The idea shouldn’t have softened Beatrice against him. Dorian had no claim on her; she had no reason to listen to him. He had thrown away any connection they might once have shared, in the worst way possible. But the fear that Beatrice had seen in him was etched into her mind’s eye, and she knew that it was a pit at the bottom of his stomach, even as they spoke.
Beatrice knew a thing or two about that kind of fear.
“Je n’ai pas besoin de ton aide,” she told him. “I’m not helpless, Dorian. You think this is the first vampire I’ve worked for? I rummage through people’s secrets for a living, the same way that you do. Plenty of dangerous people want a look inside my head.”
“You are not listening,” Dorian said, in a calm voice that belied his fear. “Zoe nearly died last year—do you know that? A vampire tried to use her against me, to trade her for monseigneur’s secrets. The kidnapping went poorly. She nearly bled out in the street. You now know the sort of secret that could end Jean Belmont; there are people in this city that would kill you for that in a heartbeat.”
Beatrice swallowed down her knee-jerk reply. The danger wasn’t a surprise to her... but the very human scrap of grief in Dorian’s voice disarmed her. The emotional wound was still fresh to him. His eyes were unfocused, and she had to wonder what images he was replaying through his mind as he spoke.
He drives his secretary home at night, Beatrice thought. All of this still controls him.
“I can’t fix your fears, Dorian,” she told him honestly. “They have a basis in reality. But... I’ve got a job to do. And I can’t just call it off because you’re worried. Ça marche pas comme ça.”
Beatrice hesitated for a moment, feeling awkward. There was a feeling of familiarity in the car now. The past was tugging on her awareness, trying to convince her to forget the harsher things that had passed between them. She remembered the way that Dorian had once smiled at her—the softness in his eyes that had convinced her she was desperately in love, and that maybe he was too.
Her heart ached.
“I should get going,” Beatrice muttered.
She reached for the door—but Dorian caught her by the wrist, tugging her back. It was a light grip—the sort she could have easily escaped, if she’d exerted herself. But as Beatrice glanced back toward him, she found herself frozen just as surely as if he’d tied her down.
That familiar look was back in Dorian’s eyes—the same one she’d longed for, dreamed about, dwelled on endlessly. There were a thousand unspoken words behind those eyes that Beatrice desperately wanted to hear.
Dorian’s other hand crossed the divide between them, curling behind her neck. His fingers were hot on her skin. Beatrice’s blood rushed to the surface, buzzing in her veins. She was absolutely certain this time that he was going to kiss her... and equally certain that she didn’t want him to stop.
She closed her eyes. A moment later, Dorian’s lips brushed hers, and it was the strongest, most instantaneous drug she’d ever tasted—a years-long craving, suddenly assuaged. Beatrice was aware even as he kissed her that it was a terrible mistake—that they were both probably going to regret it. But the mistake was made, and there was no undoing it... so the only rational response was to enjoy the good parts of it for as long as humanly possible.
Beatrice reached out to curl her fingers around Dorian’s tie, dragging him closer. A soft hiss of surprise escaped him, and she parted her lips to receive it. The moment of shock didn’t last long; in the next instant, he was pulling her into his seat, hauling her into his lap. His fingers slid up into her hair, tightening against her scalp and using that new leverage to deepen the kiss. Beatrice tugged sharply on his tie in reply, tangling her tongue with his.
When they’d first started dating, they’d been young adults, fumbling around with each other. That had its high points, of course—there’d been sweetness there, and tenderness, and the rosy freshness of a new relationship. But there was something to be said for the instant, knowing hunger that burned between them now. For all her anger and rejection, Beatrice knew that she still wanted Dorian. And for all his stupid, pointed barbs, she knew he wanted her too.
Beatrice shifted in Dorian’s lap to straddle him, sliding her legs to either side of his waist. He was already hard against her, and her body reacted to the revelation with a heady burst of satisfaction. A feverish, lightheaded bliss overtook her, struggling against the ocean of very valid, very rational concerns in her head. Dorian groaned softly, and the sound vibrated into her nerves.
