CJ frowned deeply. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Bianca studied me carefully. “She was upset?”
“I don’t know.”
That was the worst part. I genuinely didn’t know.
Billie’s eyes filled with tears. “No!” She jumped off my lap and ran upstairs, sobbing.
I sat there in stunned silence with two confused children pressed against my sides and another sobbing upstairs. All I could think was how something was terribly wrong.
And somehow, I had already lost Winnie before I even understood what was happening.
21
WINNIE
The first thing Bogdan did after Conrad left was laugh—a low, satisfied sound from somewhere deep in his chest—as he strolled through my cottage with leisurely calm, like we were entertaining company instead of narrowly avoiding disaster.
“Well,” he murmured. “That was unpleasantly close.”
I stood at the kitchen table exactly where he’d left me, every muscle in my body rigid with restraint. Or rather, compulsion.
My sire watched me from across the room with the same patient amusement a cat might reserve for a wounded bird. I hated that expression. Hated that after all these years it could still pull me back through time.
I wanted to run after Conrad. I wanted to jump into the car and tell him everything. I wanted to scream at him to take the children and leave town and never come back.
Instead, I stood perfectly still while Bogdan removed his gloves finger by finger.
“You always did have dreadful taste in men,” he said conversationally.
My jaw tightened. “He is not?—”
“Oh, please.” He waved one pale hand dismissively. “You nearly climbed into his lap right in front of me.”
Heat crawled up my neck despite myself.
Bogdan noticed immediately. Of course he did. His gray eyes brightened with amusement. “How darling.”
I fucking hated him. I hated that even now, after all these years, hatred was safer than fear.
Fear fed him. Fear entertained him.
Bogdan drifted toward me with that same elegant, unhurried grace that had once fooled me into believing he was civilized and cultured.
What he was, was monstrous.
He reached out absently and gathered a section of my hair into his hand, examining the strands thoughtfully. “You’ve kept yourself well.”
The gesture was casual. Mindless. The way someone might stroke the ear of a favored hunting dog.
I swallowed hard and stared past his shoulder. “I don’t understand. You were buried at the bottom of the ocean.”
“Mmm.”
“I chained your coffin with rowan ash.”
“Yes.”
