“That’s it.” Brontë chuckles at my disgruntled huff. “Unsatisfied,Petit Diable?”
Very.“No.”
He grins mischievously. “Lie.”
Unexpected heat blooms low in my belly.Why is that hot?
“One answer is better than none, no?” When my frown gouges lines into my cheeks that I’m sure will leave permanent creases, his shoulders shake with a throaty laugh. “That face.”
I scoff, sifting through my mental list and landing on a crucial plot hole. “What happened in the time between Valentine and Salem?”
His lighthearted laughter fades into the oppressive shadows. “My siblings and I got ourselves involved in shit no one ever should.”
My interest piques. “Like what?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“Why not?”
“It’s your turn. Not mine.”
A lesson my father taught me long ago: deflection defines guilt.
I stomp on Brontë’s boot, halting him. “Are you afraid I’ll find out you got yourself involved with shit like Leviathan?”
Victory sings in my veins as he flashes his teeth at me in a silent snarl. “Don’t, Poppy.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t push me. Not on this.”
“Why? What are you hiding?”
“Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”
“Is that so? Because it seems to me thatyoucould be another mole.”
“I’m not.”
“Bullshit.”
Brontë inhales a long breath and exhales through his nostrils. If he were a dragon, smoke would be billowing from his mouth. His rage is a wildfire, sinful and scorching. It fuels my own, my fingertips heating as blood pumps into the farthest reaches of my body.
“Nothing to say for yourself?” I taunt, my grin growing serpentine. “Was that story bullshit, too?”
His pupils slowly expand to encompass the colors. His rising wrath is a deep, dark void of black fire. I want to see itignite.
“Let’s skip to the end of this book, shall we? You show me your brand, and I’ll make your death swift. Maybe I’ll try my hand at bookbinding. Wrap you around the Devil’s Bible. An ode to mommy dearest—”
Brontë grabs my throat, forcing me backward. I gasp, shoving the butterfly knife from my pocket under his chin. A trickle of blood slides down the rainbow blade from his stubble to my trembling fist. His fingers pulse, his nose brushing mine as his lungs heave with adrenaline.
It takes me a long beat to realize his hold on my neck isn’t as tight as it should be.
“I am not your enemy, Poppy,” he whispers, rogue strands of his hair tickling my brow. “I’ve saved your lifetwicewhen I could’ve taken a seat and watched you die. I bear no brand, nor am I associated with Leviathan. Your skull is as thick as a fucking brick wall, but you’re not stupid. Stop mining for gold in a trench full of nothing but bones.”
I gulp, my body trembling with an unhealthy dose of relief and excitement. Relief, because he’s proven my theories about his intentions wrong yet again. Excitement, because I now know how to crack his icy exterior and burrow under his skin.
How fucked up is it that I crave this man who turns corpses into books to rip my pants down and choke me while he fucks me in the dark?
