I’d certainly broken prettier things.
She would be no exception.
I cleared my throat. “Good evening, Miss Laurent,” I said once I got my wits about me again. “My apologies. I’ll take care to knock next time.”
See? I could be polite when the situation called for it.
“I would appreciate that. This is my home. I certainly wouldn’t stroll into yours unannounced. I would expect better manners than that. Even from you, Mr. St. Germain.”
My lips curled. “You’ve heard of me then?”
“Hard not to in this town,” she said.
True. Nodding, I studied the room again before turning back to her. “I’ll admit, I’m impressed.”
Her brow arched faintly. “Oh?”
“That you haven’t fled screaming.” I looked back at her. “Most legacy daughters wouldn’t survive an hour in a place like this.”
“Yes, well, I’m not most legacy daughters.”
Still nothing. No flinch. No blush. No bratty defensiveness or smug pride. She didn’t puff up at the implication or shrink beneath it—just delivered the line like a fact she’d known all her life.
My lips twitched and I took a slow step forward. Then another.
Her eyes tracked me, but she didn’t move. She didn’t descend the stairs or offer me a drink. She made no attempt at decorum. Most would’ve tripped over their own feet by now, desperate to impress a St. Germain, especially one stopping by for an unscheduled visit. It was the supernatural equivalent of royalty dropping in for tea.
But Isadora Laurent just stood there.
And if I wasn’t mistaken, she looked more annoyed than awed.
“Tell me, Miss Laurent,” I said. “What is it you expect to get out of this place?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she began descending the stairs one step at a time, her hand skimming the railing.
I watched her. Closely.
She moved with quiet confidence, and the flickering candlelight lent her skin a glow that I wanted to taste. No—that way led dragons. I needed to keep my head about me. Remind this vampiress who she was dealing with.
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she walked up to me and came to a stop. She tipped her head back—which only came to my chest—and studied me, sizing me up. Almost like she was gauging me.
My grin began to form until she sighed. A deep, almost bored exhale, like she’d just taken my measure and found me lacking.
The air between us shifted, and my smile slipped.
“I’ve heard a great deal about you, Mr. St. Germain,” she said in a smooth voice. “And would you like to know what I see when I look at you?”
“By all means,” I said.
She took a slow breath, like she was savoring the moment before she struck. “I see a man who walks into a room and expects everyone to fall at his feet. I see a man who commands with his name and title. Someone who is utterly baffled when someone doesn’t bow or fear him.”
I didn’t speak, allowing her to continue, curious to hear more of her insight. She’d spent two minutes in my presence and thought she had me all figured out.
“I suspect you’re the strongest presence in any room. I see polish and power. A carefully curated persona built to keep everyone at arm’s length, because, gods forbid, they look too closely at you.”
A slight smile pulled at her lips, and I caught a peek at her fangs—the bite behind the words.
“And it’s all a lie,” she said, her voice dropping.
