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.
In vain he fought to banish the memory of her body against his. Of the way her green eyes tempted him into sin. She was too close now, her skin smelling of lavender and honeysuckle, the scent parching his throat, beckoning him closer.
Just for a taste.
As always, the lift lurched to a halt at precisely the right moment. “Thank you, Ifan,” Bastien said to the dark fey manning it. An outcast from the Sylvan Wyld to whom his uncle paid an obscene fortune every month for the express purpose of guarding this post. With a single touch of his hand, Ifan possessed the ability to ice an intruder in their footsteps.
Ifan nodded, his features cool. If not for the fey’s binding promise to Nicodemus, Bastien had no doubt Ifan would sneer at any human who deigned to look him in the eye. It likely curdled his nonexistent soul to serve a breather in such a fashion.
Bastien waited for Celine to exit the lift, knowing it gave her comfort to lead rather than to follow. He needed her to feel comfortable.
So that when he took the feeling away, it would hurt that much more.
He discarded his bull mask in a corner while Celine strode past the mirror hanging along the damasked wall of the narrow corridor, oblivious to what it was. On the surface, it shone brightly, nothing more than a simple looking glass. But the silver had been spelled to see past the naked eye. To uncover the truth lurking beneath a prowler’s skin.
Bastien had learned at the age of five how most appearances were designed to deceive.
Celine paused in front of the double doors leading to his uncle’s chambers. Again Bastien was reminded of how much she did not know. How the wards spelled into the molding around the doors—cleverly concealed within the elaborate carvings—would burn the flesh of an unwanted intruder.
Oblivious to all the magic around her, Celine’s fingers wavered on one of the gilded handles. She turned in place. “Is something wrong, Bastien?”
“What do you mean?”
She frowned. “You keep looking at me as if I owe you money.”
Bastien’s immediate reaction was to laugh. He held the sentiment in check, though it pained him to