“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.”
