He laughed bitterly. “We are both prisoners, Chattel, but at least the walls of my cage are clear.”
Cally ignored him, rapping twice on the steel door, and it slowly slid open. Darian stood waiting, his arms crossed. Three more guards had joined the two by the door, and they ringed her in the corridor.
But it was Darian’s expression that captured her eyes. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes narrowed and hard, and where there had once been infatuation and hope, now there was only pure hatred.
Cally stopped when she saw him, lifting her chin in defiance.He heard. He knows.
“Bring her,” he ground out, and Nico’s laughter echoed out of the room, until the cell door slid shut and cut it off.
An Order grunt grasped each of her arms, and Darian turned on his heel, striding angrily off down the corridor.
Her escort pulled her along behind him, and two guards brought up the rear, their weapons held ready, far enough back and eyes watchful. Too many for her to fight, and no chance for escape.
Cally dragged her feet, a hollow ache spreading through her chest, so tight it was hard to breathe.
They would kill her for this; she knew it. And then Antoine would die too.
Two vampires and a witch from one day’s work.
How happy Darian must be.
Thirty-Two
Antoine sat in his chair, unable to focus on his book.
He reached for the bond again. Milton was to the southeast, but Cally was still pulling from the southwest.
Wherewasshe?
He should’ve insisted she take Noah or Zoey. But that was foolish. She was right; shewasstronger than any of his thralls. Her lateness had a simple explanation.
Not staying at her dad’s, though.
Perhaps she’d stopped at a friend’s house. He was worrying unnecessarily, like a nagging mother hen. But no matter how much he told himself that, he couldn’t shake the feeling something was amiss. He wanted to go to her.
If she’s not back in an hour, I’m going after her, even if she gives me hell for it.
Marcel knocked once, then opened the door. “Excuse me, sir. You have a guest.”
He’d been so preoccupied, he must’ve missed the doorbell.
Antoine closed his book and slid it into the side of his chair, rising to meet whoever had come to visit. Gabe, probably.
Marcel stepped back, and Belle swept past him. She wore a maroon jersey wrap dress with a neckline that dared him to look, and a slit to her hip that flashed a lot of thigh. Her long black hair was brushed out for the first time Antoine could remember. Rose-pink lipstick caught the light with a hint of gloss, while artfully applied makeup sharpened her cheekbones and complemented her glamoured-green eyes.
So very different from the jeans and hoodie of the previous week, or the French ballgowns he always pictured her in.
“This isn’t a good time, Belle.”
“Ah, you wound me,mon amour.” She laid one hand over her heart. “And when I went to such effort to dress up for you.” Her fingers trailed down the V of her neckline, the movement drawing his eyes as she’d intended. He looked away, but her lips were already curling in triumph. “We didn’t finish our conversation the other night. This seems like a perfect time.”
“It’s not.” He faced the window, again feeling the urge to go to Cally. Belle’s presence did nothing to abate the feeling; rather the opposite.
“Why not?” she asked, her playfulness subsiding and a hint of frustration showing. “You don’t smell of sex this time.” She paused, scenting the air. “Your witch isn’t here. We have some privacy, finally.”
Antoine hesitated. The night was still young, and if he went tearing off after Cally, how silly would he look, only to find her returning from a bottle of wine and a pleasant evening?
Belle sensed his indecision and took full advantage, stepping close enough to lay her hand on his chest. She wore perfume, a hint of vanilla and jasmine, the faintest of touches so as not to overpower the vampire sense of smell. Like she’d merely opened the bottle in her room and stoppered it again.
