Brontë’s rich chuckle trickles through the door. “Bumblefuck?”
“Mind your own business and go away.”
“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Lie.”
“I hate it when you do that.”
“Oh, look. Another lie.”
I set my vape on the nearby sink counter with a sigh. “What’s wrong isn’t something you can fix.”
The door drifts open. I glance down at the evidence of my misery still dangling between my fingers. Quickly, I wind the candle into my hair as light pours in from the bedroom.
Brontë leans a shoulder against the frame, angling his jaw as he studies me from across the space. He’s in his tastefully tight black tee and cargo pants, the charcoal strands of his hair slipping free of their slicked style. His clever gaze flits to my vape then sweeps over the slivers of soapy skin he can see in the dim light.
“You make brooding in a bubble bath look sexy,ma reine.”
"I'm not in the mood."
"That's a first."
“I told you not to come in.”
“Actually, you told me not to cross the threshold.” He toes the wooden panel separating the rooms. “I think my hide is safe from your bumblefucking.”
Cheeky bastard.“For now.”
He grunts, unfazed. “Talk to me, Poppy.”
“I don’t want to talk. I want you to leave.”
“Lie.”
“What do you want from me, Brontë?” I explode, whirling in the tub so swiftly that water sloshes over the lip and slaps onto the floor. “Is it a confession you wish to hear? A truth free of any lies? Fine, here it is.”
I rip the candle from my hair and whip it at his chest.
“My mother gave me an out, and I can’t seem to decide which path I want to walk. I made my first kill at nine years old, and I lost count of the lives I took before I was old enough to drive. It didn’t matter ifthey were men or women, young or old. I killed them all, because this is what I was born and bred to be. Nothing changes that.Nothing.No one, not even you, is going to save me from the damage done to my soul. And if anything were to ever happen to you because of me, I’d eat a bullet so I’d never have to look at myself ever again. How isthatfor the fucking truth?”
I don’t know what kind of reaction I’m expecting from him. A snapping riposte, maybe even a draconic roar I know he is entirely capable of making. He doesn’t do any of those things. No, he just pivots on his heel and walks away.
I sink under the water and envision strangling myself, screaming into the depths until my brain goes numb. When I slide back up, coughing suds, I glimpse a silhouette leaning against the sink and jolt out of my skin.
Brontë juts his chin toward me. “Finished?”
No longer trusting my forked tongue, I nod.
“Très bien.” He proffers a palm. “Out.”
I obey, shivering as his warm, calloused fingers close around mine. He leads me to my bed, nudging me forward with a palm splayed low on my spine.
“Lie down.”
I dig my heels in, rubbing my cramping abdomen. “I need a t—”
