Page 13 of The Shadow Bride (The Scarlet Veil #2)

Chapter Thirteen

Taboo

Michal doesn’t speak as I follow him through damp alleys and side streets. We avoid the main roads to the harbor, doubling back and circling around Dimitri and the Chasseurs, but before we can board the ship, I whisk into the consignment shop and thrust a handful of couronnes at Yves. Ignoring his baffled expression, I seize the basket of kittens and dart past Michal without offering either of them an explanation.

These kittens deserve better than a life at sea.

They’re cats . They loathe water.

Undeterred, Michal follows when I flee across the gangplank, his expression rather frightening as I heft the basket of kittens higher. Though he says nothing, his silence reeks with the promise of a rapidly approaching conversation, and quite frankly, I don’t care to have it just now—or perhaps ever. I don’t care to answer his questions about Frederic and Death either, and I especially don’t care to talk about my sister.

Filippa.

Her name is a knife in my ribs as I hasten belowdecks, the blade digging deeper with each step.

Filippa. Filippa, Filippa, Filippa—

“Célie.”

Gritting his teeth, Michal reaches for my arm at the bottom of the stairs, but I jerk away from his touch, pushing forward blindly with my basket of kittens. “Everything is fine,” I say in a horribly light voice. “Nothing even happened, really—”

Michal snarls in an uncharacteristic display of emotion. “The hole in Frederic’s chest says otherwise, and I saw your sister—”

“What do you mean you saw her? She left —” I cringe at the slip, cursing myself mentally. Filippa must not have left at all, but how had Michal seen her? Why on earth had she sought him out? “Did she... say anything to you?”

“Regrettably, Brigitte’s axe occupied most of my attention. Your sister made sure to watch.”

I choke on a laugh, unsure how else to respond, to deflect—not if he saw Filippa. Not when he did see Frederic’s broken body and hear Death’s parting words. Michal has never been stupid. The three of them appeared within moments of each other in the same location; he’ll have pieced together some sort of connection, even if he doesn’t understand it—not that I understand it much more than he does at this point . There are simply too many pieces on the board to make sense of anything. Revenants. Frederic. Filippa and Death, even Dimitri—

Dimitri.

I stumble on the ornate carpet at the sound of his voice overhead. If I focus, I can just hear the whoosh of his body as he vaults over the bulwark and lands lightly upon the deck. “What is he doing here?” I snarl, whirling to face Michal and clinging desperately to my spark of anger. Anger is good. Anger is actionable.

Above us, Dimitri’s footsteps falter. He can hear me. Excellent.

“He stopped Brigitte from sticking said axe in my back.”

“Well, isn’t that convenient?”

“You would’ve preferred the alternative?”

“Of course not, but where has he been , Michal?” Scoffing, I turn away again to storm down the corridor before answering my own question. “I’ll tell you where—cozying up to my murderer to get a peek at his grimoire. It would explain why he hasn’t sought us out until now.”

“Would it?” Michal’s eyes flash when I glance behind. “I didn’t see the grimoire among Frederic’s remains, Célie. Do you know where it is?”

Yes , I want to say, but something stills the word on my tongue. I dart up another corridor instead, praying he’ll lose patience and abandon this very unpleasant conversation. “The grimoire is... gone,” I say when he doesn’t miss a single step. “We’ll need to—to find some other way to manage the revenants—”

“Who was the man, Célie?”

But Odessa glances up as we pass the open ballroom doors. “There you are,” she says from her desk. “Is that my brother I hear upstairs?”

At that, Michal finally stops short, seizing the doorframe with one hand to lean back and stare into the candlelit room at his cousin. She sits stiffly, gazing down at an open scroll without truly seeing it, her fingers white upon the parchment. “Yes,” Michal says carefully. “He returned half an hour ago.”

“He helped you escape the Chasseurs.” It isn’t a question, and she still doesn’t lift her eyes from the scroll. She must’ve overheard our conversation in the hall, or perhaps she could hear the chase itself, which means—

Michal’s eyes narrow. “Thank you very much for your help, by the way.”

