Page 82 of Lovesick

I look around, trying to understand where I am, remembering all too quickly how I got here, wherever here is, but I needn’t have worried because his voice breaks through my chain of thought before my eyes can even scan one fifth of the space.

“This is my bed chamber,” he announces coolly. “Something to drink, Penelope?” he asks casually, uncrossing his legs, still dressed in formal fitting slacks. “Chloroform really does dry out one's throat,” he informs me, reaching forwards and pouring clear liquid into a short glass tumbler, curling his splayed fingers over the top and offering it out for me.

I don’t move, staring at the glass until he places it back down onto the small round end table at his side.

“You’ve been different since his return,” he says lightly, as if making small talk. “Glowing, some might say.”

My hand reflexively drifts toward my stomach.

His bright blue gaze follows it.

Cold dread blooms beneath my skin.

“Congratulations,” he murmurs. “Truly.”

My lips part, but no sound comes out.

Milus pushes to stand, and I don’t move, even as my brain tells me to. I ignore the instinct. I know you must never run from a predator that enjoys the hunt just as much as the kill.

He circles me once, twice, the air shifting with him.

And I don’t look, don’t turn my head, follow him, instead, keeping my gaze forward, fixating on the fireplace, sitting still, straight.

He crouches in front of me, face level with mine, eyes bright like a flame finding new tinder. “A child,” he says. “Hischild.”

Every muscle in my body goes rigid. The way he sayshis. A mixture of awe and disgust, and something I can hear but not describe thick in his voice.

His hand touches my knee.

I flinch involuntarily and curse myself for it immediately.

He laughs softly, almost fondly. “Oh, don’t worry. I wouldn’t hurt you. Not when you’re carrying something so precious.”

Precious.

The word feels poisoned the way his forked tongue wraps around the word and sours it.

Then his voice lowers, silk covering steel. “Do you know what makes a child valuable in this place, Penelope?”

I shake my head. Genuinely interested in hearing what it is about breeding that makes The Obsidian, itsgod,tick.

“Access.” His smile sharpens. “Influence. Leverage. A promise of loyalty sealed in blood.” He tilts his head, canting itin such a way that makes him look so much like my Billy that my stomach churns. “But only if the mother is… properly aligned.”

My stomach plummets.

“I don’t understand,” I whisper, the words travelling free of their own accord.

He stands, slow and theatrical, like a performer unveiling the climax of his show.

“I’ve been observing you. Since your littleoutburst. Your spirit. Your devotion. Your… malleability.” His eyes gleam. “I believe you could join my most sacred circle.”

My breath leaves my body in such a rush it feels as though my chest cavity crushes in on itself, deflating like a popped balloon. “No,” I say before thinking. “No. I-”

His expression never changes.

Not once.

This small curling smile that screams lure and kill.