"Good then." Arzhen said coldly, unconvinced. "You see my weakness and I see yours. Stay."

Balls.

Roarke felt as if he had been outmaneuvered. No, he was out-paranoided.

Arzhen Vasiliev, for all his exhaustion and psychological deterioration, was still sharp enough to recognize when someone wanted to leave and contrary enough to make them stay.

"If you insist, then I will accept your generous invitation."

Roarke sighed. The sigh was genuine although Father Rohan too would sigh in exactly this situation. The sigh could be interpreted as mildly put-upon, mildly amused, yet ultimately accommodating.

Arzhen turned to his aide. "Escort Father Rohan to the guest room."

As the order dropped, the aide glanced around the small, sparsely furnished townhouse with a confused expression. After all, this was not a residence with guest rooms. This was a neat, well made residence, but it was barely a residence with rooms.

Arzhen noticed the hesitation and a cold chuckle escaped his lips. "Ah. Silly me. Excuse my memory." He said sarcastically. "This is merely my private residence. There are only three rooms in this house. One is mine. The other one belongs to my servants. So, only one more spot is available."

He paused. His bloodshot eyes slid toward his aide. "Oleg, you don’t mind sharing your bed with Father Rohan, yes?"

What was it? What had provoked this little shit? Why did Arzhen suddenly want him to stay? And not merely stay, but be monitored all night by a servant who would report every movement, every whisper, every attempt to leave?

Had Roarke spoken too flatteringly just now? Had the earnest, kind, strangely fearless demeanor of Father Rohan struck Arzhen as too perfect, too convenient, and therefore suspicious?

The prince was paranoid by nature, and paranoia sharpened in the presence of sincerity the way a blade sharpened against a whetstone. The more genuine Father Rohan appeared, the more Arzhen might distrust him.

Or was it simpler than that? Did Arzhen, desperate for the medicine that only Father Rohan could provide, want to keep the healer close? To test his boundaries, his availability, his willingness to be controlled?

A man who could be summoned at any hour and forced to stay overnight was a man who could be owned. And Arzhen Vasiliev, stripped of so much else, might be hungry for something he could still command.

Perhaps both. Control and information.

Oleg ended up escorting him to the "guest" room, which was, in fact, Oleg’s own cramped quarters, a narrow chamber with a single bed, a washstand, and a small window overlooking the dark alley behind the townhouse.

The weretiger’s expression was unreadable, but his posture was stiff. He did not want a roommate any more than Roarke wanted to be one.

He was trapped in a room with a hostile bodyguard, no privacy or excuse to wander the house, and a prince downstairs who was apparently sleeping with one eye open.

Like this, forget sneaking away. Roarke could not even fake an ingredient list to fool them. And tomorrow morning, the ingredient list was expected. An ingredient list for a medicine Roarke didn’t know how to make.

Roarke, for all his skills and decades of murder, was just an assassin with minimal medical knowledge. Just enough to be an effective killing machine and, in the context of this mission, to maintain his cover.

It was just enough to stitch wounds and brew basic remedies and recognize the symptoms of common poisons. He didn’t know what was truly inside Lady Sees’s miraculous vials, the one-fit-all miracle.

How would he understand the alchemy that had pulled Prince Jove back from the edge of death and healed Arzhen’s body and reinforced his mind? He just knew that it had been diluted to the maximum of its minimum benefit for his current purposes.

He could not reproduce it, not even convincingly describe it.

How was he going to get out of this situation?

Hmm.

Should he just...

...kill all the little shits in this house?

It would not be difficult.

Oleg, whatever his full name was, was merely a half-beast general at best. Certainly competent, and probably loyal, but not a match for Roarke.

The other two servants were likely of similar capability. Half-beast generals, bodyguards, soldiers who had been assigned to protect a prince and were adequate for that purpose.

And then there was Arzhen himself.

For Roarke and his accumulated experience, Arzhen Vasiliev was not a difficult opponent at all. He wouldn’t even be that difficult of an opponent for him in his normal condition. But in this condition? Ha.

The Tiger Prince was strong, Roarke knew the Vasiliev bloodline, but he was also sleep-deprived, psychologically fractured, and physically deteriorating.

His reflexes would be slow and his split-second judgment impaired. His body would betray him the moment violence began.

Roarke used to fight alongside Arkai Dawnoro.

He had stood back-to-back with the Black Wolf King himself in battles that had shaken the earth and painted the snow red. He had faced enemies that made half-beast generals look like children playing with wooden swords.

Roarke Raul had learned violence from the best and had spent decades perfecting it.

So, this cub was nothing compared to Arkai Dawnoro.

Four kills. Clean and silent. Also, the Presence Concealing Ring would ensure his victory. He wouldn’t even break a sweat.

By morning, Arzhen Vasiliev and his three servants would be dead, and Roarke would be at the temple, peacefully asleep in his own bed, with no connection to the scene whatsoever.

He pondered it over and over, turned the possibility like a coin in his mind, examining each facet.

Kill them. Attend the birthday. Report to Lady Sees that the situation had unfortunately escalated.

Or stay. Endure the night and miss the celebration. Miss the window, the candles, the singing and the sight of Rinne calling his brother Father.

Oleg opened the bedroom door and Roarke smiled with Father Rohan’s gentle, grateful smile. He nodded and entered the modest room.

The weretiger followed him in, closing the door behind them with a soft click.

The room was small and cramped. One bed, which they would apparently be sharing. One candle, already burning low.

Roarke stood in the center of the room and continued to ponder.

His primary mission was to surveil Ruby Vaiva. To watch her movements, her visitors and her slow descent into irrelevance. He was to report everything back to Lady Sees.

He knew that in the art of surveillance, he was not as skilled as Bimo. Bimo was Angel’s Bunny, a true creature of shadows and forgotten names, and he could learn more by sweeping a floor than Roarke could by interrogating a prisoner.

But Roarke had still been assigned to this side of the operation. He was the adult presence and the backup. The blade in the dark if things went wrong. His role was to ensure everything went smoothly, to protect the operation, and, as he had only recently learned, to make sure no one else touched Ruby Vaiva.

Because Lady Sees wanted to hurt the Saintess herself.

That had been made very clear at the frozen riverbank with the dragon wings unfurled behind her and the cold fury in her voice. Ruby Vaiva harbored the entire weight of her hatred, and she would not let a single hair of her be harmed in a way she did not plan.

So Ruby was untouchable. She was protected not by divine mandate but by the possessive, meticulous hatred of a woman who had claimed the exclusive right to her destruction.

But Arzhen Vasiliev—

Arzhen was not Ruby.

Roarke had not been told not to kill Arzhen Vasiliev.

He had not been told not to kill anyone else, really. The orders were about Ruby and Ruby was the protected target. Everyone else in her orbit, her husband, her allies, her knight in white armor too, was presumably, fair game.

Including Arzhen Vasiliev.

The coin landed.

Roarke looked at Oleg, who was awkwardly arranging a spare blanket on the floor. Apparently the weretiger had decided he would rather sleep on cold wood than share a bed with a temple healer. How considerate.

How convenient.

How very, very temporary.

"Please, Master Oleg. Let me lay on the floor."