“Only since you asked so nicely.”
I kiss her chilled smile and pull her down to the ground, settling her into my lap. She takes my thermos and sips it with a grimace.
“This shit is liquid tar.”
“Here’s a thought: If you don’t like it, don’t drink it.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Brat.”
“Prick.”
I chuckle as she nestles deeper into me like a cat curling into its bed. I settle my chin atop her head and stare out at the city as the sun slowly scorches the world awake. How long, I wonder, was she out here seriously considering her future with me while I was merelydreamingof living my future with her?
“Brontë?”
“Hm?”
Poppy twists in my arms, her eyes fusing to mine. Within them is an inferno of both heavenly and infernal flame, the brightest and the darkest parts of her looking right at mine. Her chin trembles, but she doesn’t say anything.
She doesn’t need to.
I know what she’s feeling. I feel it, too. Like we’ve found the secrets of the universe in each other, sharpening that guillotine still hanging over our heads. People are cannon fodder in her world. We’re now each other’s atomic bomb.
“Venez ici.” I marry my lips to hers, kissing the tiny tremble away. “Mon cœur bat pour toi. Sans toi, je ne suis rien. Tu es mon autre moitié dans cette vie et dans l'autre.”
“Translation?”
“My heart beats for you. Without you, I am nothing. You are my other half in this life and the next.”
She blinks tears from her lashes. “Brontë…”
“You don’t have to say anything. I just want you to know how much you mean to me.” I settle my palm over the bandage on her heart and the rune that I carved there. “Je t'aime, mon amour.”
Poppy tugs me down by my hood and kisses me. She doesn’t stop until the sun is bathing us in the light of a new dawn.
WRAITH
Poppy
The person staring back at me is hauntingly beautiful. She’s wearing a black lace kimono, half her sleek pink strands knotted with shuriken stars. Her arctic eyes are winged, her lips stained a midnight blue.
Too bad it’s just snakeskin hiding the liar beneath.
My gaze travels up, hers along with it, to the Leviathan mask in our hands. It’s a different style than the others, only half a mask. Someone had slipped it under the front door of Morgenstern Manor during the first night I shared with Brontë.
I checked the cams myself. They’d been scrubbed. I then deleted the footage of me finding the mask and tucking it into Brontë’s jacket that I’d been wearing for what was meant to be me brewing coffee for him as an early morning surprise.
I’ve been hiding the mask since then, along with the invitation now tucked into the holster beside my mini Glock strapped to my thigh and hidden under my skirt. I’ve spent weeks staring at the coordinates and date beneath, waiting for this night to come. They lead to St. Aurelius’s Liberal Arts. Unwilling to put Emi in any more danger than I already have, I checked the academy’s website and found a masquerade event being hosted on campus tonight in honor of their founder.
The unwritten instructions were clear: come alone and wear the mask.
I haven’t told anyone.
Tonight, the stars aligned. Mama and Papa are asleep. Brontë is working. Being at the manor has made it easy to keep this from everyone else.
Am I making a mistake? Probably.
