Page 37 of Chaos Carnival

“Home sweet home.” Maverick stumbled on the steps. “Used to crash here when—” He broke off, doubling over in pain.

I caught him, pressing my hand to his chest. His heart stuttered under my palm. “When what?”

“When running from my last mate.” He gave a weak laugh. “She was you, too. Ironic, bringing you here now.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. “We're not—this isn't—”

“Sure it's not.” He straightened enough to brush his lips to my ear. “Keep telling yourself that, babe.”

I shoved him toward the door, ignoring the heat in my cheeks. “Shut up and focus on not dying.”

“Yes ma'am.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Love it when you get bossy.”

“I will let you fall.”

“No.” His voice softened. “You won't.”

I held his gaze for a moment, hating that he was right. The book shuddered at my side, reminding me why we were here. Whatever this thing was between us, it would have to wait.

The demon at the front desk had dark hair and an Amy Winehouse thing going on. She smiled with crinkles in her perfectly lined eyes as she handed over a rusted key.

“Room 68.” Her voice echoed like it came from everywhere, the sound reverberating through the dingy hotel lobby. “Our honeymoon suite. Very romantic.”

“We're not—” I started, the heat rising to my face at the implication.

“You don't have the next room free?” Maverick asked, leaning heavily against the counter with exaggerated interest.

I glared at him, fighting the urge to slap his arm. “Are you twelve?”

He smiled that infuriating smile of his, the one that always made my stomach do little flips despite my best efforts. “Oh fine.” Maverick snatched the key from the demon's manicured fingers, nearly collapsing into me as his legs wobbled. His breath tickled my ear as he added, “Just like our first time, right darling?”

I dug my fingers into his side hard enough to leave bruises, making him wince and let out a dramatic little growl. “You're delirious. And if you keep this up, I'll leave you here to crawl up those stairs by yourself.”

“Only with love, darling. Only ever with love.” He stumbled toward the stairs, dragging me with him, his normally graceful movements reduced to an awkward sideways lurch that had us bouncing off the wall.

“Nothing to do with poison,” I added dryly, adjusting my grip around his waist to keep him somewhat upright.

The stairs creaked with sounds that weren't quite wood splitting. Blood-red wallpaper writhed with fingers of darknessthat reached for us as we passed. I clutched the book tighter, its pulse still syncing with my racing heart.

“Almost there.” Maverick's breath came in short gasps, each more labored than the last. The poison had reached his temples now, dark lines threading through his hair like ink bleeding through parchment. Even in the dim light, I could see the veins pulsing beneath his skin, a macabre roadmap of whatever was killing him.

“I thought you were dying, not losing your legs,” I muttered, trying to mask my growing concern with sarcasm. The way he leaned against me, getting heavier with each step, wasn't helping my nerves.

“Both, probably.” His hand slipped under my shirt, ice-cold fingers tracing my spine with an intimacy that made me shiver despite our dire situation. “But what a way to go, hey?” Even dying, he managed to inject that insufferable flirtation into his voice, though it was weaker now, strained around the edges.

The intimacy of the moment felt wrong given how close he was to death, but somehow perfectly right too. “Focus on walking,” I managed to say, trying to keep my voice steady as we stumbled forward together. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”

Room 68 waited at the end of the hall. Inside, moonlight filtered through stained glass windows that shouldn't have been there, casting crimson shadows across a massive four-poster bed.

“Cozy.” Maverick collapsed onto black silk sheets, his body making barely a sound as it hit the mattress. “Though the pentagram on the ceiling is a bit much.” His eyes traced the intricate symbol carved into the dark wood above us, managing to sound judgmental even while dying.

I locked the door with trembling fingers, methodically laying out the supplies we'd need for the ritual—herbs, crystals, chalk, each item heavier than the last. “At least there's moonlight.” Thecrimson-tinted beams would help amplify the magic, if I could just keep my hands steady enough to perform it.

“And privacy.” He patted the space beside him, the gesture weaker than his usual confident movements. “Come here. I'm getting colder.” His voice had taken on that raspy quality I'd been dreading.

“That's the poison.” My throat felt tight as I arranged the final components.

“Then warm me up.” The words were hardly more than a whisper, but they still carried that trademark suggestive tone that made my chest ache with familiar irritation and something deeper I wasn't ready to name.

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