“Dance with me!” I stood on my tiptoes and threw my arms around his neck. He tensed, glancing around, but I tugged him down determinedly. He complied, stooping slightly, and wrapped his arms around my waist. I laughed.
We looked ridiculous, all bent and straining to fit together, but I refused to let him go.
“This—this isn’t the proper way to dance.”
I lifted my chin and looked him directly in the eyes. “Of course it is. You’re the guest of honor. You can dance any way you want.”
“I—I don’t usually do this—”
“Reid, if you don’t dance with me, I’ll go and find someone who will.”
His grip tightened on my hips. “No, you won’t.”
“Then the way forward is clear. We dance.”
He blew out a breath and closed his eyes. “Fine.”
As nervous as he’d been to dance, he proved himself capable within moments, moving with unnatural grace for someone so tall. I myself stumbled more than once. I would’ve blamed the train of my stupid dress, but really, it was just me. I couldn’t concentrate. His hands were strong on my waist, and I couldn’t help but imagine them . . . elsewhere. My blood heated at the thought.
The song ended far too soon.
“We should go,” he said, voice rough. “It’s getting late.”
I nodded and stepped away from him, not trusting myself to speak.
It didn’t take much time to find Coco. She leaned against the wall near the antechamber, chatting with none other than Beauregard Lyon. He had an arm braced against the wall above her head. Even from a distance, I could see they were flirting shamelessly.
Both their gazes flicked to me as Reid and I approached.
“Well, well, well . . . if it isn’t Madame Diggory.” The prince’s eyes glittered with amusement. “I see your husband made the right choice.”
I ignored him, though Reid bristled at his words. “Brie, we’re ready to go. Are you coming?”
Coco looked to the prince, who smirked. “This lovely creature will not be leaving my side for the remainder of the evening. Sorry, darling,” he whispered to me conspiratorially. “I’ll need to postpone that offer . . . unless you or your husband would care to join?”
I glared at him. Ass.
Reid’s eyes narrowed. “What offer?”
I tugged on his arm. “Let’s go find Ansel.”
“He already left.” Coco wrapped her arms around the prince’s waist. A wicked gleam lit her dark eyes. “Just the two of you on the ride home. I hope you don’t mind.”
I bared my teeth in an attempt at a smile. “Can I talk to you in private for a moment, Brie?”
Surprise flashed across her features, but she quickly recovered. “Of course.”
Smile slipping, I dragged her into the antechamber. “What are you doing?”
She shimmied her hips. “Trying to get you some alone time with your husband. The dance floor didn’t look like it was cutting it.”
“I meant with the prince.”
“Oh.” She arched a brow and grinned. “Probably the same thing you’ll be doing with Reid.”
“Are you insane? He’ll see your scars!”
She raised a shoulder in indifference, tugging at her tight black sleeve. “So I’ll tell him I was in an accident. Why would he suspect anything else? It’s not like Dames Rouges are common knowledge, and everyone here thinks I’m Brie Perrot, a healer and close friend of Captain Reid Diggory. Besides, aren’t you being a bit hypocritical? Beau and I are just sex, but you and Reid . . . I won’t claim to know what the hell is going on with you two, but something is going on.”
I scoffed, but my face flushed treacherously. “You really are insane.”
“Am I?” Coco took my hands, eyes searching my face. “I don’t want to tell you your business, Lou, but please . . . be careful. You’re playing a dangerous game. Reid is still a Chasseur, and you’re still a witch. You know you’ll have to part ways eventually. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
My anger evaporated at her concern, and I squeezed her hands in reassurance. “I know what I’m doing, Coco.”
But even I knew that was a lie. I had no idea what I was doing when it came to Reid.
She dropped my hands, frowning. “Right. I’ll just leave you alone then, and the two of you can continue this stupidity together.”
My stomach sank inexplicably as I watched her go. I didn’t like fighting with Coco, but there was nothing I could do to fix it this time.
