“Not at all. I’m an Anne Rice girl.”
He pulls another vampire fiction novel by a different author. “You sure?”
“Thatis a very unique fantasy where vamps have wings.”
The bastard spies another, smirking as he drawls, “Who taught you more French: Lestat de Lioncourt or Gabriel de León?”
My teeth grind. He’s too perceptive for his own good. “Are you done stalling?”
“I’m not stalling.” He slips the books back into place and leans against my desk in an attempt to look casual. He looks as comfortable as a priest in a brothel. “I’m waiting for you to start.”
“I don’t know where to start.” I rake my fingers through my soggy hair. It still looks like pink seaweed streaked with the blood of a traitor.
Thankfully, most of the evidence of Vlad’s death was washed off by the storm before we came in through the back and headed upstairs. Kahula didn’t even notice; the baker was too busy cleaning up for the night and singing along to Dove Cameron’sLethal Woman.Emi, on the other hand, did not miss the blood on me as we passed her room.
I’msonot looking forward to that particular interrogation…
“Do you start a book at the end or the beginning?” Brontë retorts, his tone as lifeless as a flatline. Sarcasm, I’m learning, is his first language.
“I think you missed your calling in stand-up,monsieur.”
“Unfortunately, that involves dealing with the worst kind of people.”
“The cheerful?”
“The living.”
I snort, and he almost—almost—cracks a smile.
An awkward silence ensues. He watches me as I watch him. What does he see? A woman or a monster?
Candlelight twirls through his multi-hued irises, blooming the ochre, burning the evergreen, charring the speckled patches of sunshine. All surrounded by enviously thick lashes and several creases at the edges betraying a life of laughter.
I can’t help but wonder if he laughs most with the living or the dead.
“Sit.” I point to the plush wingback at my desk. “You look uncomfortable, and it’s makingmeuncomfortable.”
I’m surprised when he doesn’t deny my assumptionanddoes what I ask.
Shirking off his damp jacket and hanging it on the back of the closed door, Brontë lowers onto the seat. He rolls his sleeves, revealing a scrawling portrait of more ethereal beings inked on his arms. Arms that are roped in thick muscle. His eyes flick briefly to my pink skull mask wedged between books on my nightstand.
“I just have one question.” Impressed he’s capping his curiosity, I nod for him to continue. “Are you in a cult?”
I blink then bark a laugh. “What kind of question is that?”
“The valid kind. You draw pentagrams with your victims’ blood and say shit like ‘by the stars.’”
“Tradition passed down through each Morgenstern generation since the day some distant ancestor supposedly made a deal with the Devil.” I wave off his blank stare, eyes rolling. “We’re an empire, not a cult.”
“Fair enough.” Brontë drags a hand over the bruises blooming along his temple and jaw from Vlad’s brass knuckles. Then he draws a folded note from his pocket.Thenote. “Perhaps you can begin by explaining what this means.”
It’s as good a starting point as any.
Brontë listens better than anyone I’ve ever met. Not once does he interrupt. He embodies patience, entirely calm and unbothered up to the yawning end of my long-winded monologue. Exhaustion has steadily pushed me down to the mattress, where I’m now sprawled on my stomach beside a snoring Jezebel.
“So,” Brontë says, leaning his elbows on his knees and scanning me as if assessing through a new lens, “you really are a princess.”
“That’s not exactly a normal response to someone telling you they’re a rising crime lord.”
