He brushed his fingers across her cheek. Before she could close her eyes and dip her head into the delicious connection, Viviane flinched away. “The shimmer,” she said on a gasp.
She did not speak of faery dust, but the innate sensation two vampires felt when touching. So he was vampire. Yet why did she still wonder at what made him so different?
Rhys stepped aside, offering her ease of escape. “Forgive me, mademoiselle. My passion knows little in the way of boundaries.”
“Passion? We’ve only just met, Monsieur Hawkes. You do not even know my name.”
She wanted to tell it, but again, that would be too forward. If he discovered it on his own that would prove his interest.
“Indeed. And I also sense my desire offends you.”
“Desire never offends me. Speaking with a man who is not what he claims to be does.”
Rhys nodded. “I release you from this uncomfortable tête-à-tête with hopes you will spend fitful moments anguishing over the loss of my presence.”
He bowed, spun sharply, and marched away, shoes clacking loudly.
A roll of her eyes could not be prevented. Anguishing over the loss of his presence? Why did they always attempt to win through words and platitudes?
Viviane desired action, a bold approach and a forceful insinuation of passion. Or rather, it was a fantasy she thought of often, but had never the pleasure of experiencing. Rare did she meet a man to match her bold mien.
Pausing at the doorway, the man touched the cut on his cheek. She had marked him.
“But have you the daring to mark me?”
“THIS WAS A DELICIOUS IDEA,” Orlando muttered as he joined Rhys.
Orlando tugged at the frockcoat the tailor had insisted be taken in at the arms. The green velvet transformed the pup into one of those Greek forest deities with powerful muscles and the face of an angel, or so the effeminate tailor had commented, much to Orlando’s discomfort.
“My ideas are never delicious,” Rhys grumbled. “Reckless perhaps, but never bordering delicious.”
“Most certainly not wearing such plain attire.”
Orlando had taken on airs since stepping inside the Hôtel de Salignac. Rhys would allow the boy his vanity.
He had brought along Orlando, who was much like a son to him, because the two of them named a common friend in William Montfalcon, a werewolf who lived tucked on the left bank’s boulevard Saint Germain. It was where they were currently staying, despite Montfalcon’s strange absence.
Rhys smoothed a palm down his new coat, brushing at the clinging faery dust. Plain? The brown embroidered silk suited him. The tailor had insisted he call the color by its proper name la chocolat, after the queen’s favorite drink. Though the ivory buttons were extravagant and over the top, the enthusiastic tailor had insisted they would draw attention in the wake of Rhys’s regrettable decision to forego lace engageantes on his sleeves. The sky-blue waistcoat lent to what little vanity Rhys could muster.
And while he was a boot man always, the hose and buckled shoes did not feel uncomfortable, only not quite masculine. Heaven forbid, he engage in swordplay on rain-slippery cobblestones.
At least he’d the principle to forego a powdered bag-wig.
Rhys decided he would make no advances worrying about his attire. It was his carriage and attitude that would win him entrance into the secrets hoarded within the salon.
He leaned close to Orlando and said, “The rumor is that a werewolf murdered the vampires. Have you heard any interesting discussion?”
“Not yet, but I did spy Salignac. Over there.”
Following Orlando’s nod, Rhys scanned the crowd of wigs dribbled with candle wax and bird droppings and saw, splayed across a red velvet chaise longue, the vampire lord and leader of tribe Nava, Constantine de Salignac.
Blood heated Rhys’s neck and he clenched his fists.
Over the years, he and Salignac had traded the role of tormentor against the other. Whenever Salignac found opportunity, he went for Rhys’s jugular. They got into rousing duels and malicious dupes. Constantine had even gone so far as causing the death of Rhys’s only loved one.
Rhys did not believe in an eye for an eye. Senseless violence proved nothing. Yet the seeds of such violence were always cracked open whenever in Salignac’s presence.
He took morbid delight in the idea of walking up to Salignac tonight. It had been a decade since they’d last spoken.
“Here’s something you’ll find of interest,” Orlando said. “Salignac is smitten.”
“Smitten? As in …?”
“In love. Or so the whispers tell.” Always so comically dramatic, the young werewolf fit into this false society with an ease Rhys would never possess. “Seems there is a beautiful vampiress who was left without a patron after Henri Chevalier’s murder. You know the females need to feed from a familiar blood source to maintain their life essence.
“The thought curdles my blood,” Orlando muttered.
Werewolves would never dream of drinking blood from humans, or consuming their flesh. It was abominable. Yet a werewolf bitten by a vampire would develop the gruesome need to take mortal blood.
“Salignac stumbles moon-eyed in the wake of her silken skirts,” Orlando reported. “The entire salon is abuzz with rumors he will patron her, perhaps even marry her. It is why no other vampire dares pursue her.”
“That is not love, Orlando.”
“Yes, but if ever an alpha existed in the vampire ranks, it is Salignac. If he strikes first, the other males cower. I hear the woman is indifferent.”
Rhys smirked. “A female not interested in Constantine? The illustrious leader of the failing tribe must be confounded.”
“Seems her former patron gave her unbounded freedom.”
Interesting. Rhys had never heard such a thing. Female kin were literal slaves to their patron.
“She attends the salon and boldly defies convention,” Orlando added. “She is wicked.”
“Wicked women are better left to other men to suffer their claws.” And yet, he’d never refuse a scratch or two, most especially one from an azure-eyed beauty.
“Perhaps so, but Salignac is relentless.”
Rhys had once been in love. With family. With the idea of serenity and an untroubled life. He still considered it on occasion, despite Constantine’s best efforts to excise that desire from his heart. The man had taken it all from him, and with a smirk and a nod.
“To each his own,” Rhys said.
Yet his tattered heart heaved to know Constantine
