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I chewed the inside of my cheek and stopped squeezing his feet. “Unless there were extenuating circumstances.”
“Such as?”
“Like if they found out what I really was.”
His chocolate-brown eyes narrowed in concern. “Why would you bring something like that up?” He knew me well. At least enough to know I wouldn’t casually mention something like my heritage unless I had a good reason.
“Peyton knew. And he told a bunch of his lackeys in Paris. It’s going to come back to our Tribunal. And…”
“He knew? Past tense?”
I gave a tight nod, and he pulled his feet from my lap, leaning closer so he could take my hands in his.
“I killed him,” I said.
“Finally. I wish I could have seen it.”
I liked how he didn’t ask me what I was feeling or how I was dealing with it now that that chapter of my life was over. Withdrawing the tooth necklace from under my shirt, I showed him my spoils of war.
“Good girl.” He kissed my forehead, holding my face close to his for a long breath, then placing a second soft peck on my lips. He didn’t try to initiate anything else, and I was grateful, since the one kiss had already made me coil up with anxiety.
Whether he sensed my unease or he had learned to accept my emotional distance by now, he sat back in the chair, giving me some much-needed personal space.
I hadn’t felt the crashing waves of fear and uncertainty in their former extremes since leaving Paris. There’d been no flashbacks or panic attacks since the moment I’d divorced Peyton’s head from his body. Part of me had probably thought that was the end of it. I was cured.
But it wasn’t so easy, was it? Clawing my way back to a place of safety and sanity would take more than one headless vampire.
I stared at Holden, taking in every last bit of him I could, feasting on the visual buffet of his beauty. During our stay with The Doctor he’d been starved to the point where his skin clung to bone and his hair had begun to fall out. Now that he was back to his former modelesque glory, I only wanted to picture him like this and drive out all other memories. His dark, glossy hair, this side of too long, brushed the collar of his dress shirt.
He looked like he’d just stepped out of the pages of GQ, which stood to reason. I don’t think I’d ever seen Holden as anything other than totally pulled together.
Even when we’d been on the brink of death, he’d worn Burberry.
“I thought I’d be happier,” I confessed, though he hadn’t asked.
“About killing Peyton?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you think he was the vessel containing your peace of mind? And by cutting him open he would release it and you’d be yourself again?” When he said it like that, it sounded totally absurd, but of course I’d thought that.
“I guess I figured I’d feel like the whole thing was over finally and that would make me feel better. But it’s not over yet.”
“Who decides when it’s over?”
“It should be me, but every time I see the end in sight it turns out to just be one more false finish.” I laughed and stripped off my jacket, snapping my holster closed again. “Maybe I’ll feel better if I admit it’s never going to be over.”
“Secret…”
“Or maybe it’ll be over when Juan Carlos realizes I’m part werewolf and rips me into tiny pieces in the middle of the Tribunal chamber. I won’t have too many things to worry about after that happens.”
“Juan Carlos can’t kill you. It would defy all the rules of the Council for one Tribunal leader to kill another. As much as he despises you, he is a stickler for the rules.”
“He’ll find someone else to do it.”
“You’re very difficult to kill.”
I snorted. “I should put that on my resume.” As I flopped backwards on the bed I considered Holden’s words, thinking over and over about Tribunal leaders and the position we often found ourselves in.