The fact that they were stuck in a car with far too many clothes between them felt suddenly unfair. Some distant part of Beatrice’s brain noted that there was no way they were going to make it all the way to her hotel room before one of them came to their senses... and wasn’t that a damned shame?
Dorian’s other palm skimmed along her thigh, up and up and up—his fingers slid beneath the hem of her blouse, hot against the skin of her hip. His hand was at her ribs then, trailing its way up to the curve of her breast, where she desperately needed him to touch—
He paused just over the lower part of her heart though, and his fingers curled. Dorian caught his breath hard, dragging himself back from the kiss. His forehead pressed to Beatrice’s shoulder, and he shuddered back to the moment.
Beatrice knew he was breaking away, regaining his senses. It should have been a splash of cold water on the whole situation; it should have put a distance between them. But instead, she felt an odd closeness at the feeling of Dorian’s hand just over her heartbeat. She knew he was gathering up his strength, the same way that she needed to do.
Sleeping with your ex never ends well, Beatrice thought tiredly.
“Je m’excuse,” Dorian murmured. “That was a poor decision on my part.” He sounded tired, lost, bewildered. All emotions she wasn’t used to hearing in his voice.
He was upset, Beatrice thought. I was too nice to him. It’s made things complicated for both of us.
She released Dorian’s tie, bringing her hand back to rest over his through the material of her blouse. Come up with me. They were simple words. She could say them, if she really wanted. They could keep making this awful, addictive mistake and deal with the fallout in the morning.
Dorian tugged his hand free with another breath. Slowly, he helped her back into her seat. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “You should go.”
The words were soft, and oddly sentimental. They still dug into her heart like needles. The strange, heated spell between them broke, and Beatrice remembered how to feel ashamed.
“Right,” she said shortly.
Dorian stared silently at the wheel in front of him. His perfect hair was perfectly mussed. His lips were still swollen where she’d kissed him.
Suddenly, Beatrice wished for another bottle of that wine, so she could douse him with it too.
Instead, she jerked open the door and pushed her way out of the car, back into the sweltering heat of the night.
Beatrice knew somehow that Dorian was trying to talk himself out of going after her. That wouldn’t end well for either of us, she thought hollowly. She sped up her pace, just in case those instincts got the better of him, and disappeared into the small lobby area inside.
Still—as she returned to her hotel room, she checked the wards she had left behind, just in case.
The wards are unbroken, Beatrice thought, as she regarded the electric orange skitters of magic across her door.
So far, Jean Belmont had done a good job of keeping Beatrice’s employment a secret. But it hadn’t escaped her notice that she was currently investigating one of the vampire’s other information leaks. Maybe Dorian’s fears weren’t Beatrice’s responsibility... but she knew the value of a good warning when she heard one.
Beatrice solemnly resolved to keep her guard up until she had safely left Montreal once more. She needed to protect herself against scheming vampires, and faerie warlocks, and lord only knew what else...
And Dorian. She needed to protec
t her heart from him too.
Chapter 4
TWELVE YEARS AGO
“And they say law students are workaholics. You continue to outpace me, Trix.”
Dorian’s bemused voice cut through Beatrice’s hyper-focused state, startling her into an awareness of her surroundings. She’d been staring at the same screen for... ten hours now, she realized. Where had the time gone? She’d only intended to drop by the university lab to fix a bug in her latest project. But the recompile had created a brand new bug after that, and then a new one after that—
Beatrice pressed her palms to her eyes with a groan. “Merde,” she muttered. “Am I confused? Was I supposed to meet you tonight?” She dimly remembered replying to one of Dorian’s texts in the middle of her coding spree, but it hadn’t occurred to her that he was asking where she was for a reason.
Dorian tugged Beatrice’s chair out from behind the desk, turning her around to face him. “No,” he said smoothly. “But I have come to rescue you from yourself anyway. You haven’t eaten, have you?”
