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Elegant even in his annoyance, this malchik.

I wipe my lips with the back of my hand.

“If you have an opinion to express, please do not mortify yourself by holding it back.”

He stops for a second, his step uneven among the leaves, then moves again, closer than before. His gaze is ice-cold.

“It is not customary to drink during a hunt,” he mutters in a low voice. “Anyone with a shred of common sense knows that.”

Then he moves another half-step forward, just enough for his scent to hit me full in the chest. His hair brushes his cheek as he leans toward the flask in my hand.

“And tell me,” he adds, “what on earth is this mixture? I can smell it from a distance.”

I walk on without slowing down, a half-smile forming at the corners of my mouth.

“It is poison. Would you like some too? It will do your tender young flesh some good.”

He looks back at the flask. His indigo eyes show no emotion, but his hand reaches out toward me.

For a moment I stiffen, my fingers hesitating on the cold metal, then I hand it over. He takes it delicately and brings it to his nose.

Without hesitation, he tips the flask and lets the contents pour onto the ground. As the clear liquid soaks the earth, the pungent aroma rises.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“As I said, one does not drink during a hunt.” He sets off again with a calm, impeccable pace.

Behind me, I hear Laurence smothering a laugh.

His valet quickens his pace to catch up with the Viscount, his voice lowered and veiled in disappointment. “Vicomte, il n’est pas convenable d’agir ainsi.”

I speed up until I reach him, frustration pulsing in my temples.

“Do you really think you can decide for me?”

He doesn’t slow down. “I intend to live as long as possible.”

“And what has that to do with my flask?”

“If your mind is clouded by alcohol, you might mistake me for a pheasant and shoot me.” He says it with a serenity that borders on insolence.

“You look nothing like a pheasant.”

He raises a hand toward me. “Silence.”

Silence? Is he telling me?

I open my mouth to retort, my gaze instinctively lifting toward the pattern of the branches, but before I can even focus on what is in front of me, his rifle is at his shoulder in one fluid motion and a sharp crack rips through the air. A pheasant thuds to the ground, helpless among the leaves. The Viscount lowers his weapon with the same composure one uses to pull off a glove. He doesn’t even look at me.

This little bastard.

His valet reaches the fallen pheasant with a quick step, kneels, and nods with a smile.

“An excellent shot, Monsieur le Vicomte.”

Laurence, just behind me, lets out a low, admiring whistle.

“A truly remarkable aim.”