Page 29 of All Saints Day (Lucifer and the Saints #2)
Sébastien
O nce it was decided that Tin-tin and Loulu would be interrogating la bete , all of us set about preparations in our own way.
La bete —the beast. That is what I’ve been forced to think of him as since that night on the lake. Whoever, whatever that broken man was—he was a beast that I couldn’t trust.
After her walk, Louise came to me—her hair a tangle and her cheeks pinked by the sun and wind, her shoulders still pinched high around her ears.
“Come on, Loulu, let's get you ready for tonight, eh?” I sigh as I coil her into my arms in a tight hug.
She nods against my chest—and I unfurl her from my arms, towing her behind me slowly like a tiny boat toward the small metal tub and propane hot water box on the far side of the yurt.
None of us could think about laying a hand on her right now. Everything we can sense down the bond says that she isn’t ready—which I completely understand. What I fail to comprehend is how she can ask us to approve the more extreme interrogation methods she proposed in light of such things.
“Are you sure you’re ready to face him, chère Loulu?” I ask gently as I help her ease into the hot water.
“Yes, I think so,” she chuckles warily as I dip a small wooden bowl beneath the surface of the water and pour some of it, clear and steaming, over her shoulders.
“You’re very brave, mon amour ,” I murmur under my breath as I dip the bowl beneath the water once more, nodding for Louise to tilt her head back.
“I don’t know that I have a choice.” She smiles tightly as I pour the hot water over her scalp and through her hair, careful to use my other hand to shield any stray water from her eyes.
“You absolutely have a choice, Loulu. If you don’t ever want to see him again—you don’t have to,” I protest, looking her in the eyes before I pour another bowl of water over her hair, lank and greasy—still recovering from poor nutrition and a vigorous detangling.
“While I appreciate the chivalrous gesture, Seb—” Louise purses her lips as I squeeze a bit of sweet-smelling shampoo into my palm. “We both know it isn’t that simple,” she sighs, her eyes fluttering closed as I begin to work the shampoo into a lather—massaging her scalp.
“It can be, mon amour —just say the word,” I begin to assure her, but Louise’s brows crease deeply and she interjects before I can finish the thought.
“Forgetting for a moment that Frank is another of our fated mates, which is a tall order, I know—to completely cast that aside,” she snorts a cruel laugh before continuing, “we need to get all the information we can out of him if we want to get ahead of the Windmill’s plans to release the augmented Zeitnot virus. ”
I can’t argue with her there.
“Doctor Perla and I will benefit from more information, yes—but that isn’t the only thing to consider going in.” I do my best not to dismiss her, while impressing Louise’s right to hide from Frank for as long as she needs—even if that means indefinitely.
“Don’t worry, Sebby.” She reaches up to touch my wrist tenderly as I rinse the shampoo from her scarlet tresses. “I promise I’ll be safe—if I need to tap out, you’ll be the first to know.” She tilts her face back until she’s looking straight up into my eyes.
“If he so much as looks at you the wrong way, I will destroy him, mon amour .” The words escape me, low and laced with fiery resolve, before I can stay my tongue.
“I know you would, I’ll wear your promise into the interrogation like armor,” Louise breathes, her eyelids drifting closed as I bring my face down to hers.
I hover a breath above her—waiting for permission.
She closes her eyes and presses her mouth to mine, and I’ve never been more sure—I would lay down my life for this woman; for my pack.
We did our best to dress Louise in our defenses before the interrogation tonight.
She looked hale and hearty after an afternoon spent in the sun and a dinner of beef stew and crusty bread. Her cheeks had a rosy color instead of the sallow pallor of her first days of freedom.
Dressed all in black clothes borrowed from all of us to keep her cocooned in our scents as she and Q enter the lion’s den.
All of us gave her backup, but it was Q who would actually be doing the interrogating. Bad Cop—and Worse Cop; though only the evening would show who was playing whom.
Louise took a seat across from Frank in the center of the circular room. She sat with her legs crossed easily—arms draped over the back of her wooden folding chair as she watched Frank appraisingly.
Beside Louise, Quentin stoops to lean on the back of his chair, staring down at Frank. Frank sits bound to a wooden chair with duct tape across his shoulders and elbows, his feet on the floor with his ankles still shackled together and his hands cuffed behind him at the wrists.
“Hello Frank,” Louise begins, cool and even.
The cold smirk that crosses his face lets me know Louise isn’t talking to Frank—we’re in the room with Rook right now.