“You had the situation in hand.”

“Did I?” Michal’s scowl deepens as I skirt around him and hurry toward Odessa, who appears in desperate need of an ally. Dimitri, I notice, hasn’t yet sought out their grand reunion. Probably a wise decision. He did snap her neck last month. “It felt a bit tenuous for a moment—probably as a revenant sank its teeth into my spine, and the huntsmen swarmed like ants.”

Odessa’s dark eyes simmer with anger as she finally looks up. No. With hurt . My chest twists at the sight of it. Odessa loathes emotion, and she strives to avoid it at all costs; of course her twin’s disappearance affected her more than she showed. I should’ve realized it sooner, should’ve tried to—help, somehow, if she would’ve allowed it.

“What about the harbormaster?” Hastily, I plunk the basket of kittens onto her desk as the ship pitches beneath us. Through the wide windows of the ballroom—she tied open the heavy drapes to let in the dim morning light—the horizon begins to move. “He knows which ship is ours. He could tell the Chasseurs—”

A kitten with silver fur escapes the basket at that second, however, plunging into Odessa’s lap. Her lip curls in distaste as it begins to meow and climb the bodice of her deep wine-colored gown. “He won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I persuaded him otherwise.” Nose wrinkling, she detaches the silver kitten and shoos it away while I try not to envision her persuasion tactics. “Why are there kittens on my desk, Célie?”

“You said sailors use them to catch rats on ships.” I gesture around us, acutely aware of Michal’s heavy gaze upon my face. “This is a ship, is it not?”

“You aren’t a sailor,” Michal says tersely.

I frown at him. He has every reason to be upset, of course—what with revenants and huntsmen attacking him all morning—yet I am trying to distract his cousin. “I don’t need to be a sailor for cats to eat rats,” I tell him coolly. “And I couldn’t just leave them to rot in that shop—”

“So you’ll leave them to rot on Requiem instead?”

A muscle flexes in his jaw, and while there is nothing inherently menacing in the gesture, I resist the urge to take a step back. I’ve never before seen him look so—well, combative . Not with me. The ever-present ice in his expression seems to have cracked since chasing after me, revealing something that looks suspiciously like agitation.

I am not, however, in the mood for an agitated Michal.

“They won’t rot .”

Squaring my shoulders, straightening my spine, I dare him to argue. Because he isn’t the only one growing steadily agitated; just the sight of him—his shoulders blocking the door, his eyes narrowed, and his hand still clenched upon the frame—sets my teeth on edge.

I hate being this aware of him. I hate being this aware of myself whenever he’s near.

He apparently feels the same.

Patience snapping at last, he releases the doorframe and steps aside, gesturing Odessa into the corridor beyond with a curt swipe of his arm. “Go. The longer you delay your reunion, the harder it will be.”

My eyes widen at his tactlessness. “But she doesn’t want—”

“I know she doesn’t,” he says, his voice clipped, “but what we want and what we need aren’t always the same things. Odessa”—he captures her gaze and holds it—“I haven’t had the chance to speak with him at length, but he seems different now. He seems... better.”

Her brow furrows. “Better?”

Michal nods. “Like before.”

Odessa’s expression empties at that—as if Michal’s words have triggered some sort of defense mechanism—and she lifts her gaze to the paneled ceiling, where Dimitri hovers above deck. Where he waits. Instinctively, I realize Michal is offering Odessa the chance to speak with her brother first, to pass her own judgment before Michal and I enter the conversation. To pass the judgment.

I frown between them, unsure how I feel about that.

Dimitri snapped her neck, yes, but she didn’t die. Not like I did. Still, it feels selfish—heartless, even—to point out such a thing when Odessa so clearly needs to work through his betrayal. Dimitri is her twin. No matter what he does, he will always be her twin; she will always love him, and...

How very difficult that must be.

At last, Odessa looses a slow and steady breath before nodding. “I’ll speak with him.”

