The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(100)

émilie flinches.

My rage abates, a tide retreating from the shore.

“Regret?” I say softly. “For what?”

Her upper lip curls into the beginning of a snarl. “Regret is for fools.” Her laughter is like dried leaves caught in a twist of wind. “Do it. Lash out. If you don’t, I’ll destroy everything you love.” émilie looks behind my shoulder. I do not need to guess where she has turned her attention. “The half blood is next.”

The rage flows to my fingertips once more. I can take the blade in my hand and sever her head from her neck, just as she’s done to Odette. Bury the knife in her heart, all the way to the hilt, twisting it deeper than her betrayal. The demon in me is delighted at the prospect. My bloodlust longs for the satisfaction.

Unshed tears glimmer in émilie’s eyes, but she blinks them back, her teeth bared.

“Bastien.” Celine’s voice comes from behind me. “Don’t.”

It isn’t what I am. It is who I hope to become.

Be better than I was.

I think about my uncle, who used violence for centuries to protect the ones he loved. I think about Sunan, and the promise I held so close to my chest, of finding a way to be unmade.

Maybe this is my unmaking. Not from a demon to a man. But into a better version of myself.

I drop my hand from émilie’s throat and step aside.

I will not stand in the path of an unstoppable force. That is the way of disaster. The way of Death. Power isn’t about deciding who lives or dies. It is having the strength to walk away.

“Madeleine and Boone,” I say through clenched teeth. “Take Odette to Ifan.”

“It’s too late,” Madeleine says through her tears. “She is gone, my dearest. We must—”

“Take her. Now,” I command, my tone weary.

When émilie lunges at me once more, she is immediately restrained by Jae. The wolves in the shadows stir, preparing to resume what they started, despite their losses.

I sense their hesitation before I see it. I know that—without a leader—they will be hard-pressed to rally together. Before they have a chance to regroup, I let my voice carry across the deck. “Make a single move, and I’ll ensure that the Brotherhood dies here and now.”

The growls grow louder.

“Do as I ask, and I’ll let you leave to bury your dead and mourn,” I continue. “This”—I glance about—“is not the way forward.”

Boone’s nostrils flare. “She killed Odette, Bastien. Someone must answer for that. She cannot be allowed to find her way back to us or lead any more of her kind against us. That is foolish.”

Jae’s attention settles on me. “There is another way. I can take her to Lady Silla and ask that she be banished to the Wastelands.”

I consider this a moment before I nod in agreement.

“And what if she is able to escape? What if she seeks another way to wreak her revenge?” Madeleine says.

Jae’s eyes flash. “You know what must be done. An alpha that cannot run at the head of its pack is an alpha no more.”

A sharp spate of laughter fills the air. “They turn to you, little brother, to lead in the absence of our uncle. Set the right example,” émilie says, her tone jeering.

I inhale deeply. Then I nod at Jae. “Do it.”

The next instant, Jae cuts off émilie’s left hand at the wrist.





BASTIEN





Celine and I are the last to make our way back to the Hotel Dumaine.

I know both of us are stalling. Neither of us wishes to cross the threshold and discover that Odette is lost to us forever.

“Do you think there’s any chance?” Celine asks as we pause half a block away from the entrance to the hotel.

I know there isn’t. Her blood loss was too great, the wound too deep. “Maybe,” I say.

“Perhaps if I speak to my mother,” Celine says. “If I make her a promise.”

“If there’s anything to be learned from our time in the Vale, it’s the danger of too many promises.” I catch her hand in mine and pull her close.

Her voice wavers in my shoulder. “I’ll make any promise if it means Odette will live.”

I hold her tighter. Then I feel her stiffen against me. My nostrils flare as the scent of gunpowder is carried on the wind. I turn at once.

A man with an elegant mustache stands several paces away, a bowler hat in hand. His eyes are narrowed, his posture ramrod straight. In a second I recognize that he must have served in the military.

“Mademoiselle Rousseau,” he says, his accent unmistakably French. “I am Agent Boucher of the French National Gendarmerie in Paris.”

I move in front of her, my gaze locked on his.

“I represent the Marquis de Fénelon,” he continues.

Celine gasps behind my back, her fingers digging into my shoulder.

Agent Boucher sniffs. “He is quite certain you can tell him what happened to his son, Fran?ois.” He takes a step forward. “I have in my hand a notice that you are to accompany me back to Paris for questioning.”

“No,” Celine whispers. Her hands shake.

It is all I need to hear. In a ripple of movement, I grab the French police officer and drag him into the alley beside the hotel. He struggles, but my arms close around his throat, choking the life out of him.