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“What?” His brows furrow in confusion—in alarm—and he takes another step forward. Distantly, I realize he shouldn’t. He should follow Brigitte inside, should go somewhere I cannot ever touch him again. His gaze tracks over my pallid skin, the hollows beneath my eyes, the sharp protrusions of my collarbone. I do not need a reflection to see how great and terrible I look. How beautiful. “Reid and Lou—they’re supposed to be helping you. Theytoldme they would help you. Do they know you’re here?”

Slowly, I shake my head.

His jaw clenches. “Of course they don’t. What about that—thatvampire”—he spits the word like the curse it is—“who followed us from Requiem? The insufferable one? Why isn’t she with you?”

Odessa.

“It isn’t her fault. It isn’t any of their fault.”

We let the unspoken truth swell between us:It’s mine.

To my relief, he doesn’t argue this time, doesn’t lie to protect my feelings like the others do. Because he knows. Jean Luc knows every hideous thing I’ve ever done, and he despises each one of them. He despisesme. Instead of saying the words aloud, however, he takes another step, and the column of his throat bobs at whatever he sees in my expression. “Why did you come here, Célie?”

“I needed to see you.”

Emotions flit through his eyes in rapid succession—hope, disbelief, rage, and finally, caution.Good.Caution is a good thing.Caution is necessary. “You shouldn’t say things like that to me,” he says, voice low.

Still I do not leave. “Why not?”

“Because it isn’t true. You need—other people now.” Shaking his head, he forces himself to look away, to look toward the door through which Brigitte just disappeared. When he scoffs, the sound drips with self-deprecation. It distracts me from the heady drum of his heart. “Who am I kidding? You’ve never needed me at all. This—whateverthis is between us—has always meant more to me than it does to you, but you already know that, don’t you? You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

“Jean, I—”

His eyes flash with fury, and the hollow words collapse before I can speak them.

“Don’t lie to me, Célie,” he snarls, “and I won’t lie to you.”

Petite menteuse, Michal calls me.

Little liar.

Jean Luc and I stare at each other through the rain, an ocean of unspoken hurt between us.

“How can you even look at me?” I ask quietly. “I—I rejected you. I left you. I wh-whored myself to a vampire, and now I—now I’m—” Unable to continue, I gesture down my terrible, beautiful body, but without a word, he closes the distance between us and seizes my hand. His feels too warm in my own. Burning hot. My eyes fall to the pulse leaping in his throat. Just like the others, he doesn’t realize the danger of being near me—perhapscannot—because he still thinks I’m Célie. He still thinks I’m his.

He bends, bringing his face directly in line with my own, as if to prove it.

“None of that matters. Can’t you understand? There isnothingyou’ve done that we can’t fix together. Please.” He swallows hard again, and my eyes track the movement, the strong line of his throat. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Célie, this can’t be it for us. After everything, we—we were supposed to be together forever.”

Like so long ago, his thumb sweeps across my bare ring finger, and he stares at me like a man famished.

This isn’t right. He shouldn’t be saying these lovely things—not to me—and forever can no longer exist between the two of us. I amdead, and he—he remains in the prime of his life. Years, decades, still stretch out before him, and they should be filled with love and laughter and light. Jean Luc has never been the type to yield. He will not simply succumb to his circumstances, which means hewillfind someone to love instead of me. He will build a life with them, grow old with them, and that hideous, hopeful light in his gaze—it doesn’t belong to me anymore.

“Who is she?” I whisper again, and I hate myself. I hate myself for asking. I hate myself for caring.

Jean Luc pulls my hands to his chest, cradling them in his warmth. In life. Though instinct warns me to pull away—to leave before I do something I’ll regret—my feet remain rooted to the cobblestones, even as he brushes a kiss against my knuckles. “She isn’t you, Célie.”

“You’re right. She isn’t a monster.”

Summoning the last of my strength, I turn to leave, but Jean Luc refuses to let me go. Grip firm, he pulls me back toward him, and—in a move that damns me straight to Hell—I allow it. Head spinning, I fall against his chest, and his scent washes over me in a delicious wave.I should leave. I should go.Instead I rub my cold cheekagainst the steady beat of his heart until it’s the only sound that exists. “You aren’t a monster.” He tangles his fingers in my damp hair.Tha-thump.“I could never love a monster, and I love you.”

Tha-thump. Tha-thump.

“Say something,” he breathes, “please.”

I’ve loved you from the moment I fell out of the orange tree in your garden.

My hands curl in his shirt. He feels just as he always has, except different too—softer, warmer. Better. Desperate to capture the heat of his skin, I slip my hands through the buttons of his shirt, watching as if my fingers belong to someone else. I never allowed myself to touch him like this before. I shouldn’t allow it now. It isn’t fair to him. Still, I inhale deeply, pressing my palms against his heart. I never allowed myself to savor the sweet, cleanscentof him either—