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Soft, soft words. I felt the blood drain from my face. Two things threatened to make me faint on the spot. One, there was no doubt whatsoever that Jude had loved this woman, and still loved her fiercely. The pain of her loss was written in every line of his chiseled face. And second, Paul Delaroche’s painting was based on the Christian martyr in the era of Emperor Diocletian around 300 AD. Jude was seventeen hundred years old!
Those eyes—inhuman, otherworldly, unnatural and mesmerizing beyond reason—paralyzed me into a statue. I didn’t move a muscle as one side of his mouth quirked up in a sad sort of smile. He brushed a long finger along my jaw, then pulled away, as if touching me now caused him even more pain. My heart clenched into a tight ball.
“Do you see, Genevieve, why I protect you?”
I nodded, biting my bottom lip and refusing to cry. He needed to redeem himself, pay for his past failure to save the first Vessel of Light, who still held his heart in a gilded cage, locked away from the likes of me. He needed to avenge her, especially since the high demon Ru’um was the same one stalking me. I felt sick.
“Can you take me home now?”
He stared at me with that haunting sadness for a moment more, then went to the wall of steel and iron, pulling open a drawer hidden away in the shelf at the bottom of the case. He held out what appeared to be a pile of straps with two small sheaths.
“It’s a vest. You loop it across your chest and shoulders like this,” he said, gesturing how to pull it through the arms but without offering to touch me and show me how. No need to get too close, I suppose. “The sheaths fall flat to your ribs.”
“What goes in them?” I asked, trying to sound businesslike.
Before I could even finish the question, he’d pulled out two sleek silver daggers, black-handled and beautiful. The blades were only an inch longer than the handles but sharp as razors.
“The distribution of weight makes it easier to wield. Much more accurate if you should need to throw them at your attacker from a distance.”
I thought of throwing those Chinese darts with Erik, wondering if Jude had some sort of telepathy to know about my hidden talent. I nodded, sliding both weapons into their sheaths.
He ushered me out of the room. The door closed with an audible snick, shutting his pain away from the world and prying eyes like mine. Ironically, the sting of this discovery made me want him even more—to hold him, comfort him. But that was Kat’s job, not mine.
We walked in silence down to the street. Of course, Kat had left her car for him. A girlfriend does those kinds of things. A girlfriend does all kinds of things. Like kissing him good night, tucking him into bed, tucking into bed with him, kissing him good morning.
“What?” asked Jude, opening my passenger door.
“What do you mean, what?”
“You made a sound. What were you thinking about?”
The hell if I’ll ever tell you!
“Nothing.”
We rode all the way to my apartment without saying a word. Jude didn’t seem to be brooding or anything, just thinking. I was doing my damnedest not to think of the man next to me in bed with Kat. Of course, my stupid mouth doesn’t always listen to my brain.
“Kat is very beautiful.”
A sidelong glance. Dark eyes glimmered with gold. “Yes.”
Hmph.
“She’s pretty tough, too,” I admitted. “Good warrior, I’ll bet.”
“Yes.”
“And smart.”
“Very.”
So last night’s kiss was just what? Proving he was the big, bad alpha male after that argument about Malcolm? Boys versus men? Point taken.
He obviously regretted it, knowing he’d misled me with some pretty strong signals. I let out a huff as we pulled up the drive, opening the door and slamming it shut, practically stomping like a child to the door.
“Genevieve, is something…?”
“What time are we meeting at Tartarus?” I snapped, rounding on him at the door.
