“I … hate them.” Humiliating, she could not find her breath or stand and face him calmly. But the memory …
The bodies of her parents’ victims, left behind after the Order had slain her parents. The dead mortals had not been buried, for she was too young to manage digging a grave. Swarming with rats.
“I don’t like rats much myself. They are filthy creatures.”
He stroked the hair from her cheek. The touch was rough, his flesh not smooth, unlike Constantine’s soft, thin fingers. Viviane clasped his hand. She closed her eyes and held him there at her cheek. Chase away the memories. Concentrate on his warmth until she recovered her breath and tendered her confidence.
He was too close, too intimate with her. So wrong.
She did not care. Could not think beyond the safe feeling. It wasn’t wrong to take comfort, was it? She didn’t know. Rarely had she received the like. He must think her weak.
“Are you well, my lady? Tell me you were not harmed? Bitten?”
“Yes, a few bites.” Healed now, surely. “So awful. There were too many. I did not hear them until it was too late.”
Still gasping for breath, Viviane followed the stroke of her fingers down the front of his frockcoat. Simple pearl buttons wobbled on threads in need of tightening. The coat was old, a comfortable piece. He was not a Nava tribe member then, for they deemed a man worthy by not only his unbaptized state, but as well by his dress and aristocratic bearing.
The observation distracted her, and she needed that. Breaths settled. And her heartbeat resumed a normal pace.
His scent, earthy and rich, like a wide-open meadow or a vast, enclosed forest, appealed. Complex. Not dusty or perfumed as so many of her kind preferred.
Realizing her fangs had lowered she willed them up. Tucking her head, Viviane chastised her body’s irrational reaction. Anxiety always put her to defensive mode.
Yet so did desire.
“I thought you were Constantine.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“I am not disappointed.”
“Pleased?” he asked hopefully.
“No.” She wobbled, grasping for the wall.
Rhys Hawkes pressed his body against her, hugging her from breast to hip. It was a lover’s easy pose. His eyes held hers and he bowed to her. Would he kiss her? Dare he?
“We stand outside your home.”
For the first time she realized the wall behind her shoulder was the Chevalier stable. Truly her mind was out of sorts.
“I would escort you inside,” Rhys said, “but fear the invitation will not be offered.”
He slid a hand down her thigh—she’d forgone underskirts for the hunt; much quieter that way—and bent to squat before her. His hand moved over her shoe, tied with red moire ribbon, and up her ankle. Though she wore silk stockings, it felt as if his skin touched hers. Warmth burnished her flesh. He could wrap his whole palm about her ankle, contain her, control her—
Viviane realized he was feeling for the bites, not trying to accost her.
“I am sure any bites have already healed.” She pulled her ankle from his touch, yet regretted the lost connection. “Were you following me?”
He shrugged.
“When have I ever given you the suggestion I appreciate your company? You’ve spoken to me but once, and that was most unpleasant.”
“It wounds me your memory of our meeting was so foul. I found it most enjoyable. I think it was something I saw in your eyes. They are the color of a bright summer sky.”
Viviane looked away. The last time she had seen the bright sky …
Deprived of daylight for two centuries, she often wondered what it would be like to touch sunlight streaming through paned windows, and could still recall watching dust motes dance in a sunbeam before she’d been blooded at puberty.
She possessed a vague recollection of summer fields dotted with fresh cornflower and clover. Now all she had opportunity to see was the occasional moth on a suicidal mission toward a flame. Still, pretty in a macabre manner.
“Go away,” she whispered.
Monsieur Hawkes leaned in and delivered a wicked grin. “Make me.”
He stroked a curl of hair along her neck, so she swatted his hand none too lightly.
“Ouch. Do it again?” He snickered.
Viviane’s blood rose at the challenge. A gentleman would walk away. A rogue would have kissed her by now.
“You may like the vintage of my blood, Viviane.”
She bristled at his use of her name. It was too personal. He invaded her comfort. “I wager it is a less desirable vintage than I am accustomed to, Monsieur Hawkes.”
“Yes, I am to understand you city types sneer at the country appellations.”
“Only because they are so uncivilized and illmannered.”
“Are we still talking about blood, or have you turned to my person?”
“It is all the same.”
“Of course. You are the aristocracy.”
“You do not claim the same?”
“I am a humble provincial at your beckoning, Mademoiselle LaMourette. Ask me to slay all the rats in the city and I shall.”
She could not prevent a chuckle. “If but you could.”
Moonlight filtered between the nearby rooftops, gleaming on the harsh planes of his square jaw. Dark eyes glittered with the stars she could not see for the clouds. His thick, long hair was dashed with a gray streak as wide as two fingers. So wild.
He could have her if he but swept her into his arms and carried her inside. And then she would receive the satisfaction she craved this night.
He placed a hand above her shoulder on the wall. “Rumor tells you require a new patron?”
“My patron was Henri Chevalier,” she said tightly. Anger spilled over the tender wanting. “Constantine believes a wolf killed Henri and his wife in cold blood.”
