Page 65 of The Shadow Bride

“Célie—” He tears his mouth from my throat with a pained sound, his gaze instantly falling to our hands on my body. Though the wound at his chest has closed, he doesn’t seem to notice. He remains focused upon his fingers as if entranced, and he spreads them slowly, exploring the curve of my waist, before his thumb just brushes the tip of that breast. I gasp. My legs jerk. An almostviolent longing rises in his eyes, which shine too brightly in the darkness. “We shouldn’t do this.”

“Why not?” I ask breathlessly.

“Because you thought I died.” He speaks the words quietly, as if trying to convince himself instead of me. Though I pull at his hands, desperate to move them up—or perhaps to move them down, down,downand ease this building tension between my legs—they remain resolute upon my waist. They hold me away from him, even as I strain to press closer. He grits his teeth. “Because you hate me, remember? Because I never intended to ravish you in this filthy passageway.”

I nearly sob in frustration now. “What ifIintended to ravishyou?”

He presses a light kiss to my throat before wiping the last of my blood away. His bite has already closed, and for some intolerable reason, confusion flushes through me at the realization—that this moment has finally come, and now it is going, going, almostgone, slipping like water between my fingertips. And I can do nothing to hold it. “Tomorrow,” he promises in a low voice. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

That confusion flares inexplicably hot in response because why notnow? I don’t understand that strange look in his eyes, this deep and unending ache between us. This is no simple flirtation. Sometimes, like now, he even seems to—towantme.

Men never see me that way. They covet me—oh yes—in a different way from how they covet women like Lou and Coco. Reid and Jean Luc both placed me high upon a pedestal to admire, and to an extent, so did those in Les Abysses. Léandre too. His tastes might trend darker, more depraved—he wants to break myporcelain skin instead of polish it—but it often feels like two sides of the same coin when men look at me.

No one has ever looked at me the way Michal does.

I push the thought away, agitated, before rising stiffly to my feet. Because clearly he doesn’t want me now either. Clearly this has all been a terrible mistake, and I’ve crossed some invisible line again. I—I should’ve just healed him without complicating everything—he was grievously injured, after all—but I always seem to say the wrong things around Michal. I always seem todothe wrong things. And ithurts.

“Have you ever considered,” I say, “that I might not want to ravish you tomorrow?”

He pauses halfway through tugging on his shirt, his chest whole and unblemished again. Each line of his body long and hard and perfect, from his broad shoulders to his tapered waist. I expect him to placate, or perhaps argue. I expect him to fight back. Instead he gives a soft laugh at whatever he sees in my expression, and the sound of it freezes the heat in my belly to ice. “No,” he says simply. “You probably won’t.”

I lift a hand, instantly regretting the words. “Michal—”

“It’s fine.” He steps away from me, slipping the shirt back over his head, before nodding up the passage. “Someone is coming.”

Though I tense, alarmed, he doesn’t seem concerned at our imminent discovery, and in the next second, it becomes clear why. The dulcet scents of cinnamon and vanilla swirl through the dank passage just before Lou herself rounds the corner, holding five sputtering lights at her fingertips. They cast a faint glow upon her distinctly disgruntled expression. “What are you two doing?” she asks suspiciously.

“Nothing,” Michal says curtly.

She seems to realize she interrupted something, glancing pointedly from Michal’s untucked shirt to his rumpled coat on the ground. “It doesn’tlooklike nothing—”

“Where is my mother?” Clutching her free hand and dragging her closer—hideously relieved—I inspect every inch of her apparently unscathed person. She still leans against me for support, however, practically sagging in my arms. “Is she all right? Areyouall right?” Then, before she can answer, “You look even paler than before. How did you find us? What time is it?”

“Almost dawn.” She flicks the tiny lights above our heads, where they continue to flicker weakly and cast strange shadows upon our faces. “And we’re both fine—though by fine, I mean hysterical, at least in your mother’s case. She allowed me to ward our room, but it took another hour to coax her into drinking that same draught I gave you in Cesarine. Thankfully it knocked her out cold.” She glances at Michal. “You should know, however, Madame Tremblay is not at all pleased with Requiem at the moment, and I cannot say I’m particularly thrilled either.”

He shrugs into his leather surcoat. “Imagine our disappointment.”

My brow contracts at that. “You could thank her, you know. Her magic did save your life.”

“My life was never the one in danger.”

“What doesthatmean?”

“Nothing.” He bows curtly, and with supreme effort, some of the ice seems to melt from his expression. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. Thank you, Louise, for aiding us in the coup tonight. Odessa and I could not have accomplished it without you.”

If possible, Lou looks more suspicious now than she did before. Her gaze cuts between us. “You’re welcome—not that Odessa gave much of a choice. It wasn’t meant to shake out like this,” she adds to me before grudgingly disentangling herself and approaching Michal to inspect his chest. He stiffens but suffers her ministrations in stoic silence. “Pasha and Ivan were supposed to sneak us into the hall during Odessa’s procession to heal Michal—there’s another secret passage near the east wing—but obviously that didn’t go to plan.” She cuts a rueful look in my direction. “As soon as we heard the revenant’s scream, I knew everything was about to go to complete and utter shit. Another rather unexpected and unwelcome addition to the plan.”

“You aren’t wrong,” Michal says.

“Anyway,” Lou continues, ignoring him, “Odessa thought if we told you about”—she waves her hand at his chest—“all of this, you never would’ve agreed to it.”

“And she would’ve been right,” I say indignantly. “Everything spiraledcompletelyout of control. Even without the revenant, how could anyone think this plan was a good one? When does faking one’s deatheverwork out in the end?”

Michal reties his cravat with deft fingers. “Is that a rhetorical question, or would you like an answer?”

My eyes narrow at him. “Now that you mention it, I think Iwouldlike an answer.”

“All right.” He lifts a shoulder, thoroughly unbothered. “It works out this time. The whole of Requiem thinks Odessa overthrew a corrupt and inconstant king. The isle is renewed, united under her leadership, which enables her to do what is necessaryto protect it. The vampires trust her. They believe in her. They also believe I am dead, which enablesmeto do what is necessary as well.”

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