Page 57 of Thirst
“Say I believe you,” he said at last. “Say I even invite you to remain here on Lilith Island. I understand Cain offered you sanctuary with us.”
Her spine went rigid. Her gaze lifted to Brien’s face. “And I said no.”
“Does that decision still stand? Jerome is—?” He glanced at me.
“In his final grave,” I confirmed.
“Won’t you take heat for that from Nazaire?” Brien asked Nyx.
Her fingers dug into her thighs, a quick, almost imperceptible movement. “He knows I’m loyal to him.”
Which wasn’t an answer. Not really.
“You can’t go back,” Brien told her. “You know that, don’t you? Cain tells me you were on that island with Lemaire and Pascal. You were the only one to return from that, too.”
Her eyes slid sideways. Probably remembering how the SOB had punished her for that mess on the island. As if a single dhampir could’ve stopped four vampires. She was lucky she’d survived.
“And now Jerome,” Brien continued, voice soft but relentless. “Three vampires Nazaire trusted. And instead of returning to Quebec, you vanish.”
“Because of Cain,” she protested.
“We know that. But will your sire?”
Her throat worked, a small, betraying swallow.
Time to turn up the heat. I placed my palms on the coffee table, forcing her attention to me.
“Brien’s right—you can’t go back to Quebec. Cut your losses, Nyx.”
Her chin notched up, defiance in every striking, impossible-to-ignore angle of her face. “Maybe I can’t go back to Quebec, but if you let me go now, I can leave the country. Nobody ever has to know I was here.”
I snorted. “You think crossing a border changes anything? Your sire will hunt you no matter where you run. With us, at least you stand a chance.”
“So then I’m a prisoner here,” she said flatly.
An unwelcome sliver of guilt slid under my ribs. I set my jaw and ignored it. She deserved everything we threw at her.
I rose back up. My friends’ eyes jumped between the two of us like they were watching a tennis match.
“That’s up to you,” I told her. “You can be our prisoner—or our guest.”
I stepped back, and Brien took over, calmly listing what we knew about Nazaire. That he’d been pocketing a third of the profits in Fleur and Lemarie’s blood-slave ring. That he’d intended to buy Eden and her unborn baby, and enslave them as well.
Most of it, I’d already told Nyx. But Brien ended with the newest—that we had credible intel Nazaire had orchestrated Prima Lenore’s slaying.
Nyx looked a little sick. “Your mother?”
“That’s right.”
Her brows pinched. “But why?”
“Fuck if I know.” Brien dragged a hand over his nape, his cool exterior slipping so that he looked almost human, a grief-stricken son missing his mom. “But this is my mother we’re talking about. If you know anything, can help us in any way…”
Nyx folded in on herself, arms around her middle like she was trying to hold herself together. “He doesn’t tell me anything. But?—”
“Go on,” Brien encouraged her.
She let out a breath. “He’s ambitious. He’d challenge Dussault if he thought he’d win. So maybe—and this is just a guess—but maybe he wants this.” Her gaze drifted around my quarters. “The castle. The island. Everything.”
