Page 87

The formality stung. Walls rebuilt in two words. Putting distance where moments ago there had been none.

She turned and walked toward the door, Adeline trailing after her with an apologetic glance back at us. I watched her go.

“You're welcome,” Garrick said behind me.

“For what?”

“Saving you from yourself.” He took a long drink. “Though I'm not sure how much longer I can keep doing that.”

I didn't answer. Just watched the door where she'd disappeared.

CHAPTER 25

LILY

Iwoke to sunlight stabbing through my eyelids and a headache that was divine punishment. For a disorienting moment, I couldn't remember why my head was pounding or why my mouth tasted like regret and cheap whiskey. Then the memories came flooding back in mortifying clarity.

The tavern. The whiskey. August.

Tell me you'd choose me over your duty.

Oh god.

I pressed my palms against my eyes, as if I could physically push the memories back into the dark. What had I been thinking? Challenging him like that. Sitting so close. Asking him to⁠—

I'd practically thrown myself at him. In public. In front of Garrick and Adeline. I'd defended Weavers, questioned his mission, and then asked him to prove he'd choose me over everything he'd been raised to believe.

And he'd hesitated.

That hesitation was almost worse than a refusal. Because it meant I'd made him doubt. Made him want. Made him dangerous.

I swung my legs out of bed and caught sight of my reflection. My hair was a disaster—tangles and what looked like a small twig. Perfect. I looked exactly how I felt.

I couldn't avoid him forever. This was his house. Sooner or later, I'd have to face him and pretend last night hadn't happened. Pretend I didn't feel the heat of him when he leaned closer. Pretend I didn't know exactly what it meant when he looked at me like he wanted to devour me whole.

I dressed carefully in a high-collared dove gray dress. Armor of respectability. Proper. Untouchable. Then I squared my shoulders and headed downstairs to face him.

The smell of coffee hit me first—rich and dark and exactly what I needed. I followed it like a bloodhound to the breakfast room, hoping against hope that August had already left for work or hunting or wherever witch hunters went when they weren't tormenting historians.

He was sitting at the table.

I froze in the doorway. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. He looked up from his newspaper, and our eyes met.

He looked. . . unfairly composed. No dark circles. No haggard expression. Just August, perfectly put together in a charcoal waistcoat and crisp white shirt, drinking coffee like he hadn't spent last night drinking himself stupid.

“Good morning,” he said, over his cup.

“Morning,” I managed, and forced myself to walk to the sideboard. Coffee. I needed coffee before I could handle this conversation.

I poured a cup with hands that shook only slightly, added sugar, and turned to find him watching me. Really watching me, with that intense hunter's focus that made me feel like prey.

I sat as far from him as the table allowed. Sipped my coffee. Tried to look anywhere but at him.

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.

“We need to talk about last night,” August said.

“There's nothing to talk about. We were drunk.”