“Come on, Dollface—are you really gonna mistake me for that pathetic pussy?” He shrugs, playing at a hurt expression. “After we had so much fun together too.” He bats his lashes at Louise in a clear attempt to bait her, but she’s not having it.
“Ah yes, the one man I might want to see less than Francis Stone,” she tuts, the very portrait of calm disinterest before she presses on. “Do you know why you’re here, Rook?”
Rook’s smirk spreads into an icy, manic grin. His sharp canine teeth glitter in the light; those dark blue eyes alight with malice, and all I can think is that he really is a beast—that he always has been, lurking just beneath the surface.
“The fault in our stars?” he offers with a dramatic flourish before following it up with a crude, “Can’t live without my fat knot stretching that perfect little pussy when you go into heat?”
Quentin strikes like lithe lightning, moving from the back of the chair to Rook in the blink of an eye—a loud crack snapping through the room as Tin-tin whips a blistering backhand across Rook’s mouth.
“Hoo-eee!” Rook hoots, spitting a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the floor, still reeling from the force of the blow—a small split in his bottom lip. “Please, Mother, may I have another!?” he giggles gleefully, eyes glittering up at Quentin.
Tin-tin’s eyes flit to the strengthening erection in Rook’s dress slacks and grits his teeth, deciding against another blow.
“Watch your mouth. You’re running thin on everyone’s patience,” he seethes, chartreuse eyes slitted with disgust.
Before Rook can say something horrible, Louise stands from her chair—the black slacks she borrowed from Dennis pegged above her ankles, one of my tank tops paired with one of Caz’s black v-necks billowing beneath one of Quentin’s oversized black cashmere sweaters.
She crosses her arms over her chest, running her hands up and down the soft fabric on her upper arms—but she doesn’t tremble or avert her gaze as she takes a step toward Rook and Quentin.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she answers coldly, looking down her nose at the captive Rook.
“You and Susan couldn’t help but flap your fucking jaws when you thought that you had me as your caged bird,” Louise continues icily, pacing in a tight circle around Rook’s chair.
“You’re here because the Windmill is planning on releasing a modified version of the Zeitnot into the public, and we need information to stay ahead of that curve. ”
Rook’s head lolls back as he lets out a villainous laugh.
“Please, you think they deign to tell their muscle about this kind of shit, Dollface?”
Crack!
Another blistering open-handed slap from Quentin hits so hard that Rook’s chair rocks up and onto two legs before it slams all four back onto the wooden floor.
“Ee-Yow!” Rook shakes his head—blinking his eyes back into focus as he recovers. “To what do I owe the pleasure this time—I’m co-operating, aren’t I Mom?” Rook works his jaw open and closed.
“I don’t care for your fucking tone,” Quentin leers, reminding Rook who holds the power in this exchange.
“If you really are as disconnected as you claim,” Louise continues on as if nothing has happened, rounding behind Rook, slowing to a stop as she comes face to face with the back of his head. “Then you’re still useful as a bargaining chip.”
“Oh yeah, what makes you say that?” Rook scoffs.
Louise leans in, her face alongside Rook’s—her lips against the shell of his ear, just below the bonding bite I caught sight of the other night.
Rook jolts upright—his face frozen as Louise begins to speak, low and menacing.
“I don’t know why yet, but you’re important to Susan and the other higher-ups—maybe you don’t know yourself, or maybe part of you knows and you’re just withholding.”
She stands up, continuing her orbit around Rook—his posture softening ever so slightly as she comes back into view, her pace slowing to a stop as she rejoins Quentin.
“The only question is, will you cooperate?” Louise purrs, leaning down so that her face is level with Rook’s.
“Will you help us help you—all of you—Rook, Frank, Francis?” She lowers her eyes to the beast’s mouth, his lips parted as he drifts toward her on the magnetic current of fated mates.
“Or will you force us to do things the hard way?”
“I’d like to have you hard right here, Dollface—maybe have the Brit or the techno twink for dessert,” he snarls back—his raven feather lashes fluttering almost against his cheekbones, Frank’s lips only a breath away from Louise’s.
“You know what—I don’t think you could handle me,” Louise threatens, planting one of each of her hands on Frank’s knees—steadying herself with their faces nearly touching.
“That’s a bet I’m willing to help you lose, Dollface,” he challenges, leaning in to catch Louise’s mouth with his, but she draws back—staying just out of his reach, the beast’s chest bound tightly with duct tape.