Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove, #1)(60)

When the second song started, my husband leaned closer. His breath tickled the skin of my neck. “Jean Luc said you were looking for me this morning.”

“It’s rude to talk during a performance.”

He narrowed his eyes, undeterred. “What did you want?”

I turned my attention back toward the stage. Hook-Nose had just swept back into view, her corn-silk hair rippling across her shoulders. The movement stirred a memory, but when I tried to grasp it fully, it slipped away again, like water between my fingers.

“Lou?” He tentatively touched my hand. His was warm, large, and calloused, and I couldn’t bring myself to pull away.

“A knife,” I admitted, eyes never leaving the stage.

He sucked in a breath. “What?”

“I wanted a knife.”

“You can’t be serious.”

I glanced at him. “I’m deadly serious. You saw Madame Labelle yesterday. I need protection.”

He gripped my hand tighter. “She won’t touch you.” The oily man beside us coughed pointedly, but we ignored him. “She won’t be allowed inside Chasseur Tower again. The Archbishop gave his word.”

I scowled. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

His expression hardened, and his jaw clenched tight. “It should. The Archbishop is a powerful man, and he’s vowed to protect you.”

“His word means nothing to me.”

“What of my word, then? I vowed to protect you as well.”

It was laughable, really, his dedication to protecting a witch. He would’ve had kittens if he knew the truth.

I arched a wry brow. “Just as I promised to obey you?”

He skewered me with a black look, but the oily man wasn’t the only one openly glaring now. I settled back in my seat with a smug toss of my hair. He was far too prim to argue in front of an audience.

“This conversation isn’t over,” he muttered, but he too sat back, staring moodily at the performers. To my surprise—and grudging delight—he kept my hand fixed beneath his. After several long moments, he casually brushed his thumb along my fingers. I wriggled in my seat. He ignored me, gazing steadily at the stage as the performance wore on. But his thumb continued moving, drawing small patterns on the back of my hand, circling my knuckles, tracing the tips of my nails.

I struggled to concentrate on the performance. Delicious tingles spread across my skin with each sweep of his thumb . . . until slowly, gradually, his touch trailed upward, and his fingers grazed the veins of my wrist, the inside my elbow. He stroked my scar there, and I shivered, pressing back in my seat and trying to focus on the performance. My cloak slipped down my shoulders.

The first act ended too soon, and intermission began. We both remained seated, silently touching—hardly breathing—as the audience milled around us. When the candles dimmed again, I turned to look at him, heat rising from my belly to my cheeks.

“Reid,” I breathed.

He stared back at me, his own flushed, panicked expression mirroring my own. I leaned closer, gaze falling to his parted lips. His tongue flicked out to moisten them, and my belly contracted.

“Yes?”

“I—”

In my periphery, Hook-Nose spun in a pirouette, her hair flying wild. Something clicked in my memory at the movement. A solstice celebration. Corn-silk hair braided with flowers. The maypole.

Shit.

Estelle. Her name was Estelle, and I’d known her once—in my childhood at Chateau le Blanc. She obviously hadn’t recognized me before with my freshly smashed face, but if she saw me again, if she somehow remembered . . .

The heat in my belly froze to ice.

I had to get out of here.

“Lou?” Reid’s voice echoed from afar, as if he called from the end of a tunnel and not from the seat next to me. “Are you all right?”

I inhaled deeply, willing my heart to calm. Surely he could hear it. It thundered through my entire body, condemning me with each treacherous beat. His hand stilled on my wrist. Shit. I pulled it away, twisting my fingers in my lap. “I’m fine.”

He sat back in his seat, confusion and hurt flashing across his face. I cursed silently again.

The moment the final song ended, I leapt to my feet, pulling my cloak back on. Ensuring the hood covered my hair and shadowed my face. “Ready?”

Reid glanced around in bewilderment. The rest of the audience remained seated—some breathless, some weeping at Emilie and Alexandre’s tragic deaths—as the curtain fell. The applause hadn’t yet started. “Is something wrong?”

“No!” The word burst out too quick to be convincing. I cleared my throat, forcing a smile, and tried again. “Just tired is all.”

I didn’t wait for his answer. Tugging his hand, I led him past the aisles, past the patrons finally rising and applauding, and into the foyer—and skidded to a halt. The actors and actresses had already formed a line by the doors. Before I could change directions, Estelle’s gaze found Reid. She scowled before glancing at my cloaked form beside him, eyes narrowing as she peered beneath my hood. Recognition lit. I tugged on Reid’s hand, desperate to flee, but he didn’t move as Estelle strode purposefully toward us.

“How are you?” Her eyes were kind, genuine, as she pushed back my hood to assess my various injuries. Rooted to the spot, I was helpless to stop her. She smiled. “It looks like you’re healing nicely.”