Sensing her nerves, I snatch up the basket of kittens and thrust it into her arms. “Just in case you need some, er... armor.”

She stares down at them without reacting for several awkward seconds. “They’re kittens, Célie.”

Heat creeps into my cheeks. “Right. I— You’re right, of course.” When I try to take them back, however, her fingers tighten on the basket, and she refuses to let it go. I drop my hands at once. Without a word of explanation, she lifts her chin, straightens her shoulders, and stalks across the room to do battle—but not before throwing a quick, appreciative look over her shoulder at me. “Thank you,” she says quietly.

Michal closes the door behind her with an ominous click.

A jittery shiver erupts across my skin at the sound, and I descend into her chair with as much poise as I can muster. “What happened to the man with the revenants? Did he survive the attack?”

Michal doesn’t answer right away. Instead he shakes his head as if disgusted and stalks forward. “No,” he says at last.

My heart contracts painfully at such a simple, devastating word. “And the revenants?”

“Pulled apart and tossed to sea.”

I remember the Archbishop with his corpse cleaved in two, each half still trying to slaughter us. “I don’t know where the woman went, but hopefully she’ll have time to gather her children and flee before the revenants find her again.” I glance up, hoping he’ll reassure me, but his expression remains scathing. A fresh pang of hunger shoots through me as our eyes meet. “Because they’ll piece themselves back together and go after her, won’t they? Coco said revenants rise from the grave with the sole purpose of terrorizing the living.”

They also somehow recognized me , but it feels counterproductive to bring that to Michal’s attention.

Still, he seems to sense my reticence, and the silence in the ballroom deepens until I can practically feel his anger burning my skin. At last, unable to stand it, I open my mouth to say something else—to ask about Brigitte and Jean Luc, perhaps how they found him—but he shakes his head, the warning in his voice clear. “Who was the man, Célie?” he repeats.

And here we are.

Swallowing hard, I knot my fingers in my lap and inspect my knuckles. Just tell him. The impulse to lie wages war against my better judgment, and I unclench my hands abruptly, tugging on a frayed thread at the sleeve of his cloak instead. Just tell him, and he can help you. He wants to help you. It makes little sense to keep Death a secret, yet a seed of unease still cracks open in my chest as Michal draws to a halt in front of the desk—because Michal will help me, yes, but as before, he might also hurt my sister.

No. He will hurt my sister.

If he learns Filippa might be a threat—that she made some sort of deal with Death—he won’t hesitate to send her back to the grave. As he should , says that nasty voice of reason. As you should. But it isn’t that simple either. Something more lingers in the shadows of my mind, half-formed and impossible to grasp. It compels me to stay silent.

Leaning forward, Michal plants his palms wide against the wood on either side of me. “Well?”

We stare at each other for a split second. Then— “He didn’t tell me his name,” I say quietly, inching back in my seat and holding my breath. “But I think he—I think he stepped through the veil after Frederic tore it open. He said something about a—a permanent hole this time. A door.”

To my dismay, Michal doesn’t seem surprised by the revelation. “He didn’t smell like a revenant.”

“No, he didn’t, but—Filippa doesn’t either.” I wince again, cursing myself for linking them even in theory. I just—I can’t think . My throat burns anew at Michal’s proximity. Indeed, he stands close enough now for me to see the flicker of disappointment in his eyes before a bitter smile twists his lips. He knows I’m withholding something.

“Still a liar, I see.”

“Because you’re such a beacon of virtue.”

He laughs softly.

“As you insist.” Deceptively casual, he straightens, and the hair on my neck tingles in anticipation as I straighten too. Whatever Michal is about to do, I’m not going to like it—I’m not . My fingers curl into my skirt as his slip beneath the desk.

“And it seems you do insist,” he says silkily. “From the moment we met, you decided I am the villain in this story, and nothing I do will ever change your mind, will it?” Though he tries to hide it now, his hurt still shines sharp as broken glass in his expression, and my stomach twists with inexplicable guilt. “Fine then, Célie. You win. We aren’t friends. Shall we have a game instead? You’ve always liked a question for a question, and far be it from me to deny you anything. I’ll go first, shall I?”

