Page 9 of The False Vow

Noé smirked. “Well, after twenty minutes or so, I began to worry that you might have fallen victim to some gruesome feminine incident. Death by rouge, maybe?”

I arched a brow. “Nothing so fatal as that, unfortunately. Perhaps you’ll have better luck next time.”

His voice caught me as I started for the box again. “Wait a moment.”

I froze. My hand remained outstretched, still reaching for the doorknob, as he sidled nearer to me. The scent of wine clung to his skin, stale and fragrant like alleyway scraps; my pulse rose to a scream as he raised an arm, two fingers finding my jaw and coaxing it gently toward him.

His eyes met mine, then dropped to my lips. I felt the brush of his thumb against my mouth before I saw it—an icy nudge, like bumping the hand of a corpse. Stepping back, he dropped his gaze downward, toward his thumbnail.

“Smudged,” he murmured.

He lowered his arm. My heart seared against my rib cage, iron-hot, when I made out a crescent of a powdery scarlet substance beneath his nail: lipstick.

Picking at his thumb, Noé regarded the stain. “Now,” he mused after a moment. “How do you explain that?”

His tone was flat, entirely unemotional. I forced my nerves to calm. “Does it require an explanation? It is lipstick. It smudges.”

“Perhaps another casualty of the powder room?” Noé tucked his hands behind his back, letting his chin fall to the side. There was something in his voice I didn’t like. Mockery? I debated, but couldn’t quite place it.

“Perhaps,” I acknowledged cautiously.

“Curious.” He narrowed his eyes. “And yet, I should have said earlier, I spoke with an usher while you were away. He told me that the usual room has been closed off for repairs. Burst plumbing, or something of the sort.” Nodding over his shoulder, he motioned to the swath of hallway behind him—the opposite direction from which I’d come. “The replacement is that way.”

Dammit. My stomach dropped to my feet. Suddenly, my fiancé’s questioning—his unexpected manifestation at the bar—made complete sense.

He hadn’t been merely waiting for me. He’d been setting up a trap.

My hackles rose. Gathering myself, I went to work. “I circled the building,” I lied. “I wanted to delay my return.”

Noé appeared unconvinced. “And why would that be?”

“Because I dislike you,” I supplied easily. “Dear.”

My tone was acerbic, deliberately poisonous. I expected Noé to flinch at it, but instead, he merely chuckled.

“Am I truly such a bad companion?” I stiffened as he advanced a step closer, my chin naturally tilting up to keep him in my sight. “You know, since our engagement, I have not touched you once.”

A shiver went through me at the gravel in his tone. Dropping back, Noé held up his thumb, again presenting me with the lipstick smudge. “One more chance.”

Our eyes locked. His expression was steely, probing—whatever my excuses, he did not believe me; that much was clear.

Still, I held my ground. “I will not make up lies for you, simply because you dislike the truth. I was in the powder room. Believe me or not, but that is all there is to know.”

Ducking my head, I went to maneuver around him. While we’d been speaking, he’d managed to wedge himself between me and the entrance to our box, so that reaching the doorway was an impossible feat unless I slid directly past him. His eyes followed me as I moved, dead and dark, revealing nothing.

When I reached for the doorknob, he brushed his knuckle over my elbow, featherlight. “I’d like to try again soon.”

I paused. “I told you we would resume when I was ready,” I replied, looking up at him. “This is not a matter you can rush.”

It was an excuse I’d repeated several times in the months since our engagement. Whatever other information I’d tried to deny her, I hadn’t lied to Lucie about the state of my Wit. According to what Noé had told me at the end of the Vainglory, my ability to open doors should have been just the start of my gifts, and yet…no matter how I pressed it, my magic had so far remained stubbornly static. It was as if there were a great chasm in my head; every time I approached it, attempted to stretch my Wit beyond its previous boundaries, it simply…dropped away.

Admittedly, I was embarrassed by the fact, and my fiancé’s incessant pestering didn’t help. In recent weeks, he’d gone so far as to arrange multiple sessions for the two of us to experiment with my gifts—a fool’s errand. Thus far, our only finding was that we seemed unable to go more than twenty minutes around each other without ending up at one another’s throats.

After our last practice had resulted in a shouting match which had drawn the attention of several maids, he hadn’t attempted to schedule a new one. I’d hoped the change was permanent, but now he was reviving the topic.

“Neither is it one we can afford to delay indefinitely,” Noé answered. My throat tightened as he slid his finger down my arm, pausing to tug lightly on my engagement ring. “I was very clear when I proposed to you, darling. I do not require your love, nor your affection. All I ask is that you help me achieve a certain goal, which I have long desired to meet.”

His grip was loose. I felt as though he were holding me by my neck. “I remain committed to that goal,” I said. “Sir.”