Beatrice snorted. “Mon héros,” she told him. My hero. But her heart quickened in her chest, and she found herself just a little bit short of breath as she stared up at him. Dorian was clean-cut, freshly-shaved—there was a faint smirk on his lips that made her want to kiss him senseless. His dark eyes were warm as he looked down at her, and the expression behind them made her feel like the most important woman in the world.
Dorian leaned down to brush his lips across hers, and all her false bravado melted instantly away. Beatrice twined her arms around him, meeting his kiss with a gentle eagerness. There was a keen, tingling heat to every touch—the awareness that came with a fresh new relationship. The kiss lingered, long and slow. When Dorian finally pulled back, he brushed her hair back from her face, looking down at her with open wonder on his face. Beatrice understood the feeling.
He thinks he’s the lucky one in this relationship, she thought. That I could do better. Beatrice felt the same. It was why they worked so well.
“You are so beautiful when you’re this obsessed,” Dorian murmured. “I should take a picture.”
The words thudded into Beatrice’s stomach like a gunshot. Panic rose abruptly in her chest, though she knew it was a terrible, stupid reaction. She jerked back from Dorian’s grasp, swallowing hard. “No,” Beatrice managed. “Don’t ever take my picture, please. I’m not joking, it... it really upsets me.”
Dorian blinked. For a second, she thought he might ask her why… but he swallowed down any questions and simply nodded. “Bien sûr,” he agreed. “No pictures. That’s simple enough.”
The panic in Beatrice’s chest subsided slowly. She took a long, shaky breath.
“Allons-y,” Dorian told her, changing the subject abruptly. “I’ll make you dinner.”
Beatrice blinked as he helped her up from her chair. “I didn’t realize you cooked,” she said.
“I’ve lived on my own for quite some time now,” Dorian replied easily, sliding his arm through hers. “If I could not cook, I would be dead.”
“You can’t have left home that long ago,” Beatrice said with a shaky laugh. “Is your mother a feminist? Did she force you to do an honest day’s work at home before you left?”
Dorian smiled wryly at her. “My mother hates me,” he said. “Since I am a man, perhaps that makes her a feminist. But I do not think so.”
It was such a casual joke that Beatrice found herself laughing uncomfortably, even as she tried to parse the words. Dorian didn’t seem upset… but that was rarely a solid indicator of his mood. “Er... I’m not sure what to say to that,” Beatrice admitted. “That sounds awful.” Dorian didn’t cringe or try to change the subject, so she asked: “Why does your mother hate you?”
Dorian glanced sideways at her as they left the computer lab. “I see that joke has fallen flat,” he observed. “I’m sorry. It’s how my father and I deal with things.” He considered Beatrice for another long moment, walking with his arm around her shoulders. “I don’t mind the subject. But it’s a very nice night. We can talk about something else if you like.”
Beatrice hesitated. Dorian was right—it was a very nice night. She was tempted just to enjoy his company and not worry about uncomfortable subjects. But they’d been dating for a few weeks now, and she was only now realizing how little she knew about him. “No,” Beatrice said. “I mean... I’d like to know. If you really don’t mind.”
Dorian shrugged. “If anyone might understand, I suppose it would be you,” he admitted. His fingers closed a bit more tightly around Beatrice’s shoulder. “My mother had a nervous breakdown, not long after I was born. She believed... she still believes that I am not really her son. She calls me un changelin—a faerie child. The faeries stole her true son, and left me in his place.”
Beatrice stopped dead in her tracks. Dorian paused to look at her. There was a deep gravity in his gray eyes.
Even after weeks of dating, they had yet to discuss the matter of Dorian’s strange, empty aura. He, in turn, had avoided the discussion of Beatrice’s proclivity toward coins and her occasional extra perceptions. But now, it seemed, the subject had come to a head.
“My mother is right, of course,” Dorian said softly. “That I am different, I mean. I always have been. I am clearly not quite human.”