Before I can answer, he flicks the table aside like it weighs nothing, and it skids across the lacquered floor, scattering Odessa’s scrolls in a flurry of parchment. Leaving only empty air between us, and then—when he steps into that too, deliberately closing the distance—nothing at all. Jolting at the sound, I swoop to gather her papers, guilt spiking instantly to indignation. “Michal! Have a care! These belong to Odessa. You can’t just—”

“There you go again”—he looms over me as I kneel, entirely too close, too tall —“telling me what I can and cannot do. Why is that? I wonder. No one else claims such a privilege.”

I glare up at him from my knees, refusing to scramble away. “Perhaps you shouldn’t frighten everyone around you into submission. It isn’t quite the boast you think it is, and furthermore, you aren’t particularly good at it anyway. I’m not afraid of you.” Unable to stop myself, I lash out for emphasis—to prove my point, to knock him back a step—yet his legs could’ve been made from tempered steel.

That wretched twist of his lips deepens to a smile.

“No, you aren’t afraid of me.” Crouching slowly, he pries the scrolls away and casts them behind us. His own hands are so much larger than mine. So much stronger. My mouth dries when he poises them so gently around my delicate, useless fingers. “You never have been. Now answer the question.”

“I didn’t agree to play this silly game.”

“I can think of a different one.” His eyes fall to my lips. “We don’t need to be friends to play it.”

I snatch my hands away, cheeks blistering and teeth throbbing. “This isn’t the time for games at all, and—and someone needs to tell you what to do, clearly.”

“And that someone is you?”

“I—I don’t know.” Now I do scramble backward because Michal—he’s shifted closer, somehow, without me noticing. His knee nearly brushes my hip, and one hand winds languorously through the ends of my hair, his knuckles brushing the curve of my spine with each pass. Everything inside me tightens at that touch. Though I try to shake my head—to tell him no, I am not that someone, not his someone—instead my neck tips back without my permission. My mouth parts on an exhale, and my fangs—

Oh God.

My fangs .

Humiliated, I lift a hand to hide them, jerking backward into the desk, and one sharp point pierces my lower lip upon impact. It draws blood. His blood. Or—or is it my blood now? I don’t know , but a wave of delicious heat crests through me at the taste of him. I shouldn’t like it. I shouldn’t relish the thought of his body in mine, the thought that I’ve— claimed some small part of him, yet I do. And I have no choice but to watch helplessly as he rises with that terrible half smirk because he knows.

He knows .

“How ironic.” He extends a hand, and when I take it, tentative, he hauls me to my feet—then tugs my fingers from my mouth, baring my fangs to his gaze. He stares at them without apology. He stares at the blood on my lips. “Here we are, the wicked and the righteous, yet I am the truthful one, and you are the liar.”

My stomach contracts near painfully when he presses his thumb to my lip, coaxing another bead of blood to appear. My voice becomes a whisper. “Why is this happening to me?”

“You’ve been taught not to listen to your body. You’ve been taught not to trust it. As a vampire, however, ignoring your anatomy is not only tragic, but also dangerous.”

But that’s ridiculous. All of this is ridiculous, and— “I can’t just feed on people whenever the urge strikes, Michal. I’m not like you. It isn’t right.”

“Why isn’t it right? I never said to kill them.”

“Because I will kill them! You saw what happened in the alley. I—I completely lost control. If you hadn’t arrived when you did, I would’ve torn out Jean’s throat, and I would’ve done worse to Brigitte. I wanted to do worse.”

He presses harder with his thumb. “And a great loss that would’ve been for all of us.”

