Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove, #1)

by Shelby Mahurin

I needed him. Whatever the reason, I didn’t care. One second, we knelt together on that bloody floor, and the next, I flung my arms around his neck and kissed him.

“Here.” Reid thrust something into my limp hand, and I wrapped my fingers around it instinctively. “An early Christmas present.” It was Andre’s knife, still slick with its master’s blood.

“God, you’re a huge ass! It’s not illegal, all right? Now move, or I swear to God, I will strip naked right here and dance the bourrée!” I thrust my hands on my hips and looked at him expectantly.

He didn’t even glance at the people around us. He didn’t get flustered. And Reid always got flustered. Instead, he kept his eyes trained on mine, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “Do it.”

“I will. Don’t think I won’t. I’ll do it right now.” He raised his brows, still smirking. “I’m waiting.”

“I know you have a filthy mouth.” He pressed down hard on my lip for emphasis. I shivered. “And you’re used to getting your way. I know you’re vulgar and dishonest and manipulative—”

“—but you’re also compassionate and free-spirited and brave.” He tucked my hair behind my ear. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Lou.”

“You make it impossible to know you.” “Ah, but you already know me so well.” I flashed what I hoped was a winning smile, still deflecting. “Foul-mouthed, manipulative, fantastic kisser—”

“Because you asked. Because you’re my wife, and if anyone deserves to know the worst parts of me, it’s you.”

His gaze fell to my scar, and he bent down slowly, brushing a kiss against it. Goosebumps erupted across my skin.

“I like to think God paints the sky just for me on nights like this.”

“To lock me in the closet and never think of me again?” “I’ve never considered you my property.”

“I know.” He looked down at our hands, sweeping a thumb across my ring finger. “It’s . . . it’s a wedding ring.”

He wrapped his arms around my waist, and I leaned back into his chest, trembling at the realization. I loved him. Shit. I loved him.

“‘Do not urge me to leave you or turn back from you.’” He trailed his fingers down my arm in slow, torturous strokes. My head fell back on his shoulder, my eyes fluttering closed, as his lips continued to move against my neck.

“‘Where you go, I will go. Where you stay, I will stay.’”

I wanted him to touch me. I wanted him to become my husband in every sense of the word. I wanted him— I wanted him.

All of him. We could make it work. We could write our own ending, witch and witch hunter be damned. We could be happy.

“Touch me, Reid.” To my surprise, the words came out steady despite my breathlessness. “Please. Touch me.” He grinned—slow and triumphant—agains...

“Would you, oh brave and virtuous Chasseur, stick your tongue down my throat and your hands up my skirt? My ass needs grabbing.”

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed. “Shut up, Chass.”

“This is how you touch a woman.” I pressed into him harder for emphasis, grabbing his hand and bringing it between my legs. “This is how you touch me.”

“Another time,” I said, pushing him gently against the rooftop, “I’ll show you just how foul my mouth can be.” “Lou,” he repeated, pleading.

“It’s a good hurt.” I smiled and flicked his nose. “Well done, you.”

This time he actually had the gall to chuckle. “You are insatiable, Madame Diggory.” Delighted, I stood on tiptoe to press a kiss to his nose—then flicked it for good measure. “You don’t know the half of it. I still have lots to teach you, Chass.”

“I won’t let her hurt you again, Lou. I’ll protect you. Everything will be all right.”

With a sense of foreboding, I watched him walk toward the door. He paused at the threshold and turned back to me. “I love you, Lou.”

He loved me. He loved me. This changed everything. If he loved me, it wouldn’t matter that I was a witch. He would love me anyway. He would understand. He really would protect me. If he loved me.

C’est cela l’amour, tout donner, tout sacrifier sans espoir de retour. That is love, to give away everything, to sacrifice everything, without the slightest desire to get anything in return. —Albert Camus

Gone was the man who had knelt before me and gently wiped my tears away. Gone was the man who had held me on the rooftop, who had laughed at my jokes and defended my honor and kissed me under the stars. Gone was the man who had claimed to love me. Now, there was only the Chasseur. And he hated me.

I looked directly into Reid’s eyes. “I love you.”

“Please say something,” I whispered. His jaw clenched. “I have nothing to say to you.” “I’m still me, Reid—” He jerked his head in swift dismissal. “No, you’re not. You’re a witch.”

“I wanted to tell you,” I began softly. “Then why didn’t you?” “Because I . . . I didn’t want to lose you.” Eyes still closed, I extended his Balisarda tentatively. An offering. “I love you, Reid.”

“You—Reid, you also made an oath to me. You’re my husband, and I’m your wife.”

“You are not my wife.”

Lou had broken in that moment. My wild-hearted, foul-mouthed, steel-willed heathen had broken. I had broken her.

I loved her. Despite everything. Despite the lies, the betrayal, the hurt. Despite the Archbishop and Morgane le Blanc. Despite my own brothers. I didn’t know if she returned that love, and I didn’t care.

If she was destined to burn in Hell, I would burn with her.

They’d claimed to love me, once. But then . . . so had Reid. Love. I cursed the word.

“Love makes fools of us all, darling.”

Each side despicable—a twisted perversion of what should’ve been. Each side suffering. Each side capable of great evil. And then there was me.

You are not my wife. If this agony was love, perhaps Morgane was right. Perhaps I was better off without it.

Would my soul remember him? A small part of me prayed I wouldn’t, but the rest knew better. I loved him. Deeply. Such a love was not something of just the heart and mind. It wasn’t something to be felt and eventually forgotten, to be touched without it in return touching you. No . . . this love was something else. Something irrevocable. It was something of the soul.

I knew I would remember him. I would feel his absence even after death, would ache for him to be near me in a way he could never be again. This was my destiny—eternal torment.

Death couldn’t take him away from me. He was me. Our souls were bound. Even if he didn’t want me, even if I cursed his name, we were one.

“It won’t work again.” “Why not?” I peeked an eye open. “I can’t give him up.”

There you are, it seemed to say. I didn’t think you’d come. I promised to love and protect you. And I promised to love and obey you. We’re both such pretty liars . . .

“I wanted to kill her,” Coco said bitterly. “Or kiss her.” I chuckled ruefully. “I can empathize.”

Lou’s eyes sought mine. “I love you,” she whispered. No tears marred her beautiful face. “I will remember you.”

The first male witch. If there was a God, he or she had a shit sense of humor.