Page 68 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

“Shit,” he swore.

We tipped backward, falling to the ground with a thud. Enhart’s hand cradled the back of my head, softening the impact against the ground. His body was pressed against mine, the earthy scent of petrichor reaching my nostrils. The mist dissipated, showering us in dewdrops.

“I thought vampires were supposed to be graceful,” I groaned.

The corners of his lips, now only inches from mine, turned upward. “I was just trying to save you from yourself. You have the balance of a drunken troll.”

I chuckled. “Charming.”

Up close, I could trace the rivulets of green in his irises. Not just emerald green, but the same color as the pines that peppered the hills behind Valnar Castle. As if he’d been plucked from their very branches. Dew dripped from the curl that had fallen over his brow, landing on my cheek like a teardrop.

I wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole.

Sense slammed into me and I scrambled out from beneath him, my cheeks burning as I came to my feet. I beat dust from my breeches, unwilling to meet his gaze. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as he jumped to his feet, running his fingers through his inky black hair.

“That’s enough,” he said stiffly. “I’ll, er, see you tomorrow.”

I snatched my cloak off of the table and set off toward the castle without another word. I hurried down the uneven stairs, cursing myself for my misfortune. Of all the ways this evening could have ended …

I could practically hear Genevieve’s cackle when Enhart told her about this. My palms went clammy as I pictured his face lingering just inches before my own.

Gods, how humiliating.

By the time I finally arrived at my chambers, I was fully prepared to drown myself in the bath. But as I stepped inside, a crunch sounded underfoot. I frowned. A crumpled bit of parchment poked out from beneath my boot. I stepped sideways and reached for it, my eyes racing over the words that had been scratched across its surface.

I have news. Stairwell. Midnight.

Maxence

My heart raced. Finally. I cast a forlorn glance at the washroom door. My muscles screamed for a hot bath after the events of this evening, but it was nearly midnight already. I turned on my heel and hurried toward the servants’ staircase. The corridors on the third floor were busy at this hour, so no one cast me a second glance.

When I arrived at the staircase, Maxence was already waiting for me. I sucked in a breath at the sight of his companion.

Niamh bounced anxiously on the balls of her feet. I hadn’t seen her since our brief interaction on the night of Iltsar, and the sight of her now irritated me like a splinter to the thumb.

Maxence’s brows shot up the moment he laid eyes on me. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks,” I replied flatly.

“Enjoying your new post?”

“Not lately.”

He cleared his throat, glancing awkwardly at his companion. “Niamh wanted to make sure you were doing alright. Isn’t that right, Niamh?”

I glared at her. “Has she lost her tongue?”

“No,” she bit back, crossing her arms over her chest. I nearly smirked at the anger that flickered off of her.

“No matter,” I replied icily. “You said you had news?”

He nodded. “Don’t kill the messenger, okay? We paid a visit to the blacksmith’s yesterday.”

My gaze flicked to Niamh. Why would she bother? I supposed it was just an excuse to spend more time with Maxence.

“The Lord Seneschal sent me to provide compensation for the loss of Brummings’s apprentice,” Maxence continued. “And to quash any grumblings about the King’s … excessive use of force, as it were.”

I winced, the memory of Mordric ripping out Ewan’s throat still fresh in my mind. “And?” I urged.