The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(84)

Their lips were a hairsbreadth from touching. “I want”— Celine’s tongue was a taste away from his—“you to answer my goddamned questions.”

It took a moment for her words to register. A shadow crossed Bastien’s brow, a muscle working in his jaw as he unwound himself and took a careful step backward. Celine’s hands slid from his chest, her heels returning to earth once more, the dagger’s handle hanging limply in her palm.

She expected his anger. From an early age, Celine had known boys did not take well to girls who toyed with their desires. She was prepared for his anger. Prepared to unleash some of her own in return.

Rich laughter rumbled through the night. It began in Bastien’s chest, then barreled from his perfect lips, the sound unabashed with appreciation.

Celine stood frozen, stunned silent.

Why did he never behave as expected? And why did it make him even more damnably attractive?

Bastien continued laughing as if no one was there to listen. His lips crooked into a half smile. “Celine Rousseau, you’re—”

“—brilliant,” she finished, refusing to admit how unsettled she was by his reaction. “An absolute joy to behold.”

“I was going to say impossible.” Bastien shook his head, looking bemused for the barest stretch of time. Then his expression smoothed, ever the consummate chameleon. “But I suppose I’d be willing to consider other options.” He straightened. “If you want me to answer your questions, then name your terms.”

She blinked, resenting how he donned his guises with such ease. “You wish to negotiate?”

“If you’ll sheathe your weapon.” Bastien motioned toward the dagger in her hand.

Unbeknownst to herself, Celine had lifted the small blade into the air, brandishing it between them. Blinking like a deer caught in the crosshairs, she turned the iridescent handle toward him.

Instead of taking it, Bastien passed its mother-of-pearl scabbard to her. “Keep it on you at all times. The blade is solid silver. In these times, such a weapon is a necessity, not an option.” His tone would not brook any reproach. “And if need be, always aim for the throat.”

Celine swallowed. “Thank you,” she murmured. “Do you . . . truly promise to answer my questions?”

Bastien checked his pulse. Nodded once. “Not here. Every hedgerow in this cursed maze contains at least five spies.” He rubbed at the side of his neck. “Come with me.”





TREAD CAREFULLY




Sébastien Saint Germain loathed what he was about to do.

But his feelings could have no bearing on his decision.

It must be done. Tonight. Without a shred of mercy.

Celine Rousseau suffered from many misguided notions. The first of which was that she could be part of this world and not suffer the consequences. That she could stand toe to toe with creatures who would tear her to shreds without blinking an eye . . . and live to speak about it.

If there was anything Bastien had learned in his eighteen years, it was that humans—no matter how formidable or resilient—did not belong in an Otherworld filled with demons and beasts. In the shadowy underbelly of creatures who held nothing but scorn for the fragility of life.

The world in which Bastien had been raised.

It didn’t matter that Bastien wanted Celine in his world, more than anything. She was the first mortal girl to stand toe to toe with Nicodemus Saint Germain’s heir and not flinch. And perhaps—if these murders had not come about—it could have been possible.

Love is an affliction.

For the span of a breath, Bastien allowed himself to dream. The next instant, the dream coiled on itself like a snake, wrapping his heart in a vise. He needed to silence this foolish desire. His uncle had said it to him before. We forget our dreams, but nightmares linger with us evermore.

Celine was the precise opposite of what Bastien’s uncle desired for him in a wife. She was stubborn in her pursuits. Uncompromising in her approach. Characteristics his uncle refused to tolerate in any mortal. Not to mention that she lacked the cachet of a distinguished family. Bastien’s union with a pillar of New Orleans society was of tantamount importance to Uncle Nico. His marriage should be nothing more than a business transaction, and Celine Rousseau was not a wise choice in that respect, for countless reasons.

But these matters did not have bearing on Bastien’s decision tonight. Celine’s single month in this world had already caused her irreparable harm. The kindest thing for Bastien to do would be to cast her from it, so he would not become a nightmare lingering evermore in her mind.

He would rather be a dream she once had. Beautiful for a time. Meant to be forgotten.

It always ends in blood.

Bastien wasn’t a noble fool. Far from it. There was nothing noble about what he intended to do. It was purely selfish on his part. He could not watch Celine die, as he’d watched his family die. The image of her life draining from her body—of the spark in her eyes fading before him—stole the breath from his chest.

He was doing it for himself. Not for her.

Bastien stood taller, then sank his chin into the collar of his greatcoat, his expression morose. Celine leaned against the bars of the brass lift as they rode to the top floor of the Dumaine. When Bastien glanced sidelong at her, he tried to disregard the lovely shade of pink in her cheeks. Struggled to ignore the strange electricity pulsing between them.