Page 178 of Saint Céline
He lifted it and paused. His eyes moved to mine over the rim.
I held still.
Vincent set the glass down without drinking. The sound was almost silent. It still struck the room like a gunshot.
“Drink mine,” he said.
My mouth went dry. “What?”
He pushed his glass toward me with two fingers. “Drink mine.”
I laughed once, lightly enough that it almost sounded real.
“Why?”
“Because you prepared it.”
“So?”
“So you should have no objection.”
My hand tightened around my own glass. The apartment seemed to shrink around the table. Rain moved against the windows. Miss Astoria jumped down from her chair and disappeared into the hallway with the excellent survival instinct she denied me most days.
“I have my own.”
“I know.”
“Then drink yours.”
“I would rather watch you drink it.”
The softness of his voice made my stomach drop.
He knew.
I had been stupid to think otherwise.
I hadn’t made an obvious mistake. I know I hadn’t. But Vincent knew me too well now. He knew anger. He knew performance. He knew the difference between Selena cooking dinner because she wanted to and Céline arranging an execution in a black dress with a candle burning between us.
I tried to stand.
He moved faster.
His hand closed around my wrist, firm enough to stop me, careful enough not to bruise.
“Where is your medication?”
Everything in me froze while he watched my face.
There was no point pretending not to understand, but I did anyway.
“What medication?”
“Your bag.”
“No.”
He released my wrist and stood. I stood too.
