Quinn sniffles wetly. “Maybe we were never friends after all.”
“No, I suppose not.”
Quinn says nothing as she gathers her belongings and heads for the doors. Not once does she look back. At the threshold, she pauses and tilts her head to show a quarter of her shaded profile as she debates saying what she ultimately chooses to voice.
“I’ll put in a request to switch around my shifts so I’m working when you’re not. Probably best we stay out of each other’s way from now on.”
“Couldn’t agree more.”
The doors shut behind her with a final, mournful note.
POWERLESS
Poppy
Iinhale the faint scent of incense smoke and old books fused with snow and sea brine. Without opening my eyes, I know where I am.
Home.
Not Beelzebub’s, but the place I called home for eighteen years before I put what distance I could between me and my ancestors’ everlasting shadow.
Morgenstern Manor.
A barbed tongue tickles my face, and I swat it away. “I don’t need a bath, Jezebel.”
“Petit Diable?”
My eyelids snap open.
I’m in my room where I grew up, swathed in a sable yukata printed with pale pink cherry blossoms. Empty chairs surround me. The fire in the hearth is low. Jezebel purrs as she flicks her snout up to lift my chin. Clinical monitors map my pulse. An intravenous morphine drip is in my arm. A hand squeezes mine, and my gaze clashes with twin hazel firestorms.
Memories flood my system, and my heart kicks. “Mon ange?”
Relief strikes his beautiful features like a meteor crashing to Earth. Tears in his eyes, he kisses my palm, but it’s not enough. I fist his shirt and pull him toward me, albeit weakly. He climbs onto the bed,slinging an arm over my shoulders and tucking me into his side as I sob against his chest.
I could’ve died.
I could’ve fuckingdied.
My father may have raised me to be fearless, but death never stopped being the ultimate nightmare.
Brontë wraps me in his warmth, his arms strong as steel. He dips his head to meld his cheek with mine and hums a song into my ear. It sounds like a French lullaby. I don’t know how long we stay like that: me, snotting all over him; him, holding me like he’ll never let go. Eventually, the maelstrom of emotion passes, leaving me drained and barely conscious as I nuzzle the hollow of his throat.
“How are you feeling,ma reine?”
“Like I took a knife to the gut.” I smile as he lets out a hoarse chuckle. “High as the fucking moon.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts.”
“I intend to.”
He thumbs my fringe aside and kisses my brow. “Do you remember what happened?”
I wish I didn’t, but I do. “I squared things with Nik and then had a panic attack. A woman wearing a Leviathan mask came out of nowhere, grabbed my knife, and stuck me. I fired a shot. The bullet grazed her ear. I fired a few more, but nothing hit.”
Brontë stiffens. “A woman? You’re sure?”
“She was wearing tight robes and definitely had tits.”
