Page 42 of The Scarlet Veil

Evangeline Martin. Perished.

The words sound strange and foreign, as if spoken in a different language.

“What do you—”Oh God.I stare at him, horrified, before pressing a hand to my forehead.No.I shake my head. “No, there—there must be some mistake. Evangeline didn’t...” But my voice shrivels to something small and unsure. I never read the final death registry after the Battle of Cesarine. True, Jean Luchidit from me, but I still should’ve tried harder to find it, to pay homage to the fallen. Evangeline could’ve been one of them.

Michal arches a wry brow. “My condolences,” he offers, but there is nothing sympathetic in his tone. There is only ice. Can this man, this—thismonster—evenfeelsympathy? Exhaling a deep breath, I somehow doubt it.

I just—need to collect myself. I need to gather my wits. This entire display—my personal history, that startling revelation, his goblet ofblood—is meant to unsettle me, to intimidate. Dropping my hand, I level him with a dark look of my own before marching forward to settle in his proffered chair. I will not be intimidated. He might hold all the cards, but in demanding I return for a second interrogation, he has revealed his hand: he needs something from me. Something important.

I fold my own hands in my lap. I can be patient.

“Shall we continue?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, however; his eyes remain fixed on mine as he lists the pinnacles of my lifewith scathing indifference—how I fell in love with Reid, how he left me for Lou, how we joined forces to defeat the indomitable Morgane le Blanc. “That must have been very complicated,” he says, picking up his goblet, “to work with the man who broke your heart.”

When I still say nothing—nearly biting through my tongue—he chuckles low. “Still, I suppose you found vengeance on all parties when you killed his mother-in-law.” He swirls the liquid idly before taking a sip. “And when you accepted his best friend’s suit.”

My mouth parts in outrage. “It wasn’t like that—”

“Your captain surprised you with a proposal after your initiation into Chasseur Tower, didn’t he?” With a cruel gleam in his eyes, he inclines his goblet in a toast. “The first woman to ever grace its doorstepanda future bride. You must be very proud.”

Again, he pauses as if expecting me to interject, but I bare my teeth in a furious smile, holding on to civility by a thread.He wants to unsettle you. He wants to intimidate.“Are you quite finished?” I ask him tightly.

“That depends. Did I miss anything?”

“Nothing relevant.”

“And yet”—he leans forward on his elbows, his voice darkening—“somewhere, it seems that I have.”

We stare at each other for a long, taut moment as his pendulum swings between us.

I like silence even less than I like the dark. As if to prolong it, he stands and rolls his shirtsleeves with casual ease, eyes flicking to where my gown ripples against the floor. I cease tapping my foot immediately. With a ghost of a smile, he strolls around his deskto lean against it, crosses his arms, and looms over me. The new position immediately puts me at a disadvantage, and he knows it. His polished shoes—black, like hissoul—cross scant inches from mine. “What are you?” he asks simply.

My mouth parts in disbelief.

“I am human, monsieur, as you already know by yourdeeplyinappropriate invasion of my personal space.” Resisting every instinct to flee across the room, I shift closer to spite him, and I lift my nose in my primmest imitation of Filippa. “What areyou, Your Majesty? Apart from unforgivably rude?”

Uncrossing his arms, he leans forward to mirror my movement, and at his sleek smile, I immediately regret my bluster. We’re practicallytouching. Worse still—he no longer feigns apathy, instead studying me in open fascination. As before, his interest feels somehow deadlier, like I balance on the tip of a knife. Voice soft, he asks, “Do you have a temper, Célie Tremblay?”

“I’m not answering any more of your questions. Not until you answer some of mine.”

“You’re in no position to negotiate, pet.”

“Of course I am,” I say stubbornly, “or you would’ve already killed me.”

When he pushes away from his desk, I stiffen in apprehension, but he doesn’t touch me. Instead, he crosses to the door, opens it, and murmurs something I cannot hear. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of turning, however. I forbid my eyes from following him through the room. “This plan of yours is ridiculous,” I prattle into the silence, unable to stand it for another second. “Might I suggest—instead of fixating on me—you turn your attention to poor Christo instead? He is currently without a tongue.”

“Without more than that, I think.” Michal runs a finger down my neck, and I startle violently, unaware that he crossed the room once more. I still don’t turn. I do, however, jerk away from him; my skin tingles where he touched me, and my legs clench along with my fists. “I can hear your heartbeat,” he murmurs. “Did you know that? It accelerates when you’re frightened.”

Standing hastily, I dart around the desk—cheeks hot—and claim his chair instead. “Iwantto know why you’ve targeted Coco.” His black eyes spark with cruel amusement. “I want to know why you didn’t kill her—er,mein Cesarine with your other victims, and I won’t tell you athinguntil I do. Consider this my leverage.”

His grin widens.

“Your... leverage,” he murmurs.

The word sounds darker from his tongue, insidious.

“Yes.” I shift back in his seat, grateful for the lacquered desk between us. My reflection gleams small and unsure upon its surface. Thoroughly out of its depth. “I assume you understand the concept.”

“Oh, I understand the concept. Doyou?”

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