Page 118 of Veil of Blood and Bone

Or maybe I’m feeling guilty about her catching up.

I shuck aside the ache, the scent of her blood, how I can borderline taste it through her skin.

“Ask me.” I stare her down, drawing my hand back. “Whatever you want. I won’t ever lie to you.”

“So the others would? Lie?” she asks.

Her tongue slicks over her lips and a groan rattles my chest. Would they lie? Yes. Have they? Have we? Yes.

Wren is a master manipulator. And Forest, when he has the full use of his mental faculties, has been known to skirt around the truth without stating it. It’s not a lie exactly but with a memory as long as his, then yes.

To her, though...

“Not this time,” I admit with enough begrudging slowness for Helene to notice. “They are men of honor. But I can’t answer on their behalf. Only my own.”

She nods. “Sounds fair.”

I should leave. It wasn’t right to sneak up on her this way. Helene doesn’t ask how I got into the apartment, or spout some bullshit about rescinding my invitation.

Instead, she pats the mattress beside her. “You want to sit?”

“...You want me to—” I start.

“Yes.” She’s quick to interrupt. “I think I do.”

"Even if I'm not as sparkly as other vampires?"

"You have a tan."

I huff out a breath. "Followed me into death. Not much I can do about it now. I've gotten used to it."

Her gaze scours my face the way she should search the room for the exits. But whatever it is she finds there softens the line of her posture when she needs to be louder, harder. Stronger.

“You haven’t been spooked by your light reading tonight?”

The internet has some awful things to say about our kind. All of us.

She shrugs and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “What can I say? I’m an idiot.”

“Oh, Helene.” Her name is a prayer, a song. “Never.”

A muscle at her jaw ticks. “You don't have to pretend for my benefit. I know it. I’m made up of one hundred percent stupidity. It’s never been more apparent than it is these last couple of days.”

“Since you met us.” Again.

"I'm not used to male attention." Good. "Or magic." Less good. “But you’re not going to hurt me.”

There’s enough of a question in her voice to stop me from reaching for her the way I want to. My fangs poke out from beneath my upper lip. I cover their appearance with a cough, shuffling nearer.

I say nothing. She notices, a crease flickering between her brows and higher, grooves spanning across her forehead.

She’s driving me wild. The closer I get, the harder it is to control the awful throbbing hollowness inside of me.

“You’re nervous.”

For the bravest soul I’ve ever encountered, nerves are an oddity, although in this case they’re expected.

“Wren told me his story last night. About how he met the shieldmaiden,” she murmurs.