“You’re unbelievable.” I resist the sudden urge to snap at him, to catch his thumb between my teeth and bite because—because that would be disturbing. Because people can’t just bite each other in the middle of a conversation. “You just said we shouldn’t kill—”

“What I said is the kill needn’t be inevitable. If you want to rend every Chasseur’s head from their shoulders, I’ll wholeheartedly support that endeavor—I’ll even help—but only the sickly and the starving lose control while they feed. So... yes, in this instance, I’ll concede your point. If I hadn’t arrived to pry the good captain from your arms, you would’ve killed him.” A pause as he lifts his thumb from my lip, as he glares at the brilliant scarlet he left behind. He hates it too , I realize in a bolt of clarity. The effect I have on him.

Lip curling, he wipes my blood on his pants. “You probably still will.”

“Excuse me?” I recoil instantly, my eyes narrowing in disbelief. “What did you just say?”

“Feign ignorance all you want, Célie. You’re a vampire now. Everything we felt as humans, we feel deeper as vampires—anger turns to rage, pleasure to bliss. That means we’re often drawn to the blood of those with whom we feel an emotional attachment. You proved that today.” Clasping his hands behind his back in that infuriatingly superior way, he steps away from me. “If you want to protect your loved ones, learn how to feed—or don’t. I don’t particularly care what happens to your darling Jean Luc either way.” He shrugs, his black eyes glittering with malice. “And you still owe me a question.”

A question.

A snarl tears from my throat, and the sound is so foreign, so inappropriate, I can almost pretend it isn’t mine. “Are you jealous ? Is that what this is? I followed Jean Luc instead of you?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, pet. You broke Toussaint’s heart and nearly ate it this morning—I think we can do better, don’t you?” Then, harsher still, “Three questions.”

“Like hell.” I stab a finger at his chest. “This isn’t a game to me. Just because you’re too repressed to say how you feel without guise doesn’t mean I’m going to indulge you.” He snorts derisively at that—as if I’ve said something hilarious—and I nearly scream with frustration, shoving him with two hands now. “What exactly are you suggesting, Michal?” When his cloak tangles at my feet, I hurl it behind me, searing with heat as scarlet washes across my vision. It smells like him. It smells like us . “And how can I learn to feed when I’m always starving ? I just fed from you this morning—I drank more than I should’ve—yet even looking at you now, I want to—to—” I cannot finish the sentence, choking on the words, and he shakes his head in disappointment.

“Still refusing to listen to your body.” When I shove him again, his eyes flash, but he refuses to yield a single step. “Four questions.”

“You want me to listen to my body?”

“I do. Five.”

Blood roars in my ears. Forget rending the Chasseurs’ heads from their shoulders—I’m going to tear Michal into little pieces and scatter him across Requiem. Vision narrowing on his horrible, beautiful face, I lunge, but he sidesteps easily, catching my elbow and spinning me in a smooth pirouette. I slam my fist against his chest instead. To my astonishment, he doesn’t try to stop me. No. He steadies me as I stagger backward, cursing and clutching my hand. “You want to hit me,” he says, eyes blazing. “Good. Do it again.”

“What do you—?”

“Hit me, Célie.” He seizes my fist and wrenches it toward his chest. When I splay my fingers in protest, piercing his skin with my nails, he captures my chin in a brutal grip. If I were human, it might bruise, but I’m not human—and neither is he. Leaning low, he bares his teeth and snarls, “I can take your blows. I can take your bite too if you’ll let me. What I’m suggesting is you feed from me until you learn how to control it.”

I claw at his wrist, his chest, unsure whether I’m pulling him closer or pushing him away. “Why would you do that?”

The question acts like a bucket of ice water over Michal’s head.

His body stiffens, and he hesitates, drawing back slightly to look at me. His eyes search mine for a split second, fraught with— something , but they shutter again just as quickly. And I hate it. I hate this newfound hesitation. Because Michal has never hesitated before. Michal has never recoiled from me. Indeed, when his hand falls from my chin, I want to strike him anew, to seize his shoulders and shake him until he tells me why he’s acting so—so—

“You cannot hurt me,” he says simply, his expression cool and unaffected. Too cool. Too unaffected. “Not like you can the others. That is why I’m offering my blood—because you must learn how to feed, or you’ll never forgive yourself.” And then, incredibly, “Six questions.”

