Page 35 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“It is an observation.”

“Uh-huh.” I press my lips together.

He ignores me and resumes. “I think it’s significant that after years at Le Mas Voclain, Alberte bought a cottage close enough to maintain his work, yet far enough that when he closed the door at night, Henri was no longer on the other side.”

I stare at the last bite of fish on my plate, and try to picture the cottage not as my sagging ruin but as a fresh, unmottled space with straight walls, an intact roof, and a beautiful garden edged with lavender.

“How long did he work for Henri?”

“Until he left France.”

“That’s not helpful, considering I don’t know when that happened,” I groan.

He leans back, and the candlelight skitters across his features. “We can discuss it another time.”

My pulse quickens. “What?! No. Tell me now.”

“Non,” Camille says, almost gently, almost cruel. “It is enough for now.”

“Fuck you. I should’ve known you were going to do that.” I rub at my forehead, mostly to hide my scowl.

He sips his wine, unbothered. “It is better to stretch out the pleasure.”

“Or prolong the agony,” I mutter.

Camille watches me, his hands folded, elegant as a chessmaster about to sweep the board. I can feel the weight of him, the predatory calculation, but also—at the edges—a flicker of something softer, like he’s almost sorry to be putting me through this.

I huff. “Okay, fine. No more story time. What do we do now? Are you going to make me recite poetry, or does the snake handle entertainment?”

For a second, I think he’s going to say something cutting, but then he leans forward. “Would you prefer to see him closer?”

My throat tightens. “What, like, up close?”

“Raja is usually docile at this hour. If you wish.”

There’s something in his tone—inviting, but with the barest hint of a dare—that makes my skin prickle. I shake my head, nerves and excitement tangling. “I think watching him from here is plenty.”

Camille’s smile is a fraction wider now, like he’s proud of me for knowing my limits. “Très bien,” he says, his voice a little lower, a little more intimate.

He stands, and the chair makes no sound against the rug. “Would you like coffee? Or something stronger?”

I glance at the snake. “I think I’m already running on pure adrenaline, thanks.” But I don’t want to leave yet. Not when I’ve finally gotten a little bit of truth out of him, and not when every part of me is hyper-aware of the space between us. “On second thought, I think I’ll take a coffee.”

He nods and gestures for me to follow him deeper into the library, past the rows of books and a rolling ladder that looks like it’s never been touched. I trail after him, feeling like I’ve been lured into a warren of secrets. There’s a little alcove near the back with a low couch, a side table, and a gleaming espresso machine that looks like it cost more than my old car.

“Sit,” Camille says. It’s not quite a command, but I obey anyway.

The couch is soft, and I sink into it, knees suddenly weak. Camille works the espresso machine with practiced hands, and I catch myself staring at the curve of his forearm, the easy confidence in the way he moves.

He hands me a small demitasse, the cup warm in my palm, and sits across from me on the edge of the low table, his knees almost brushing mine. The air is dense with the bitter scent of coffee, the faintest citrus lingering still from dinner, and something else—something like the electric smell of a thunderstorm waiting to break overhead.

I take a sip, and it burns, but I manage not to grimace. Camille watches my mouth as I do.

For a few seconds, neither of us speaks. I realize I’m gripping the cup too tightly. The heat sears my fingers, and I force myself to relax.

When I look up from my drink, Camille’s gaze pins me to the spot, so intent it’s like he’s trying to memorize my face. I feel exposed, and my instinct is to lash out, to break the moment before it can hurt me.

And yet—