Page 22 of Chateau Reverie

He does not know who she is, either. That is her comfort and her curse. ‘So show me who you are, then,’ she spits. ‘Unless you cannot. I am beginning to think you do not know.’

He does not reply. As he stares at her, she glares at him, and Genevieve feels her heart speed. She cannot tell if it is anger or a sudden, unbidden arousal. Something feral within her is awakening—something that wants to tear at his clothing and bite him with her teeth and make him push back, bite back. She wants that, the pain of it, the abandon. She wants him.

She swallows. Her face heats. There is warmth in the base of her stomach, sparks trailing down her spine. It feels as much like fear as it does desire.

He senses the change in her. His posture shifts; his eyes darken. ‘Genevieve,’ he says.

‘Do not call me that.’

He takes another step up. He is breathing faster, she notes, and his pupils are blown wide. ‘Genevieve,’ he says again, ‘give me my figurine, and we can part. That is why you came to find me, isn’t it?’

‘Perhaps now I shan’t give it to you. Perhaps I shall keep it.’

He smiles sharply, dangerously, and the expression makes him seem a little less human. He has always been handsome, of course, but the perfection of his features now feels almost uncanny, and the glint of his blue eyes is as cold as the glitter of precious stone.

He says, ‘I have yours. Shall we trade?’

She lifts her chin in defiance. ‘You are lying.’

He chuckles lowly. ‘Oh, sweetheart, I never lie.’

Her hand closes tightly around her pouch. He glances down to her fist, then reaches out with his finger to trace the tear in her glove left by the bird’s talons. His touch is like ice against her bare skin.

‘I could take it from you,’ he says.

‘I will run before you can,’ she replies.

‘Then what?’ he asks. ‘Where will you run to, mademoiselle?’

Genevieve swallows, and Leander follows the bob of her throat with hungry eyes. No one has ever looked at her like that.

Leander steps up, and he is in front of her. He reaches out and presses his hand against the side of her waist, leans down so his mouth is brushing the shell of her ear.

‘You don’t want to run away from me,’ he murmurs. ‘And even if you did, we both know what would happen once I caught you.’

‘What would happen?’

His fingers dig into her side. ‘Would you like me to show you?’

It is as if she is lying in the sunlight again, in bed at Versailles with her dearest love, the sun beaming in through the window. But now it is Leander who shines on her, burns her, bright as the morning. Genevieve’s self-control shatters. She arches her back up into him, wrapping her arms around his neck, and he was not expecting it, clearly—he freezes for a moment—and then his hand is on her and he is tugging her closer. His skin is beneath her fingers, his scent is in her throat, his warmth surrounding her. God, she has not felt like this in years, in lifetimes. ‘Please,’ she whispers, ‘show me.’

He mutters an oath and places a finger beneath her chin, tips her head up to force her to look at him. His eyes search hers, and she wants him closer—for God’s sake, why won’t he come closer? She cannot lift herself up farther without falling. He must bow to her, but he will not. She closes her eyes because she cannot bear his stare. Winding her fingers through his hair, she feels his breath ghost across her face. Kiss me, she thinks. The last time she said those words was to a woman in a carriage, and she had obliged without pause. She had pulled her into her lap and teased her with kisses along her throat, her jaw, because she’d known that they’d have years ahead of them together. They had no need of hurrying.

‘Genevieve,’ a voice murmurs.

Her heart is drumming, her breath quick. She is alive, she is healed, if only for a moment. All is as it was. Desire, joy, anticipation. All grief is momentarily forgotten.

‘Genevieve,’ he says once more.

‘Claire,’ she says on a sigh.

The word—the name. It crashes over her, makes her eyes fly open, and all the world stops turning; all clocks stop clicking. Leander is looking at her, frowning in confusion, and she feels bile rise in her throat and churn in her stomach. Her hands meet his chest. She shoves him away. He teeters on the steps, rights himself, and the betrayal in his expression is like a bullet to the chest.

‘Who is Claire?’ he asks, but it is too late. Genevieve is undone. She is gasping, she can hardly breathe, and above her the chandelier is spinning, glittering, red light cast on them like blood. She pulls his figurine out of her pouch with trembling fingers and offers it to him.

‘Take it,’ she says.

‘But—’