I stare at him in disbelief.

And in the instant it takes for those words to penetrate, I know exactly what I want to do. “You presumptuous ass ,” I hiss angrily. “You want to teach me how to feed? Fine. Fine. Let’s go.”

Shoving him aside, I storm out of the ballroom and up the wide, sweeping staircase in search of someone—anyone—with whom to prove him wrong.

Across the deck, Odessa and Dimitri rise from an enormous crate at the sight of me. I seem to have interrupted them mid-conversation, but Odessa’s face has softened since she left us; the anger simmering in her eyes has slightly cooled. It’s all the permission I need.

The time for answers and explanations will come later, but for now, a wave of recklessness crashes through me, and I march over to Dimitri without preamble. “Hello again, Dima. Michal says I need to learn how to feed.”

Bemused by the abrupt greeting, he glances at Odessa, but he still accepts my hand without hesitation. He even presses a chaste kiss to my knuckles as Michal arrives, dark and silent as a shadow. “Nice to see you too, Célie darling. And how has my most delectable friend been faring since we parted?”

“She’s been starving . Thank you for asking.”

“Ah, yes.” Dimitri grins, his gaze sweeping down my new figure. The impact is only marginally ruined by Michal’s overlarge cloak and my stained nightgown, but he kindly ignores both. Odd. The blood down my front hasn’t yet dried, but his body remains at ease. “We turned you into a vampire without teaching you how to act like one. Quite rude, wasn’t it?” Flicking an arch glance around the deck, he lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Though between the two of us, there might not be much to teach. Everyone on this ship looks approximately four seconds away from begging you to eat their heart.”

“Including you?”

Dimitri blinks in surprise before grinning wider, revealing his dimples. A devilish glint enters his eyes. “Don’t tempt me with a good time, darling.”

Michal scoffs.

Good. Though my cheeks warm, I force myself to stay still, to see how far I can take this. I’ve never acknowledged Dimitri’s flirtation before—let alone indulged it—because the stakes around us have always been too high. Furthermore, he never actually meant it. He doesn’t mean it now either, but he also doesn’t seem able to resist playing with me. He loves a game, Dimitri, especially one that irritates his cousin, and I do need to eat. Wouldn’t it be better to feed from someone I cannot accidentally kill? “You’d consider it, then?” I ask him.

I ignore the flutter of nerves in my stomach. Once upon a time, I flirted often—with Reid, with the local bookseller, with the handsome young men of society. Truthfully, I even enjoyed it. The thrill of a moment, a simple connection.

There is nothing simple about my connection with Michal.

Chuckling, Dimitri leans back against the crate. “Would I consider giving you my heart?”

Here goes nothing. With a delicate touch on his arm, I meet his gaze directly, and I smile—a brilliant smile, a glowing one; a smile I’ve never before given Dimitri. In truth, I haven’t smiled like this for a very long time, and it feels strained and unnatural on my face. He doesn’t seem to notice, however. His eyes widen infinitesimally at the sight, and he blinks, his pupils dilating as my fingers slide from his forearm to his hand. “Your blood,” I say softly.

Immediately, I know I’ve said something—not wrong , perhaps, but odd.

Odessa—who’d been watching us with curiosity—looks away swiftly, and even Dimitri stiffens slightly. His hand remains clasped around mine, however, even as he leans forward and lowers his voice. “You’re asking to feed from me?”

“Should I not?”

It isn’t Dimitri who answers. “Of course you should,” Michal says smoothly, “if that’s what you want.” I feel rather than hear him move directly behind me, his black eyes sliding down my body like shards of ice. I repress a delicious shiver. “ Is that what you want, Célie? To feed from my cousin? I am sure he wouldn’t refuse you—not after that smile.”

In front of me, Dimitri carefully withdraws his hand.

Though I glare up at him—no longer demure but silently beseeching him to stay —he avoids my gaze, avoids Michal’s too, and looks anywhere but at the two of us.

His lips, however, twitch.

Traitor.

