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“They’re sleeping.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“Don’t you think it’s safe to go home for the night?”
“Until he starts questioning Grandma, I’m not going anywhere.”
They were in for a long night apparently.
“I figured you’d still be with Charlotte.”
“I was.”
Had his sister ever looked at him with pity before? He’d seen plenty of expressions on the face that so closely resembled their mother’s. But never this one.
It felt . . . odd.
He’d not even told her yet, but as his chest swelled with the memory of their mother, Torr recognized the emotion, even if it was one he had not given freely throughout the centuries.
“I love that girl,” he admitted.
“I know you do.”
“More than anyone, save you and Lawrence. How it’s possible, so quickly—”
“There are no rules to love, genius. That’s the point.”
He leaned his head back against the house.
Laria’s shoulders slumped. “You won’t do it.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“Do you really think she won’t make it through? I mean, Torr, the incident with the handmaiden was almost seven hundred years ago. “I’ve said it so many times before but will remind you, it was not your fault. The turning, the murders, her death. We hardly knew what was happening to us ourselves.”
“It’s not that. I mean, it is that, but—”
“But you swore to never turn anyone again. I get it.”
He suspected she didn’t. How could she understand what he did not? It wasn’t just the handmaiden. He’d witnessed so much death over the years. “I don’t understand why she can’t let it go—”
“Ever think Charlotte is wondering the same thing about you?”
“This is different. We’re talking about upending her life—”
“Which she would be doing anyway, even if you didn’t turn her.”
“And becoming a vampire, for Christ’s sake. This is not a temporary affliction.”
Laria sighed loud enough to wake the entire household. “I know you, Torr. And when you get like this, nothing I say will matter.”
“Exactly.”
“So I’m not even gonna try to convince you.”
“Good.”
“Perfect.”
