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“Fine,” she says, huffing out a sigh. She snags a leather jacket from behind her door. “But we’re hooking up later. I’ve got some frustration to work out too, you know.”

I don’t respond, and I ignore Beatrice’s attempts at conversation as we cross the Night Realm into neutral territory. By the time we arrive at the Paragon, she’s fallen silent. She walks with her arms crossed and her eyebrows slanted, shooting me occasional pissed-off glances.

“Why did you ask me to come if you’re going to ignore me?” she asks. She leads the way up the stairwell, shoving through the final door and striding out of the Echo without a moment’s hesitation.

I’m a second behind her, blinking away the headrush that comes with jumping worlds. I let my eyes adjust to the brighter lights of Aberlena University before hurrying to match Beatrice’s brisk pace.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“What exactly are we doing here, anyway?” she asks. Arms still crossed, scowl still in place.

Beatrice was supposed to get Grace off my mind. Instead, I’ve got two pissed women now.

“The witch has needs,” I say finally.

“Like…?” Beatrice trails off before her eyes finally widen. “Oh, like her menstruation! I forgot witches do that.”

“Hells, no,” I say, though that does raise a good point. I’ll need to see what Cora can do about stopping that. The last thing I need is her bleeding and a young vampire losing his head. Glancing at Beatrice, I admit, “She wants tomato soup.”

Beatrice stops so abruptly I nearly crash into her. She glares at me, mouth open in horror, but I don’t stop. I swivel around her and jog down the main steps of Aberlena. The sun is high overhead, and it instantly drains me of… everything . I feel weak and slow and vulnerable.

Beside me, Beatrice pulls on her coat. I didn’t think to bring one.

“You did not bring me to come grocery shopping with you,” she says. She holds my pace, craning her neck to look at me. She’s much shorter than Grace, even with her heeled boots.

“I did not,” I affirm. “I brought you to go grocery shopping alone. I have other agenda items while we’re here.”

“Then let me do the cool shit,” Beatrice snaps. “Just because I’m a woman, doesn’t mean I want to go grocery shopping for your new sex toy.”

“Watch yourself,” I say. I grab her arm, pulling her to a stop. We’re near the park where Grace attempted to kill me. “Do not forget your place.”

“Yes, Master,” she says. Her chest is heaving, lips twitching, holding back a snarl.

We walk in silence until we reach a grocery store. There, I dig a folded piece of paper from my pocket. It’s a list of ingredients for fucking soup. Tomatoes. Heavy cream. Three types of cheese.

I hand it to Beatrice, along with a few human monies, holding my breath as she takes it.

Thankfully, she doesn’t say another word.

She clenches the notes in her fist, gives me a stiff nod, and marches into the store.

I go into the neighboring building, some shop that’s supposedly having a BIG SALE!

on televisions and computers. I grumble under my breath, remind myself of the big picture, and head inside.

When we get back to the Echo, Beatrice leaves me with her grocery bags and another nod. Apparently, somewhere between expecting shopping and discussing Grace, sex fell off the agenda. Part of me wants to push it—I really could use a quick fuck—but I don’t.

I take the bags to the servant kitchens and hope this makes the difference between Grace being useless and the key to our salvation.

When I arrive at Cora’s room, she opens the door before I can knock. She and Grace share bleak expressions, and neither one looks at the other.

“She’s hopeless,” Cora informs me. She crosses her arms over her chest, lips twisting. “I’ve never met such a useless caster. ”

Grace doesn’t say anything, but she releases a heavy sigh. Blush swims over her cheeks, sending a rush of blood-scented perfume through the air. I clench my breath in my lungs.

“You should do something about her blood,” I tell Cora, ignoring her statement. “She’s fucking dangerous like that.”

Grace raises her eyebrow.

“Witches smell rancid to vampires,” Cora elaborates. She glances briefly at Grace before returning her glower to me. “And I can’t change her blood now. She’s too old. It has to be done to infants or embryos.”

“Fine,” I say, even though there must be a way. For now, I’ll deal with it. “What about her menstrual cycle? Have you found a solution?”

“My what ?” Grace snaps. She shifts until she’s blocking Cora, forcing me to look at her. “You’ve been talking about my period?”

“In case you’ve forgotten,” I say. “You’re surrounded by vampires. We drink blood. You spilling it every month doesn’t exactly bode well for your survival here, now does it?”

“I thought witches are rancid?” she asks, eyebrow lifting.

“Most,” I say. Without permission, my gaze flickers to her throat.

Her jugular twitches with her pulse, begging to be tasted.

“You smell fucking divine, Grace. Like nothing I can describe. We’ve yet to have a single conversation where I haven’t dreamt of draining every drop of blood from your body. ”

The blush leeches from her face, leaving her pale and wide-eyed. Good. Let her be reminded of reality.

“Let’s go,” I tell her. Once she’s stepped into the hallway, I regard Cora again. “Tomorrow must be better.”

When I head down the hallway, Grace sticks closer to my side. Her eyes dart around us as we walk. I could tell her not to worry—none of my followers are stupid enough to attack her if she’s with me—but I keep that to myself. Fear is good for people like her.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

We passed her quarters a few hallways ago. I figured she hadn’t noticed. All the doors look the same in this part of the manor. Unmarked, heavy wood, accented with iron rungs.

“Sebastian?” she presses.

“Patience, little witch,” I say.

She makes it two more turns before she clears her throat.

“If you’re taking me somewhere to kill me, you should at least let me know. I’d like to request?—”

“Of course you would,” I cut her off. I stop in front of the library door, leaning against the wall to glare at her. “You would have a request regarding your murder. If only you put as much attention into your casting as you do your neediness, we’d likely be done with this by now.”

She presses her lips together, eyes flickering away from me.

She swallows, and I follow the subtle movement in her throat.

I take a breath even though I know I shouldn’t.

Her smell fills my nostrils, invades every thought, until I’m only thinking of her blood and how sweet she would taste on my tongue.

“I’m trying, okay?” she says. Her voice breaks, forcing my attention from her jugular to her eyes.

Her dark blues water with unshed tears, and I watch, waiting for them to fall.

Instead, she blinks them away, swallowing again.

“I know you and Cora don’t believe me, but I am trying.

I just…I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m in this strange place with crazy pe ople, and they’re asking me to do something that shouldn’t exist. Okay? It’s just?—”

“Here,” I interrupt. I can’t take it anymore, the shaking lip, the welling eyes. I lean around Grace, my breath held, and open the door to the library.

She turns, stepping hesitantly inside the room.

It’s as dark, dank, and dusty as ever. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, all filled with ancient and weathered texts.

A long dark wood table, cluttered with papers on one end and Grace’s set-up on the other.

Across from the table, there’s a small fireplace and two overstuffed armchairs.

The fire is lit for the first time in over a century.

“What is this?”

“Your requests,” I say. I don’t mean to snap the words, but I do. “Your tomato soup. Your Legally Blonde , whatever the hells that is. And once you’ve eaten every fucking drop, you’ll get your shower and change of clothes.”

She looks over her shoulder at me, and that softness I glimpsed yesterday returns.

Fuck me, she’s pretty like this. I can’t explain why, but I despise her for it.

For that smile, for the gentle blush on her cheeks.

I despise the way it makes me picture her naked, sudsy, head tilted back in the shower, water streaming between her breasts.

Too easily, I imagine myself pressed against her back, fingers tracing?—

“Thank you, Sebastian,” she says. She reaches for my hand, and I jerk back as if her touch burns.

“Go eat,” I tell her. Distance. I need distance. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”

The hard stare is back. The heavy grimace. She hates me again, and I suddenly realize how vital that hatred is.