Reid reappeared by my side a moment later, taking my arm and leading me to the carriage—the carriage that was suddenly too small, too warm, with Reid sitting beside me. His fingers brushed my thigh in a seemingly innocent gesture, and I couldn’t help but remember the feel of them on my waist. I shuddered and closed my eyes.
When I opened them a moment later, Reid was staring at me. I swallowed, and his gaze fell to my lips. I willed him to lean forward—to bridge the distance between us—but his eyes shuttered at the last second, and he pulled away.
Disappointment crashed through me, replaced quickly by the sharp sting of humiliation.
It’s for the best. I glared out the window. Coco had been right: Reid was still a Chasseur, and I was still a witch. No matter what happened between us, no matter what changed, this one, insurmountable obstacle would remain. And yet . . . I studied his rigid profile, the way his eyes kept gravitating back to me.
It would be stupid to start down this path. There was only one way it could end. That knowledge did nothing to stop my heart from racing at his proximity, however, nor dim my spark of hope. Hope that, perhaps, our story could end a different way.
But . . . Coco had been right.
I was playing a dangerous game.
A Question of Pride
Reid
The tension in our room that night was physically painful.
Lou lay in my bed. I heard her shift in the darkness, her breathing loud and then quiet. She shifted again. Rolled slowly to her side. Her back. Her side. Her back. Trying to stay silent. Inconspicuous.
But she was neither, and I heard her. Over and over and over again.
The woman was driving me mad.
Finally, she leaned over the side of the bed, blue-green eyes meeting mine in the darkness. Her hair spilled to the floor.
I sat up on my elbows too quickly, and her eyes dropped to where my nightshirt gaped open across my chest. Heat rushed to my stomach. “What is it?”
“This is stupid.” She scowled, but I was at a loss for why she was irritated. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”
I eyed her suspiciously. “Are you sure?”
“Okay, first of all, stop looking at me like that. It’s not a big deal.” She rolled her eyes before scooting to make room for me. “Besides, it’s freezing in here. I need your big-ass body heat to keep warm.” When I still didn’t move, she patted the spot beside her coaxingly. “Oh, c’mon, Chass. I don’t bite . . . much.”
I swallowed hard, violently blocking out the image of her mouth on my skin. With slow, cautious movements—giving her every chance to change her mind—I climbed onto the bed. Several seconds of awkward silence passed.
“Relax,” she finally whispered, though she too lay stiff as a board. “Quit being awkward.”
I almost laughed. Almost. As if I could’ve possibly relaxed with her so . . . so close. The bed, standard issue in the dormitories, hadn’t been built for two. Half of my body jutted out into empty space. The other half pressed into her.
I didn’t complain.
After another moment of torturous silence, she turned toward me, her breasts brushing my arm. My pulse spiked, and I gritted my teeth, reining in my rampant thoughts.
“Tell me about your parents.”
Just like that, all thoughts of intimacy fled. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“There’s always something to tell.”
I stared resolutely at the ceiling. Silence descended once more, but she continued
to watch me. I couldn’t resist glancing over at her. At her eager, wide-eyed expression. I shook my head and sighed. “I was abandoned. A maid found me in the garbage when I was a baby.”
She stared at me, horrified.
“The Archbishop took me in. I was a pageboy for a long time. Then I hit a growth spurt.” The side of my mouth quirked up of its own volition. “He began training me for the Chasseurs not long after. I claimed my spot when I was sixteen. It’s all I’ve ever known.”
She rested her head on my shoulder. “Claimed your spot?”
Closing my eyes, I rested my chin on top of her head and inhaled. Deeply. “There are only one hundred Balisardas—one drop of St. Constantin’s relic in each. It limits the positions available. Most serve for life. When a Chasseur retires or dies, a tournament is held. Only the winner may join our ranks.”
“Wait.” She sat up, and my eyes snapped open. She grinned down at me, her hair tickling my chest. “Are you telling me Ansel beat out all the other contenders?”
