The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(59)

Her vision hazy, Celine blinked. Then exhaled slowly.

“Celine,” Bastien said, his voice soft. Careful.

She nodded. “I’m . . . fine.” Celine continued staring at Bastien’s face, tracing its lines in an effort to calm herself, her throat dry, the words a jumble on her tongue. “How did you . . . I mean, you don’t need to—”

“Celine,” Bastien said again. Tentatively, he shifted a hand to the side of her face.

She kept still, though she wanted to lean into his touch.

“Tu vas bien?” he asked quietly, brushing his thumb along her cheek in a soothing caress.

Celine nodded. “But . . . please . . . stay.”

“I will.” Something glinted in his gaze. “I promise.”

“What—was that?” she whispered.

He hesitated, his thumb grazing the edge of her lips.

“Don’t lie to me,” she said softly. “I’m tired of all the lies.”

He inhaled through his nose. “It was . . .” He searched for the right words.

“Something inhuman,” Celine finished.

Bastien considered her for a moment. Then nodded.

“Did that . . . thing kill Anabel?” Celine asked.

“I can’t be certain. It’s possible.” His words seemed to ring of truth. Or maybe Celine simply wished to believe him. To dismiss the yellow ribbon. To ignore logic and listen to the whispers of her heart.

Fickle little fool that it was.

“It knew my name. Told me to come with it to the heart of Chartres.” Celine shuddered. “It asked me to die in its arms.”

A trace of rage rippled across Bastien’s face. “It’s gone now.”

“It might come back.”

“I’ll find it first.” Bastien’s fingers slid down her face, his palm framing her chin. His features took on a dangerous edge, his steel-flecked eyes bright and intense.

He looked . . . vicious. Like an avenging angel. Or a demon from Hell.

Celine wrapped a hand around his wrist. The way he spoke in this moment—the way he gazed at her—should have frightened her. But it didn’t. Instead Celine bowed into his caress. Tightened her grip around his wrist, the creature in her blood restless, feverish.

Bastien bent closer, his breath a cool wash across her skin, his lips close enough to touch. To nip. To taste.

He was going to kiss her. She was going to kiss him back.

And—for a blink of time—nothing else would matter.

A pair of footfalls across the street shattered their reverie. A well-dressed couple around her father’s age had stopped in their tracks, pausing to stare at Bastien and Celine, their expressions filled with shared disapproval.

All at once, Celine’s sense of propriety returned. She knew why the other pair looked upon them with such disdain. To anyone passing by, Bastien and Celine appeared to be two young lovers caught in a passionate embrace on a darkened street corner. Unknowingly, Celine’s fingers had twisted around the fine fabric of Bastien’s waistcoat, as if to tug him closer. The palm of Bastien’s free hand was pressed against the small of her back, dragging her against him.

She felt the heat of him through her bodice. Through her skirts. Felt it caress past her skin, into her soul.

Wanton. Sinful. Perfect.

With a gasp, Celine pushed away.

Bastien’s fingers fell from her throat. He stepped back. The fire in his eyes faded the next instant, replaced by amused indifference.

Celine swallowed, gripped by a sudden despondency. “Thank you . . . for coming to my aid this evening, Monsieur Saint Germain.”

Bastien nodded. “Of course.” He rubbed a palm against his neck, pausing to check his pulse, for reasons Celine could not begin to fathom.

Straightening stiffly, she looked about, seeking her own distraction. A few short blocks away, the noise of the carnival rose in her ears, the revelry drawing closer with each passing second.

“We should make our way back to the convent,” Bastien said above the rising din.

Celine nodded in agreement. But unease took hold of her at the thought of marching through the darkened corridors of the Ursuline convent. Of trying to fall asleep amid its lurking shadows.

She could not be alone right now, though she refused to say it aloud.

“I appreciate your offer to accompany me to the convent,” Celine said, her voice shaken by uncertainty. “I just . . .”

Bastien’s expression softened. Her heart stuttered when he moved toward her, only to catch himself midstep. “Would you rather walk someplace else first? Perhaps a nearby café for some coffee or a cup of tea?” he asked, his tone bordering on formal.

Celine hated to hear the distance in his words. Another wash of inexplicable sadness hollowed through her. How she wished she could ask him for what she truly wanted. How she wished she could admit it to herself.

The creature inside her rattled its cage, demanding to be released.

As if to mock her further, raucous laughter pealed in the distance, its echo cheerful. Unencumbered. Celine resented it greatly. More than anything, she wanted to feel as free as that ribbon of laughter. To remember what it felt like to feel safe in her own skin.

Darkness wrapped around her like a shroud, reminding Celine of her truth. How could she dare to wish for such a thing? She’d killed a man and run away, flouting French law. If the truth ever came to light, she could be hanged for it.