As she holds my stare, I see these past months reflecting back at me from her ocean eyes. We still hardly know each other, yet what we have feels almost like friendship.
But not quite.
No, this is companionship. A connection shared between kindred spirits. We’re alike, her and I, two predators circling each other in a cage. I’m a fool if I pretend otherwise. But Poppy is still a criminal. Even if she does ever forfeit her birthright, she’ll always bleed black.
It’s maddening, this magnetism. I want—no,needit to end. Before it turns me into the person I was before I fought to earn my halo and wings.
“In case you were wondering,” Poppy says, her gaze dropping to follow her forefinger tracing my tattoos, “the street cams outside Nik’s apartment were—surprise, surprise—scrubbedthe night Leviathan dropped by.”
I nod stiffly. “Did you scope out the graveyard?”
“No. Been busy losing a war.”
“Fair enough.”
“Has Emi found anything more on Margot?”
“Nothing but dead ends.”
“How is Dantë taking it?”
“He doesn’t know.”
“I see.” Her palm splays over my heart, and her tone softens as she whispers, “Do you care for me, too, Brontë?”
Of course I do. I’ve cared for her since I saw her fighting for her life in an alleyway. Hell, before that. Since I felt the scars on her hands as she handed me her favorite book and looked at me like I hung every damn star in the sky.
But this…whateverthisis, it would never work.
We are from two very different worlds. Poppy is a crime lord’s daughter. I am a coroner. She’s a criminal, and I work with cops to put people like her behind bars.
“It’s late.” I savor the cigar like it’s my last meal. “You should go. Talk to Emi. Process what happened to your friend.”
“I don’t want to talk to Emi. I want to talk to you.”
“Bonne nuit, Petit Diable.”
That face. It’s like I’ve plunged my fist into her chest and crushed the precious diamond inside.
Better this way,I tell myself, even as the beast within bellows its fury.
Poppy drops her hand and steps back. I look at anything but her. She doesn’t offer the apology she came here to give, and I don’t ask for it.
In less than an hour, we’ve reverted back to complete strangers.
“Bonne nuit,” she murmurs, “mon ange.”
Mon ange.My angel.
I have the sudden urge to set myself ablaze and burn myself all the way down to hell.
Poppy’s boots leave my periphery. The moment she’s gone, the cold slithers in. It permeates my blood, wraps my bones in permafrost, nestles in my marrow like an eternal winter. A violent shiver wracks me, my own body unstable without her infernal fire.
“By the angels,” I carp, rubbing an ache in my temple. “I’m so fucked.”
MAUSOLEUM
Poppy
