Page 7 of Even Vampires Bleed (Even Ever After #2)

Cassiopé

I guide Léandre through the corridors until we reach his room, which, weirdly, is just across the hall from Angie’s. I feel like maybe Elhyor is more jealous than he lets on if he assigned this one to Léandre.

“Where is your key?” I ask him when he just pushes his shoulder against the door without even releasing me.

“Don’t know,” he answers with a grumble.

He tries to pat his pockets without releasing me.

“It would be easier to check your pockets if you released me,” I say with a chuckle.

“No, no, no,” he says, “I have you now. I’m not going to let you run away.”

He’s mumbling, so I think he’s talking more to himself than to me, but I answer him, anyway.

“Why do you think I’m going to run away?”

He squeezes behind my back and only then he starts again.

“Because you feel like a dream, and I don’t want to wake up.”

I should tell him that if I really wanted to flee, I only needed to shift and he wouldn’t be able to catch me, but surprisingly, I’m speechless.

“Aha,” he says with a flourish, and I realize why. He thinks he found his key without even letting go of me.

“Call me the master of the keys now,” he says with a wide smile.

Except those aren’t this room’s keys. It’s a keyring, alright, but it’s not one that is in use in Notre Dame.

I think he’s drunker than I initially thought.

“Time to sleep, oh Master of the Keys,” I say, trying—and failing—to look as serious as I can.

“You’re coming in?” Léandre asks, and somehow his smile falters with his words.

“No,” I say, “but I don’t think you’re going in, either.”

My smile is audible through my words, but they still make him pause.

“This isn’t the right key,” I add, “let me down so you can find them.”

He begrudgingly complies and turns all his pockets inside out, but the key isn’t there.

“Come with me. I have a key pass in my room,” I tell him when I see the look of realization on his face.

He follows me like a lost puppy, and when we reach my door, I tell him, “Wait for me here,” and slip inside my room.

“Do we really need that key?” he asks, but it’s louder than it should be if he actually followed my order. I turn to double-check, and obviously, he’s inside my room.

He let himself inside, and I didn’t even pay attention. I might still be a bit tipsy.

“It’s not a good idea,” I tell him. “And you’re drunk. You won’t even remember me tomorrow,” I add with a chuckle that I don’t really believe in.

It would sting if he stayed, and in the morning, he wouldn’t remember me.

“Not like that,” Léandre says, indignant. As if I had basically just said that he would use me for the night and discard me right after.

Oh shoot. I think that’s exactly what I just implied.

My face must show what my mind just computed because Léandre chuckles again.

“I just want someone to hold me,” he says, and even with the chuckle, he still sounds vulnerable.

It’s just a hug, but I know I shouldn’t say yes. I know, because I’m a hopeless romantic and cuddling with him will inadvertently lead to me seeing more in the gesture than there is. But like I said, I’m a hopeless romantic, and it’s been a while since anyone held me at night.

I know I shouldn’t say yes, but before I know it, the word has left my lips, and Léandre’s eyes sparkle with mischief again.

What have I done?

He pushes the door with his heel and makes a beeline for me.

“What are you doing?” I half-yell, half-whisper when he throws me on my bed and starts tugging at his pants.

“I’m not going to sleep in a suit,” he says, as if he isn’t currently getting naked in front of me without a care in the world.

“You’re not helping your case right now, big guy,” I tell him with a snort.

He doesn’t stop, though. The shoes are the first to go when he realizes that he can’t remove his pants without removing them, too, and then the shirt goes away, and I’m not even sure he removes the button properly because I think I see one jumping under the wardrobe that’s on the right side of the room, next to the door to my bathroom.

When the pants finally go, his sigh is so loud that I laugh at how ridiculous he’s acting. He keeps his boxer briefs on, and then looks at me like I’ve done something wrong.

“You can’t sleep in that dress,” he says matter-of-factly.

“I know, but I feel like if I stop looking in your direction even just for a minute, someone,” I look pointedly at him, “is going to believe that I’m plotting my way out of my own room and won’t come back at all. And I refuse to sleep only in my underwear.”

Léandre brings his index finger and his thumb against his chin and rubs it with a pose that looks so staged that I know he’s doing it on purpose.

I’m still amused when he finally yells, “Aha!” like he found the answer to how deep is the universe and says, “You can sleep in my shirt,” with a wave of his hand in the direction of said discarded shirt.

I shake my head. This is silly.

As much as I know I shouldn’t entertain him the way I’m doing now—and I definitely know and will gladly blame it on the alcohol tomorrow—I turn my back to him and go to my wardrobe and pick my cutest pajamas.

Who said I should look like a deranged raccoon in the morning?

I don’t give Léandre enough time to pester me, and I slip inside the bathroom. It might have been okay for him to undress in front of me, but I’m not going to do the same. I need a little privacy.

Still, I hurry to remove my heels, my dress, and my bra before putting on my pajamas. I ponder the idea of only wearing the shirt and not the shorts, since it reaches mid thigh but decide against it.

Oh, yes, I’m keeping the shorts.

That man might look like a snack, but he’s so drunk that there is no way I’ll let him do more than hug me.

I take a huge breath and then steel myself.

And then I’m finally coming out of the bathroom.

When I cross over to the bed, he is already in it, lying on his side, with the blanket open. His eyes are closed, but still he seems to feel when I get near.

“Come to bed, Little Luciole. I promise not to do anything you won’t ask,” he tells me without even opening his eyes.

His voice is groggy, as if sleep has already started claiming him.

Well, poor decision, here I come, I tell myself as I slip under the cover and between his arms.

Now, to let sleep claim me, too.