“Ansel isn’t a Chasseur.”
Her grin faltered. “He’s not?”
“No. He’s training to be, though. He’ll compete in the next tournament, along with the other initiates.”
“Oh.” She frowned now, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “Well, that explains a lot.”
“It does?”
She nestled back into me with a sigh. “Ansel is different than everyone else here. He’s . . . tolerant. Open-minded.”
I bristled at the insinuation. “It’s not a crime to have principles, Lou.”
She ignored me. Her fingers traced the collar of my shirt. “Tell me about your tournament.”
I cleared my throat, struggling to ignore the gentle movement. But her fingers were very warm. And my shirt was very thin. “I was probably Ansel’s age.” I chuckled at the memory—at how my knees had trembled, how I’d vomited down my coat minutes before the first round. The Archbishop had been forced to procure me another. Though it’d only been a few years ago, the memory felt very far away. A different time. A different life. When I’d lived and breathed to secure a future within my patriarch’s world. “Everyone else was bigger than me. Stronger too. I don’t know how I did it.”
“Yes, you do.”
“You’re right.” Another laugh rose to my throat, unbidden. “I do. They weren’t that much bigger, and I practiced every day to grow stronger. The Archbishop trained me himself. Nothing mattered but becoming a Chasseur.” My smile faded as the memories resurfaced, one after another, with painful clarity. The crowd. The shouts. The clang of steel and tang of sweat in the air. And—and Célie. Her cheers. “I battled Jean Luc in the championship.”
“And you beat him.”
“Yes.”
“He resents you for it.”
“I know. It made beating him even sweeter.”
She poked me in the stomach. “You’re an ass.”
“Probably. But he’s worse. Things . . . changed between us that year. He was still an initiate when the Archbishop promoted me to captain. He had to wait until the next tournament to win his spot. I don’t think he ever forgave me.”
She didn’t speak again for several moments. When she finally did, I wished she hadn’t. “And . . . and Célie? Did you continue seeing her after your vows?”
All remnants of humor withered and died on my tongue. I stared at the ceiling once more. Though she said nothing, her fingers resumed tracing my collar. Coaxing. Waiting. I sighed again. “You saw the letters. We . . . maintained our courtship.”
“Why?”
I stiffened, immediately wary. “What do you mean why?”
“Why continue your courtship after you swore yourself to the Chasseurs? I’ve never heard of a Chasseur marrying before you. There are no other wives in the Tower.”
I would’ve given my Balisarda to end this conversation. How much had she heard of my conversation with Célie? Did she—I swallowed hard—did she know Célie had rejected me? “It’s not unheard of. Just a few years ago, Captain Barre married.”
I didn’t mention that he’d left our brotherhood a year later.
She sat up, fixing me with those unnerving eyes. “You were going to marry Célie.”
“Yes.” I tore my gaze away, back toward the ceiling. A snowflake drifted in from the window. “Growing up . . . Célie and I were sweethearts. Her kindness appealed to me. I was an angry child. She tempered me. Begged me not to throw rocks at the constabulary. Forced me to confess when I stole the communion wine.” A grin tugged at my lips at the memory. “I had a chip on my shoulder. The Archbishop had to beat it out.”
Her eyes narrowed at my words, but she wisely said nothing. Lowering herself back against my chest, she brushed her finger against my bare collarbone. Heat erupted across my skin—and everywhere else—in its wake. I shifted my hips away, cursing silently.
“How many witches have you killed?”
I groaned and turned my head into the pillow. The woman could freeze Hell over. “Three.”
“Really?”
The judgment in her voice rankled. I nodded, trying not to seem affronted. “Though it’s difficult to catch a witch, they’re vulnerable without their magic. Still, the witch at the theater was cleverer than most. It didn’t attack me with magic. It used magic to attack me. There’s a difference.”
She trailed her finger down my arm. Idly. I resisted a shudder. “Do you know about magic, then?”
