Page 27

I slot a shiny pink piece into the bear’s ribbon. Then another in his paw. After a while, I reach for my wine glass and stare at the dark, crimson liquid.

“What are you thinking about?” Christopher asks.

I bite the inside of my cheek, not sure I should tell him, but eventually give in. “That Septem witch in the cooling room. Since when did we start murdering them?”

His throat bobs, and he downs the rest of his wine in a long, solitary gulp. “We’ve always murdered them, Ann. We’re just good about not getting caught.”

“But we have a treaty—”

“And the angels don’t care about that treaty. They give us an order and we have to follow it.”

“Or else you lose your souls.” My voice is barely a whisper and Christopher nods.

He pours another glass before digging his hands into the puzzle pile too, and bridges two large sections together.

Part of me wants to ask him how many witches he’s killed, and the other part has no interest in knowing. As an elder—as a favorite of Gabriel—I know the number must be greater than zero, and already that’s too many.

But I don’t have to ask him; he volunteers the information as if reading my mind. “Four, and it never gets easier. That’s when the puzzles started.” He opens the pizza box and grabs a slice. Cheese pulls and sticks to the cardboard. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell Daemon about this. I don’t know what the Septem would do to us if they found out.”

Us. Not just Christopher, but my mom, Sam, the elders. I have no idea how deep this rot goes. Telling Daemon would be the right thing to do—he could warn the targets, prepare them—but at what cost? There would be retribution. Justified retribution. And I won’t be responsible for my mom’s or mate’s death. Not when it isn’t their fault.

Puzzle piece in hand, I scan the image for a place to set it, then give up and toss it aside. “I won’t tell him,” I promise. “Thank you for trusting me and for being honest. I hate being lied to or kept in the dark.”

My whole life everyone has done that—Daemon included—and it’s a breath of fresh air that Christopher isn’t following in their footsteps.

“I have no intention of lying to you, Ann. You’re my mate,” Christopher says. “If you hate me for what I’ve done, I’ll accept that, but I’d rather you hate me than have no idea who I really am or what I’m capable of.”

But I don’t hate him.

In fact, I think I like him a lot.

“You’re my mate,” I parrot back. “I want to know everything there is to know about you.”

Our bond seems to stir at the mere mention of it, pulling me toward him. I don’t even realize I’ve abandoned the puzzle until I’m practically sitting in Christopher’s lap. Touching him, being close to him, it’s as easy as breathing air.

He wraps his arm around my shoulder before finishing off the rest of his pizza slice. Red sauce sticks to the corner of his mouth, and I swipe it away with my thumb, then lick it like I’m some kind of cat in heat. My cheeks burn as I realize what I’ve done, the tangy sauce thick on my tongue.

Stupid.

Weird.

God, Annalise, what’s wrong with you?

But Christopher doesn’t seem to think anything’s wrong with me. Gently, he grabs my chin and draws my face to his. When he kisses me, I don’t even hesitate before kissing back. “Fuck, Ann, I’ve waited so long to find you,” he whispers, and it’s more like a purr inside my ear.

I climb on top of him then, wishing my jeans and his pants weren’t stuck between us.

This isn’t like me.

It’s very bright in here.

I’m very exposed.

But fuck it.

Ignoring the windows behind us and the city beyond, I curl my fingers in his silky blond hair, then slide my tongue between his lips. He grinds into me. Something hard and throbbing presses against my center, and when I look down, I see his cock tenting his dress pants. Never once have I been the instigator before, but I instigate now. I slide my hand between us. The soft pant fabric leaves nothing to the imagination, and he shudders when I rub him through it.

“Ann,” he groans, breaking the kiss.