Seeing no alternative, I spin on my heel to face Michal and crash right into his chest. “ Excuse you—” Taking a hasty step backward, I collide with Dimitri instead, and he seizes my elbows to prevent us both from toppling over the crate. Michal’s eyes darken at the touch.

And that—that is just unacceptable. “And what if I do want to feed from Dimitri?” That sense of recklessness crests higher, and I lean back against Dimitri’s chest, trapping him against the crate as he exhales an incredulous laugh in my ear. “Why are you all acting like it’s such a—a taboo request? You offered blood to me this morning, and no one batted an eye about that.” I crane my neck to glare at Odessa, who no longer pretends to admire the horizon and watches us with rapt interest. “And you said blood sharing is perfectly acceptable between vampires.”

“Did I?” she asks mildly. “I don’t remember.”

When Dimitri places light hands on my shoulders—as if unsure what else to do with them—Michal grips the mast beside him. His lip curls over his teeth. His very sharp teeth. “You’re testing my patience, pet.”

“I can feed from whomever I wish,” I snarl.

His eyes flash, and beneath his hand, the mast begins to splinter. “So do it.”

“I will!”

“I’m waiting.”

With another snarl, I whirl again, spinning in Dimitri’s arms and slinging my own around his neck. “Do you want to do this or not? Just tell me if you’re too frightened, and I’ll find someone else. I’ll proposition this entire ship if I must—”

The mast gives an ominous crack .

Snorting with laughter, Dimitri glances between Michal and me in wild disbelief—like he’s never seen anything quite like this. Like us . It only makes me angrier. “Well,” he says, “when you put it like that —”

“Don’t be an idiot, Dima,” Odessa says sharply, half rising from the crate. “Can you not see they’ve started to—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” Michal snarls.

“ What sentence?” I storm toward him before realizing what I’m doing, not stopping until our chests brush, until I’m forced to look up, up, up to meet his gaze. My breath hitches at what I see there—derision, yes, but also knife-sharp longing—and my thighs clench in anticipation. He sees it all, of course. He always sees it all. “What is she talking about?” I ask softly, adopting his lethal calm. I do not mean to do it. I cannot help myself.

His eyes fall to my lips, and his jaw clenches. “Nothing that concerns you.”

I seize his tattered shirt, resisting the urge to shake him, to climb his body until I can feel his muscles tense and flex beneath me. The strength in his fingers alone has nearly snapped the mast in half. “If you don’t tell me, I swear to—”

“To who?” He bends with a vicious smile, hooking my chin with one of those fingers and ever so gently prizing it upward. “Not to God, surely?”

I rear backward in outrage. “What is wrong with you?”

His touch vanishes in an instant, and he retreats several paces away. “So many things, Célie.” A bitter laugh. “So very many things.”

Humiliation floods my face at the abrupt absence of him. And in this moment, I hate all of it—the distance between us, the loathing in his voice, the blood in my cheeks. His blood. I hate that it flushes my skin. I hate that it sustains my body. Most of all, I hate that despite everything, I never would’ve fed from Dimitri, and Michal seems to know it.

“An egregious oversight on his part not to have informed you,” Dimitri says with a bemused grin, his dimples flashing, “but vampires don’t share blood with other vampires outside of very intimate situations.” He pauses meaningfully as if waiting for me to respond. When I don’t, he glances between us and says, “Sex, Célie. I mean sex. Or love, I suppose, which must mean my cousin—”

Shaking his head, Michal stalks past his cousin to the stairwell, and—without so much as a word—shoves him overboard.

Dimitri hits the water with a deafening splash.

Smirking despite herself, Odessa peers down into the churning waves as Dimitri curses, still laughing, but she waves him off with a flick of her wrist before turning back to me. “He’ll be fine. He can swim. And as for you—” She pats the crate, motioning for me to sit. “I wouldn’t fret about any of this. Vampires do not possess long memories—after the first five hundred or so years, no one will even remember this little debacle—”

“Odessa,” I manage quietly. “Please shut up.”