The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(16)

For a delicious instant, Bastien ignored it. Then he slid his hands from Celine’s waist, stepped back, and tipped his hat at her. With horror, she realized his touch had seared into her skin. That could be the only explanation for why the air around her waist felt so chilled. When he glided past her, the scent of bergamot and leather trailed in his wake.

A flurry of emotions raced through her body. Celine settled for indignation, grasping for it like a lifeline. When she turned to ensure she had the last word, she caught a glimmer of silver in her periphery. It took less than the blink of an eye to realize its source.

The man in the mud had freed a dagger from his boot, his scarred features feral in the moonlight.

Celine cried out in warning, yanking Pippa to one side. In the same instant, Bastien whirled, withdrawing a revolver from inside his frock coat in a seamless motion. He took aim— meaning to fire—but his friend lunged for the man with the dagger, his right hand wrapping around the man’s wrist.

Without explanation, the man slumped forward, as though he’d suddenly fallen asleep, the dagger clattering to the ground beside him.

It all happened so quickly. Celine blinked once. Twice. Pippa struggled for breath, her blond curls quaking above her brow.

“What did you do?” Celine whispered to the boy with the monocle. “Is he . . . dead?”

The two young men held a wordless conversation.

“He’s . . . asleep,” the boy with the monocle said carefully, as though he’d settled on a version of the truth. “He’ll be jolly good in an hour, though the lummox doesn’t deserve it.”

“But—”

“We’re finished here,” Bastien said, his tone cold. Forbidding.

Celine glared at him. “You are absolutely not—”

“My apologies, mademoiselle. And to you, miss.” He bowed curtly to Pippa before gliding away. “Arjun?” he called over his shoulder. “I believe I owe you a drink.”

“Far be it from me to refuse such a generous offer.” Arjun smiled mockingly as he reached for the fallen dagger, tossing it deep into the alleyway. Then he stood and wiped his hands once more. “Especially from such an esteemed gentleman.”

Celine bit down on nothing as they began walking away, struggling to maintain her composure, her fists clenched. This cursed boy had stolen much from her in these moments. The words from her lips, the breath from her tongue. Now he thought to dismiss her like a child?

“You are no gentleman, Monsieur Saint Germain,” Celine said loudly.

He stopped short. Pivoted on a polished heel. “Is that what you think, Celine?”

Celine stood taller, her knuckles turning white. “Yes. I do.”

Bastien leaned closer. A flicker of firelight caught on his gold watch chain. On the roaring lion etched into his signet ring. “I don’t give a fuck.”

Pippa gasped, both hands covering her mouth, her eyes wider than tea saucers.

Then Bastien continued on his way, Arjun laughing softly at his heels. Almost pityingly.

The word shook Celine. She’d never heard it said aloud. The sheltered life she’d lived in Paris had spared her from being trespassed by this kind of talk. Her father often commented that feminine ears were too delicate for such things. But Celine didn’t feel as though her delicate ears had been assaulted by the single syllable. Bastien may have uttered a foul word, but he’d spoken to her as he would a man. As an equal. Blood rushed through her body, adrenaline fueling its path. Horror settled in the base of her throat, a knot slowly tightening.

She knew this feeling. Recognized it. She’d felt it when her attacker had stilled on the floor of the atelier, crimson flowing from the wound in his skull, her hand clasped around the candelabra.

Celine felt . . . powerful. A part of something bigger than herself.

And still she did not feel a hint of remorse for anything she’d done.

It was terrifying to know such a dark creature writhed beneath Celine’s skin. This was not the behavior of a pious young woman, nor were these the emotions of a girl who should—by all rights—be seeking forgiveness. Salvation from a God she did not quite know or understand.

Celine blinked to clear her thoughts. Just as Pippa tugged on her hand.

“Are you all right?” Pippa said, her tone incredulous. “I can’t—” she tried. “I mean, can you believe what he said to you?”

Celine nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

She could not be certain what hand of Fate continued placing Sébastien Saint Germain in her path. Perhaps it was a test. God’s penance for her most grievous sin, that a boy shrouded in darkness would force her to see the light. Make of her a Good Samaritan.

But a greater fear lurked deep in Celine. Past the rush of blood, into the marrow of her bones.

No matter where she went, danger followed.

And it horrified her. Just as it thrilled her.





HIVER, 1872





RUE SAINT LOUIS


NEW ORLEANS




I catch her profile in the glint of a shining brass sign.

Her fear is reflected at me, her eyes bright.

I look away. It reminds me of the young woman from last week. I do not relish the sight of fear on anyone, though I know it to be a necessary evil. For if we do not understand fear, how are we ever to cherish safety?