Page 97 of The False Vow

I frowned. I was fairly sure I’d fallen asleep prior to the close of chapter one—far earlier than the spot he’d marked. He must have kept reading to me long after the point when I’d gone unconscious, just in case I woke up and needed comforting again.

Beside me, Noé shifted. I turned to find him watching me. He appeared as though he’d just woken up, his hair tousled and matted, his features softened by sleep’s gentle finger.

Still, his eyes were sharp. “Thinking already, are you?”

I smiled half-heartedly. “How can you be so sure?”

He returned my expression. “You are never not thinking something,” he said, propping himself up on his elbow. “Part of me believes you will go to your death and I’ll find you after the funeral, pondering away in your coffin. Though when it is me you are thinking about, you get a little furrow just between your brows.” He laughed when I frowned defensively. “There,” he remarked. “Just like that.”

His cheerfulness was contagious. Glancing away, I suppressed a smile, determined not to let him ruffle me.

“I’m reflecting on the events of last night,” I said instead.

At my change of subject, he sobered, though only slightly. “Tell me.”

And so I did. When I described the attack in the turret room, a look of alarm came over him. He pushed himself up higher, his elbow on the sofa’s armrest.

“So they’re gone?” he asked once I’d finished. “The gloves.”

“Yes.” Even admitting it made me feel like a failure. “And I’ve still no idea why the person who took them wants them—or whether they relate to Sybil’s death at all. My original plan was to corner the thief in my room—the place where I’d said the gloves were—and question them, but they…They outmaneuvered me.” I bit my lip, my neck burning. “I’m an idiot.”

Noé fell back. “An idiot?” he echoed. “You were the only one who took the gloves seriously to begin with. And your bait worked, at least partially.” He paused. “You say Clio denied stealing them?”

“And Eliot insists she is telling the truth.” I grunted in frustration. “Her Wit would have made tracking the gloves a simple matter, but another witch could have found them, too. Perhaps Mireille? One of the pair was torn, and she has the ability to fix broken things. She could have sensed their damage?”

Even to me, the theory sounded weak. Noé was silent. After a moment, he shrugged and leaned back against the sofa. “You’ll figure it out.”

He sounded confident. I glanced at him sidelong. “How do you know?”

He winked at me. “Because you are Lovett Tamerlane,” he said. “And they are mere mortals.”

Our stares locked. After the way we’d woken, holding his gaze felt too intimate, like an acknowledgment of all that had passed between us. Blinking, I glanced toward the floor.

Noé cleared his throat. “You know I am leaving today,” he said. “On that gods-awful bachelor’s trip.”

His stare was searching. The trip. His hunter’s sojourn with his groomsmen, a time-honored tradition according to him; in truth, I’d forgotten all about it. There had been a period after he’d first told me of the expedition that I’d looked forward to his absence—had counted down the days until he would leave me with all the anticipatory glee of a child awaiting a holiday. Now, though…

Well, how did I feel about it now?

In the end, lying seemed easiest. Steadily, I answered, “Yes.”

His expression was somber. “I know I can’t stop you from enacting any additional schemes while I’m away. But will you promise, at least, to be careful?”

The concern in his features made my stomach twist. “I am always careful.”

“No,” he countered thoughtfully. “You really are not.”

Shifting forward, he tucked a thumb beneath my chin, the motion so abrupt—so gentle—I could do nothing to defend against it.

“You know,” he murmured, holding me. “I am wondering when you will say it.”

I stared at him. “Say what?”

“That last night was a mistake.”

I’d briefly put aside my thoughts of last night; at his prompting, though, it all rushed back. At once, I recalled our entanglement, the sensations so intense, it was as though I were reliving them: his hands, his voice, the cold buzz of his lips. You utter sorceress.

Blushing, I adopted what I hoped was a teasing expression. “You are so convinced I will think it a mistake?”