Page 59 of The Witch They Crave

She nods, pulls the door almost-closed. I hear her in the hall giving quiet instructions to someone. A minute later a second attendant appears with a velvet case—earrings, dark green—sets it on the vanity without eye contact, disappears. A third brings shoes. They move in and out like they've done this before, doted on a Vassard guest.

Something about that makes me want to hurl. But I put on the dress, and the earrings, and the shoes like a dutiful little captive.

The mirror shows me someone who looks like she belongs here. Everything in this wardrobe fits… and look good. Everything does exactly what it's meant to do–dress me up like royalty so that I’m endeared by the glitz and glamour and forget what the fuck Leopold’s problem is.

When I’m satisfied with my appearance, and no more accessories have been dropped off for me to borrow, I step out of my room and head downstairs.

Leopold is at the foot of the stairs. One hand in his pocket, the other finishing his cuff. He looks at me and his light eyebrows lift, his eyes starting with mine and then traveling down my body until he’s taken me all in.

"Green," he says. "Good choice."

I didn't choose it. He knows that.

His driver is already at the curb and I don’t ask any questions as we drive off campus.

The restaurant we arrive at doesn't have a sign.

It’s a door on a narrow street in the Quarter, black lacquered, no visible handle. Leopold's driver parks. Leopold gets out first, comes around, opens my door. The street is quiet. Old-quiet.

Inside it's candlelit, low-ceilinged, tables spaced further apart than they need to be. A maître d' appears from nowhere, takes our coats, and leads us through before I've said a word.

Leopold offers his arm at the entrance.

I look at it and then at him.

"There are people watching," he says, pleasantly.

"I'm aware."

He nods his head. "Then you understand."

I take his arm. He covers my hand with his briefly—one pat, like I'm a child who's done something right—and I resist the urge to step on his foot as we cross the room.

I count heads as we pass.

Vampires. All of them, near enough—one fae couple near the back, the rest old money from the posture alone. The nearest table clocks me before I've taken three steps. Then the next one. Heads lifting, nostrils barely flaring, the particular quality of attention that has nothing to do with my dress or my face. I’m a witch in a room full of predators.

I keep my chin up and my pulse even and let Leopold steer.

"Blood service," I say once we're seated. On the menu, below the charcuterie, plain as anything. I should have known he would take me to a place like this.

"Primarily a vampire establishment," Leopold says. "I hope that isn't a problem."

I shake my head, pretending I’m not rattled by potentially sharing a table with someone drinking blood across from me. I suppose I have to get used to it, being at a place like Devenir, living in the Vassard mansion.

I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to it.

He picks up his menu. I pick up mine.

The waiter arrives. I order the most expensive plate on the menu–because why not? Leopold sets his menu down says something quiet to the waiter that I don't catch, and the waiter nods and leaves. When he comes back a moment later, he sets a glass of dark liquid at Leopold's elbow.

Leopold picks it up. Doesn't look at me while he does it.

I roll my neck and find something to look at across the quiet hum of the restaurant.

"Go ahead and look," he says.

"I'm not staring."