neck—took up only a couple of seconds, and yet time felt slow as poured honey. Séverin’s hand seemed heavy and burning, and when she placed it at her waist, his fingers dug into her skin. His brows knitted together, as if touching her physically hurt him. Laila almost forgot why she’d done this at all until she heard someone clearing their throat. At the entrance to the suite, Ruslan was practically shoving Eva out of the room.