"What serpent?"
"The one you drew. Coiled around a dahlia, whispering to it." His eyes search my face. "You drew it before we met. Before you knew what I was. Why?"
I've been avoiding this question since the moment he mentioned the sketch in the ballroom. The truth is, I don't have a good answer. I drew it on instinct, my hand moving without conscious direction, producing an image I didn't understand until I saw him standing in that doorway with blood on his hands.
"I don't know," I say honestly. "I just... felt something. When I was at the estate, preparing for the gala. Something watching me. Something—" I struggle for the right word. "Something interested."
"You felt me."
"I suppose I did."
"And you drew a serpent whispering to a flower." He smiles, and it's not the charming public smile or the predatory private one—it's something else, something almost wondering. "Not attacking. Not devouring. Whispering."
"Serpents don't whisper."
"This one does." He lowers his head and presses his lips to my ear, breath warm against my skin. "This one has been whispering to you for weeks, and you've been listening."
I shiver. He's right. He's been calling to something inside me, something I didn't know existed until he dragged it into the light. The darkness that recognizes darkness. The part of me that looked at a monster and felt not just fear, but fascination.
"I should go," I say again, but my voice lacks conviction.
"You should." He doesn't move. "But you won't. Not yet."
He's right about that, too.
We stay in bed for another hour, not touching, just talking. He asks about my work, my art, the biology degree I abandoned when my mother got sick. I ask about the estate, the serpent motifs, how long his family has lived here.
I don't ask about the murder. I don't ask about the Brotherhood. Those questions feel too dangerous, too likely to shatter whatever fragile thing is forming between us.
But I do ask one thing.
"Why me?"
He considers the question, his gaze distant.
"Because you saw me," he says finally. "In that doorway. You saw what I really am, and you didn't scream. You didn't run. You just... looked. Like you were trying to understand."
"I was terrified."
"You were curious." He turns his head to meet my eyes. "Everyone else looks at me and sees what I want them to see. The mask. The performance. You looked at me and saw through it, right from the beginning. Even before you knew what you were seeing."
I don't know what to say to that. The silence stretches between us, comfortable and uncomfortable at once.
"My mother used to tell me I saw too much," I finally offer. "That I noticed things I should leave alone."
"Your mother sounds like a wise woman."
"She's a frightened woman. There's a difference."
"Is there?" He reaches out and traces a finger down my cheek, a gesture that's almost tender. "Fear and wisdom often go hand in hand. The people who don't fear anything are usually the ones too stupid to recognize danger."
"And what do you fear?"
The question slips out before I can stop it. He stills, his hand frozen against my face, and for a moment I think I've pushed too far.
"Nothing," he says. But something flickers in his eyes—a shadow, quickly suppressed. "I fear nothing."
He's lying. I don't know how I know, but I do. There's something that frightens Gabriel Ambrose, something he's buried so deep he might not even recognize it himself.
