And Louis didn’t as much as flinch.
No, he stepped into his space and grabbed my arm as if that space wasn’t being occupied.
And Cassian?
He made Cassian…
Step.
Back.
13
LOUIS
Compassion is the basis of morality. — Arthur Schopenhauer
The trick to poison is knowing when to let it show; at least that was my current theory. She had no clue I already had a bit of a tolerance anyways. I’d taken the vial hours earlier. Not enough to drop me. Just enough to give my body something to argue with. Tempest watched everyone at this party like a hawk pretending to be a dove, and I let her believe the dosage was under control.
It wasn’t.
I stood at her side while we continued to make small talk, close enough to feel the tension rolling off her like angry waves crashing against rocks during a storm. She smelled like citrus and steel. Sweet on the surface. Dangerous underneath.
Perfectly deadly. A mix many a man would kill for.
My stomach twisted—not violently, but convincingly. Sweat prickled at the base of my neck. My vision narrowed just enough to sell it.
I leaned close, my lips pressed against her neck like I was kissing rather than confessing. God her skin felt nice and cool against my mouth. “I think I’m going to puke.”
Her head snapped toward me. “What?”
“Either that,” I murmured, keeping my voice low, “or I pass out in front of your entire family. Your call. The last thing we need is your mom making me concoctions to strengthen my vigor and all-around dick health.” Her fingers caught my wrist instantly. Steady. Controlled. A little too tight.
“We’ll be right back,” she said flatly, already moving, interrupting one of the cousins who was going on and on about her latest art presentation at Eagle Elite University. We cut through the house fast. I let my steps falter just enough that she had to support me. She hated that part—hated needing to touch me when she didn’t know whether she wanted to push me away or pull me closer.
The door closed behind us. Silence swallowed the noise of the party.
I leaned against the counter, breathing through my mouth, letting the nausea crest… then fade.
She reached for the sink. “I told you not to?—”
“I’m not sick,” I said.
She froze.
I straightened slowly. “Or maybe I was.” I looked at her, really looked. “Maybe I just needed water. Or you. Or both.”
Her eyes darkened. “What are you doing?”
“Testing a theory,” I said softly.
I moved before she could stop me.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t desperate either. It was controlled—mouth to mouth, breath shared, just enough pressure to blur lines without crossing them. Her body stiffened, then betrayed her with a half-breath she didn’t mean to take.
That was when the door opened.
“Well,” Dante drawled, surveying the scene like he’d walked in on a crime he’d expected. “Can you two be newlyweds anywhere but my office?”