The Scarlet Veil (The Scarlet Veil, #1)

by Shelby Mahurin

It is better to prevent than to heal.

“And if I refuse?” he asks. “Well then, monsieur, I—I will have no choice but to force you.” “How?” My stomach sinks. “I beg your pardon?” “How will you force me?” he repeats, intrigued now. And that curiosity—that glint of humor in his black eyes—is somehow worse than his disdain. When he takes another step toward me, I take another step back, and his lips twitch. “Surely you must have some idea, or you wouldn’t have threatened it. Go on, pet. Don’t stop now. Tell me what you intend to do to me.”

“Patience is a virtue, pet.” This close, his distinct lack of scent is unnerving—like snow or marble, or perhaps poison slipped in wine. I cannot stand another second in his presence. “I am not your pet”—I spit the words in a voice I hardly recognize—“and do not pretend to understand virtue, monsieur. You are no gentleman.” A low noise of agreement rumbles through his chest, or is it—my eyes narrow incredulously—is it laughter? Is he laughing at me? “Enlighten me, mademoiselle. What does make a gentleman?” “You patronize me.” “It’s a simple question.”

“Do not run again,” he warns, his voice softer and deadlier still, “or I will chase you.” He leans closer. “You do not want me to chase you, pet.”

He halts mid-step, casting me a curious, sidelong look. “Would you have preferred I undress you?” “Excuse me—?” If possible, my cheeks flame hotter, but he only tilts his head, and that curl of his lips transforms into a fully-fledged smirk. “I— You are despicable, monsieur, to talk of such things. Of course I wouldn’t have preferred that you—you—” “Undress you?” he finishes salaciously. “You need only ask, you know. It would be no hardship.” “Stop looking at me like that,” I snap. He feigns innocence, beginning to circle once more. “Like what?” “Like I’m a piece of meat.” “More like a fine wine.”

She humphs, casting a withering glance at his clenched hand. “Or doesn’t choose to touch. Please tell me you aren’t responsible for the gore all over her person, Michal, because if you are, those marks on your face are the least of your worries.”

“I told you I tried my mother’s wine, but I never did. She doesn’t drink wine. She doesn’t drink alcohol at all—she doesn’t approve of it—so I’ve never had a sip in all my life before this.” I clasp my hands together in delight. “It’s wonderful, though, isn’t it? Why didn’t anyone tell me it’s so wonderful? Have you ever been drunk?” He glares at the ceiling with a pained expression, as if questioning how, exactly, an ancient and all-powerful vampire could land himself in such a situation. “Yes.” I gaze at him intently. “And?” “And what?”

“if Lou would’ve faltered. I would’ve slid that knife across her mother’s throat, and I wouldn’t have regretted it for a single second.” Though my tears fall thick and fast upon Michal’s hand, he doesn’t move to wipe them away. Instead, he leans forward until our faces are nearly touching. “Good,” he snarls.

He studies me with rapt interest. “Do friends not take sobriquets? If I recall correctly, you called my dear cousin Dima.” “You cannot be serious.” I stare at him in disbelief—both that he remembered the one time I shortened Dimitri’s name and that he could ever, even in the warped depths of his mind, consider pet as a term of endearment. “You are not my friend, Michal Vasiliev.” He arches a brow. “No?” “No,” I say emphatically. “That you would even think of friendship while you plan to maim and murder my loved ones proves you are quite incapable of it.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Every relationship has problems.” “Problems? You kidnapped me. You blackmailed me.” Indignant, I lift a finger for each offense. “You locked me in a room, and you goaded me into summoning ghosts. Only a few moments ago, you revealed a prophecy in which—”

Exhaling hard through my nose, I say, “My apologies, monsieur, for not explaining properly”—the witch leans forward eagerly—“but I’ve already made an appointment with this gentleman.” I drop stiffly to the settee beside Michal and force a would-be convincing smile. The witch still eyes the space between us in suspicion. Scooting a bit closer, I give Michal’s knee an awkward pat. “I shall be spending the rest of the morning with—with him.” “So leave,” Michal tells the witch coolly. For a second, it looks as if the witch might argue, but with one last disgruntled look in our direction, he turns and stalks away. I remove my hand from Michal’s knee at once. “I think I’m going to kill you,” I say pleasantly. “I think I might enjoy it,” Michal says as another patron—this one a scaled creature with round, glassy eyes—approaches. When she asks for my name, my hand darts back to Michal’s knee. When she asks if I’ll join her by the fire, it creeps higher, clutching his thigh for dear life. When she brazenly asks for a kiss, I crawl straight into Michal’s lap, and he shakes with laughter underneath me. “You are insufferable,”

I squirm a little at the thought, still flushed and restless, until the hand on my back seizes a lock of my hair and tugs. Hard. I gasp and pull away to face him. “What was that for?” “Stay still.” “Why?” I jerk my head toward Pennelope, who moans in time with the werewolf. “She isn’t staying still.” His fingers wrap more firmly around my hair, and he pulls harder, tilting my face upward and baring my throat. His eyes glint like shards of glass as he holds my gaze. “Exactly.” When I open my mouth to tell him exactly where he can put his arrogance, he flexes his hips against me, and I nearly choke on the words. Something—something hard presses against my leg. “Shall we do what they’re doing? Is that what you want?”