Clearing my throat, I forced myself to focus on the conversation. On her words. Not her touch. “We know what the Archbishop taught us in training.”
“Which is what?”
I looked away, jaw tight. I didn’t understand Lou’s infatuation with the occult. She’d made it clear countless times she didn’t agree with our ideology. But she kept bringing it up, like she wanted to fight. Like she wanted me to lose my temper.
I heaved a sigh. “That witches channel their magic from Hell.”
She snorted. “That’s ridiculous. Of course they don’t channel their magic from Hell. They channel their magic from their ancestors.”
I eyed her incredulously. “How could you possibly know that?”
“My friend told me.”
Of course. The witch from Tremblay’s. The witch we still hadn’t found. I resisted the urge to snap at her. No amount of pestering had convinced her to give us more information. I was surprised the Archbishop hadn’t threatened to tie her to the stake instead.
But I’d never heard anything like this before. “Their ancestors?”
Her finger continued down my arm. Grazed the hair on my knuckles. “Mmm hmm.”
I waited for her to continue, but she seemed lost in thought. “So . . . a witch, it can—”
“She.” Her head snapped up abruptly. “A witch is always a she, Reid. Not an it.”
I sighed, half tempted to end the argument there. But I couldn’t. Witch friend or no, Lou couldn’t spout such blasphemy around the Tower, or she would end up on the stake. And there wouldn’t be anything I could do to stop it.
I had to end this infatuation now. Before it got out of hand. “I know you think that—”
“I know that—”
“—but just because a witch looks and acts like a woman—”
“If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck—”
“—doesn’t mean it’s a duck. I mean, er, a woman.”
“Witches can give birth, Reid.” She flicked my nose. I blinked, lips quirking up in surprise. “That makes them female.”
“But they only give birth to females.” Grinning, I thrust my face toward hers in response. She jerked back and nearly toppled off the bed. I arched a brow in wry amusement. “Sounds like asexual reproduction to me.”
She scowled, and a furious blush stole across her cheeks. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought she was uncomfortable. I grinned wider, wondering what could’ve caused the sudden change. My physical nearness? The word reproduction? Both?
My smile vanished. “We’ve never encountered a male witch.”
“That’s because there are none. Magic passes only to females. The males are sent away after they’re born.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “Because they don’t have magic. My friend said males are only allowed at the Chateau as consorts, and even then they aren’t allowed to stay.”
“She told you all this?”
“Of course.” She lifted her chin and looked down her nose at me, as if daring me to contradict her. “You should really educate yourself, Chass. A common street thief knows more about your enemies than you do. How embarrassing.”
Chagrin washed through me. Lou burrowed deeper in the blankets as the wind picked up outside.
“Are you cold?”
“A little.”
I inched closer, lifting my arm. “Will you accept an olive branch?”
She swallowed hard and nodded.
I pulled her against my chest, locking my hands at the small of her back. She returned to being a piece of wood. Small. Tense. Unyielding. Stripped of her prying questions and insulting banter, it was almost as if she were . . . nervous.
“Relax,” I murmured against her hair. “I don’t bite . . . much.” Quiet laughter rumbled through my chest. If possible, she stiffened even more. She needn’t have worried. Surely she heard the thundering of my heart and realized her advantage.
“Was that a joke, Chass?”
My arms tightened around her. “Maybe.” When she said nothing in return, I pulled back to look at her. Another smile tugged at my lips.
And, suddenly, I recalled our first night together.
“You don’t have to be nervous, Lou.” I stroked her back, forcing myself to remain still as she wriggled against me. “I’m not going to try anything.”
A noise of protest escaped her. “Why not?”
“I seem to remember you threatening to cut me open if I touched you without permission.” I tilted her chin up, cursing and congratulating myself in equal measure when her eyes fluttered shut. When her breath hitched. I leaned closer, my lips nearly brushing hers. “I won’t touch you until you ask.”
Serpent & Dove Page 23
