“Vows of dead men mean nothing,” Vlad spits like a viper. “The Volkovs were meant to rule this city. Itneverbelonged to the Morgensterns.”
“We trusted you.Itrusted you.”
“Your mistake, not mine.”
Poppy shakes her head, her chin strangely wobbling. “What about Kai? Nik?”
Vlad merely laughs like a madman.
“You forget that I know you better than you know yourself.” Poppy sneers, her knife drawing a thin stream of blood as she presses her weight into the blade. “You’re too stupid to be working alone. Who else is involved?”
Vlad runs his tongue along his toothy grin. “See you in hell,printsessa.”
Faster than she can react, he grabs her wrist and wrestles the knife from her grip—
Bang!
The gunshot is muffled by a thunderclap. Blood splatters the wall, smeared with chunky brain matter. Vlad doesn’t make a sound as gravity yanks him down to the ground.
Baby blues swing to me. My smoking gun automatically trains on the arrowhead fringe marking the bullseye between them.
A stilted silence limps by, louder than the storm.
With those glacial eyes leaking mascara tears and rain washing blood down her face, Poppy Morgenstern looks like a true angel of death. Her luminescent irises are stark against the bloodshot whites, adrenaline still pumping a chaotic current through her veins.
Fear is easy to read in most people; pinched features, stiff movements, erratic breaths. Hers, though, is sketched in every line of her trembling silhouette. This little devil with a Hadean heart isn’t just scared; she’s terrified out of her goddamn mind.
Bruises circle her slender neck in purple rings. My stare slashes to the man who made those marks on her delicate skin. What book should his hide be wrapped around?Misery?Bag of Bones?Or isCarriethe ultimate form of justice?
“Brontë,” Poppy croaks, tugging my focus back to her as she looks at me the same way she did when I was asleep. Like she understands—no, like sheseesme. “I need you.”
I need you.Those three words drop upon my head like a meteor slamming to the earth. She asked for my help, and I came to discuss my price. Not wave a gun in her face.
Slowly, I flick the safety and lower the weapon.
The relief in her eyes threatens to pulp my chest as she breathes, “Merci.”
I nod then jerk my chin toward the dead assassin. “Mind if I take him?”
Poppy glances between me and him, him and me. Her pink lips purse into an oddly adorable pout. “You’re not going to eat him, are you?”
“I’m not that kind of psychopath.”
“What kind are you, then?”
I brush past her, chuckling quietly. “My own special blend.”
PETIT DIABLE
Poppy
I’ve learned three things about Brontë Bourbon: he’s bitter, broody, and unbearably beautiful.
Brontë is a living replica of a literal deity—deeply bronzed skin; charcoal hair trimmed to a faded undercut rebelling from its slicked style to frame sharp cheekbones; tattoos of angels and demons starting just beneath his aggressive jawline and disappearing beneath the deepVof his black tee. Most mesmerizing is his smolder.Fuck,it could crack any chastity belt.
He’s the kind of man built to make mothers hide their daughters.
Brontë slides out a spine from the bookshelf beside my bed, where I’m cuddling Jezebel as we tolerate his unwelcome perusal of my room. “You’re a vamp girl?”