“This isn’t real,” I tell him. “We’re just pretending.” It felt like a dream. He tilts his head languorously to consider me. “Of course we are.” His thumb, however, brushes my bottom lip in the next second, parting it from the top and lingering there. Daring me, I realize, to make the next move. I should recoil from the challenge—that small, hateful voice in my head urges me to stop, stop, stop—but instead, I take his thumb into my mouth. If possible, his eyes darken further, and that same heady sense of power surges through me, washing away everything else. Without knowing why—without understanding the impulse at all—I suck gently, my tongue laving his skin with a confidence I shouldn’t feel. He tastes cold and sweet from the juice of the apple. I suck harder. “Easy,” he says through clenched teeth. Reluctantly, I release his thumb. “Why?” “Because”—he presses it hard against my bottom lip—“I’ve been imagining how you taste since I met you.” I swallow, and he tracks the movement hungrily. “I thought vampires didn’t like the taste of human blood.” “I think I’d like the taste of yours.” I certainly liked the taste of his.

You’re being ridiculous, I tell myself firmly. It’s just a kiss. It’s for the investigation. He still doesn’t move. Still doesn’t speak. His smile widens, however, as the tip of our boots touch, as I stretch onto tiptoe, as I lift my face toward his. No one should be this beautiful up close. His lashes fan thick and dark against his eyes as he lowers his gaze to my lips. “I have to kiss you,” I whisper. Again, he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear with startling affection. “I know.”

I move to pull away, cheeks burning, but his free hand rises swiftly to capture my waist, pulling me flush against him. When I gasp, startled, his hand slides into my hair, and he tips my face back to deepen the kiss. My mouth parts instinctively in response, and the instant our tongues touch, a deep and potent heat unfurls inside me—slower than before, but stronger, suffusive. An ache instead of a throb. I close my eyes against it—helpless against it—and wrap my arms around his neck, pressing closer and reveling in the strange feel of him. His breath is colder than mine. His body larger, harder, deadly enough to kill. Though I mold my own against it, desperate to find friction, to welcome his heavy weight, I cannot move close enough to ease the ache, cannot coax him to envelop me completely. No, he holds me like glass until I think I might scream. And perhaps I already am screaming. Because this is Michal. Michal. I can’t— I shouldn’t be—

At last, with a slightly mocking smile, he brushes a thumb across my cheek and says, “No one would be disappointed, Célie.”

If he doesn’t touch me soon, really touch me, I think I might die. “Michal, please, please—” I scrabble at his back, unable to stop, and at the hitch in my voice, he pulls back to watch me once more, fascinated. A sob tears from my throat. Though his eyes remain depthless and strange, he brings my wrist to his mouth, kissing it gently and murmuring, “Don’t cry, moje sunce. Never cry.” Even if I understood, I couldn’t answer him. I can’t speak. I can’t even remember my own name. Surging upward to kiss him, I crush his lips against mine, and his mouth is hot and cold all at once—and everywhere. He is everywhere. His hips push into mine, his teeth catch my bottom lip, and his hands cradle my face, my throat, my shoulders, trailing downward until I break away, writhing and gasping for breath. Something shifts in his eyes in response. With a low, possessive rumble in his chest—I feel it all the way to my toes—he buries his teeth in my throat.

“It’s nothing,” I say hastily, tugging my sleeve down over the wound. “It didn’t h-hurt either. You never lost restraint.” “Excuse me?” I recoil slightly from the glint in his eyes. “I—I said you never lost restraint. I meant it as a compliment.” “Oh. You meant it as a compliment.” He leans forward now, the cords in his neck straining against his skin. Despite our proximity, his voice drops so low that I almost can’t hear him. “Do you have any idea how lucky you are, Célie? Any idea how stupid?” He snarls the last word, and I blink at him, startled. “I could’ve killed you—I could’ve done worse than killed you—and you want to compliment my restraint? You think I’d never hurt you? I’m a vampire, and you offered yourself up like a lamb for slaughter. What if I hadn’t stopped? What if I’d taken more than you wanted to give?”

“They asked you to heal me?” “No.” Fresh stars erupt in my vision as I shake my head, as I thrust the knife into my pocket with such force that I tear the fabric. “They wanted you to drink from the humans downstairs, but I wouldn’t let them.” “Why?” “Odessa said you might kill them”—I glare at his rigid back, refusing to feel more foolish than I already do—“and they didn’t deserve to die because we walked into a trap.” With startling speed, he clenches the sheet in his fists, his arms tight with restraint. “So, naturally, you preferred I kill you instead.” “Of course not, but—” “You really do have a fucking death wish.”

“What else would you call it? For a fortnight, the entire kingdom has been searching for you—fearing the worst, dreading what we might find—and where have you been?” His knuckles clench tight around his Balisarda. “Entertaining the locals.” At the last, his eyes flash to Michal, who chuckles darkly. “I’m not local, Captain, and how fortunate that is for you.” Odessa elbows him sharply in the side.

“It can happen without us even realizing—we fall in love with an idea instead of a person. We give each other pieces of ourselves but never the whole thing, and without the whole thing, how can we ever truly know a person?”

“I’m sorry, Jean, but I don’t need you to protect me. I never needed you to protect me. I needed you to love me, to trust me, to comfort me, and to push me. I needed you to confide in me when you had a poor day and laugh with me when I had a good one. I needed you to wait for me to catch those lutins in Farmer Marc’s field, just as I needed you to break the rules and kiss me when the chaperone looked away.”

His gaze darts from Reid to Frederic to the watching crowd before settling on Michal at last. “Don’t make this uglier than it needs to be,” he warns him. Michal no longer sounds cool and impassive. “Oh, you’ve already done that.”

My muscles go weak with relief. I’ve witnessed his wrath, his grace, his power, and I’ve survived them all, but his charm? I don’t think anyone can survive that.