The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(56)

“What are you doing here?” a deep and sonorous voice asked, its echo trailing from the ceiling. Celine’s vision strained until she could almost see a figure resembling a living shadow gliding down the stairs.

“I—I was hoping you would tell me.” Celine hated that she’d stammered. Hated that she’d betrayed herself in such a simple manner. She stood, her silk skirts swishing with the movement.

“And what if I told you this was the wrong place to have hope?” he continued.

“I would tell you to go to the devil.”

He paused in his slow descent, his silhouette coming into focus. “What if—”

“I swear to God, if you say you’re the devil, I will scream.”

“What will you do after that?”

“Start breaking things.”

Laughter rumbled from his chest. Even from a distance, it caused a shiver to pass between Celine’s shoulder blades. “Of course you would,” he murmured, his voice like silken sin.

Bastien came to stand in front of her, moving like smoke from a candle flame, a giant serpent slithering in his shadow. He wore no cravat or jacket. His waistcoat was fashioned of simple charcoal silk, his white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. When he placed his hands in the pockets of his trousers, it was like watching a statue come to life. An ache spread through Celine’s chest. Even in low lighting, he was striking. Beautiful enough to cause her pain.

Celine took a step back when the snake at his heels hissed before vanishing into the darkness beneath the winding staircase.

“What do you want, Mademoiselle Rousseau?” Bastien asked.

She cleared her throat. “I came here because everyone is lying to me, and I’m tired of it.”

He lowered his head. Peered at her through his sooty eyelashes. “And you expect me to tell you the truth?”

“You may not tell me the truth, but I shall know it regardless.”

“Despite my better judgment, I’m intrigued. How will you know?”

“Because your eyes don’t match your words.”

Bastien leaned back on his heels. “And what do my eyes tell you, Mademoiselle Rousseau?”

Celine swallowed. It was like peering down the barrel of a gun. “You may say you want me to leave. But your eyes are begging me to stay.”

She could swear on her soul that a flicker of dismay passed across his face. Then his expression hardened into one of ice. “Go home, mademoiselle. Fall asleep in your warm bed. Dream your ridiculous dreams.” He turned to leave.

Desperation drew Celine closer. “You won’t like my dreams.”

He paused, glancing at her over one shoulder. “Why is that?”

“You haunt them.” She took another step. “You haunt me.”

“Fitting. My family used to call me the Ghost.” He bowed. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Bastien.” Celine’s voice shook. “Please. Don’t walk away from me.”

He stopped short, his back to her, his fingers flexing at his sides.

“Please,” she said again in a broken whisper. “Help me.”

“I can’t help you, mademoiselle.”

“You can. You can tell me what happened.”

Bastien turned around, his gaze hooded, his expression detached. “You don’t need someone to tell you what happened. You already know. You were attacked by a madman. You almost died. The most I can offer you beyond that is this: the man who attacked you did so because he hated me.” He spoke as if he were delivering a medical diagnosis, completely devoid of emotion. “It is my fault you almost died. Learn from your past mistakes so that you don’t make them again.” He began to leave.

“No.” Desperation clutched Celine’s heart. Bastien wasn’t going to help her. He wasn’t going to offer her a way to regain what she had lost. Despite what she’d suspected, her pain did not seem to matter to him. “If you’re the reason I almost died, then you owe me an explanation,” she demanded.

“I owe you nothing.”

“I want my memories back.”

His lips pushed forward as if to taunt her. “Your memories are not mine to give.”

“At least answer my questions. That much you can do for me.”

Bastien waited in cold silence.

“Did I . . . love you?” Celine asked.

He said nothing in response. The beat of her heart thundered in her ears.

“Did you love me?” she pressed, hating how much she craved his answer.

“You’re asking the wrong questions.”

Her treacherous fingers ached to reach for him. “It doesn’t matter what I ask, since you refuse to answer me.” She twisted her hands in the folds of her skirts.

“If you want an answer, ask a better question.”

“I don’t want to play these games with you.” It was a risk, but Celine closed the distance between them without warning, moving far too close for polite company. In response, Bastien took half a step back before he stopped himself.

“If you don’t want to play games, then what is this?” he asked, looking down.

She stood tall. Unwavering. “A test.”

“I hate tests.” He matched her, toe to toe.