Beatrice let out a long breath. “Are you a witch, Dorian?” she asked softly.
Dorian smiled ruefully. “I am not,” he said. “Searching for the truth has taught me quite a bit about the secrets that underlie this world. I do not have what you would call Witchsight. I require no anchors for my magic. So I am… autre chose.” Something else.
He looked back ahead of them. “The important thing is that my mother is not crazy. All of the doctors believe that she is—but they are wrong. And it would be cruel of me to expect her to treat me as her son when we both suspect it is a lie." He shrugged. “Thus—I live on my own. I avoid going home. I know very well how to cook for myself... and for you. Which I would be very pleased to do tonight.”
None of that is fair to you, Beatrice thought. But Dorian spoke of the situation matter-of-factly—like someone who’d lost a relative to sickness many years ago. Somehow, he had come to terms with the agony of his situation already, and he clearly had no intention of tearing open old wounds again just for nostalgia’s sake.
“I’m a Gemini witch,” Beatrice told him. She tried to keep her tone conversational, to suggest that Dorian’s revelation was every bit as mundane as hers. “Magic runs through my father’s side of the family. He’s a Virgo, so we tend to drive each other up a wall. He has the emotional awareness of a rock. He went so far out of his way to get me into an English school, so I could work anywhere in Canada—and now, every time I come home, he makes jokes about how my French has a weird accent.” She rolled her eyes. “C’est ta faute, papa!”
“Your accent is very cute,” Dorian assured her. He dropped a kiss to the top of Beatrice’s head, and she felt her cheeks heat up. “I am sure he doesn’t mean anything upsetting by his jokes.”
“Oh, I know,” Beatrice muttered. “It’s just annoying. J’va m’en remettre. I’ll get over it.” The comparison embarrassed her, in retrospect. So my father makes jokes about my accent, she thought. Your mother literally disowned you. What am I even complaining about? Beatrice leaned into Dorian’s side, thinking to herself. “My family does a Christmas brunch every year,” she said finally. “I hadn’t even thought about it yet. You could, um… you could come with me this year, if you wanted.”
Dorian went silent. After a while, Beatrice began to worry that she’d somehow offended him... but before she could take back the invitation, he replied: “I would like that, I think.”
He made them risotto that night. Beatrice wasn’t sure how good it actually was. The fact that Dorian had made it for her made it taste so wonderful that it became her favorite dish forever afterward.
The ominous whispers plagued her again as she fell asl
eep in his arms, hovering at the edge of her mind.
PRESENT DAY
Beatrice woke up with a dry mouth and a terrible headache.
As she’d expected, letting down her magical mask had showered her in a night’s worth of neuroses, all at once. The gut-level anxiety she should have felt sitting in a car with a vampire—the paralyzing uncertainty from threatening to cancel her contract—the crippling misery of Dorian rejecting her a second time—all came crashing down upon her in a single breath. Hours later, after plenty of breathing exercises, pounding music, and crying into her pillow, she’d fallen into a rough, fitful sleep, trying to work off the excess adrenaline.
Her dreams had been full of awful whispers, and very, very red wine. Once or twice, Beatrice had woken up in the middle of the night, convinced that the shadows in the corner of her hotel room were watching her.
One hot shower and two point five coffees later, she somehow managed to drag her body back to that awful office in the Old Port, where Dorian Moreau and his little warlock secretary waited for her.
Interviewing your prospective leaks, Beatrice texted to Jean Belmont, on her way inside. I’ll be at Dorian’s office this morning. I’ll need to sit down with you as well, as soon as it’s convenient.
It did not surprise her this time when Jean responded within the minute.
We can speak again tonight. M. Moreau can come or not, as he prefers.
Beatrice bit back a hint of annoyance at that. I’m not some kind of messenger for Dorian, she thought. But she was about to walk into his office, after all, and her employer had no real way of knowing how carefully she intended to avoid Dorian today... so it wasn’t an outrageous suggestion for her to speak with him.
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