He stiffened. “I’ve answered enough of your questions, Farrow. Now leave me alone.” He turned away to face the cushions.
“I know Evren courted her?—”
“Enough, Farrow!”
I blinked, taken aback by the hostility in his voice. “Fine,” I muttered, my thoughts shifting to the eye-shaped brand on Casimir’s bicep. It was so different from the mark on my thigh, which looked more a tattoo. I didn’t need to ask if it had hurt when he was branded—when the acrid, sickly sweet smell of his own searing flesh had filled his nostrils, lingering with the others. The excruciating pain would have only amplified over the next few days, the wound oozing with fluid and plasma as the dead skin scarred and hardened. What had he given in exchange for Isolde’s life? Maybe, given the choice between being branded compared with the agony of losing someone he loved, he’d chosen wisely.
After a moment, I spoke again. “What did you discuss with Devereaux on the veranda at Bryce’s party?”
Casimir didn’t answer for several moments. Finally, he turned back around to face me. “Devereaux wants me as his ally. He offered me a place in the bloodrite if I agreed to hand over the Book.”
“He what?” I sat up and gaped at him in disbelief.
Casimir was being offered a place in the ritual—the opportunity to restore his powers by drinking August’s blood? The queasiness that had plagued me the previous day suddenly returned with unflinching intensity. No. Casimir couldn’t—he wouldn’t?—
“Zhara,” I breathed. My blood chilled in my veins as the realization washed over me. “She must’ve told Devereaux we had the Book because of what I’d told her at the party.”
Casimir’s expression twisted into a grimace, but he nodded. “Yes. He was displeased, as you might imagine.”
“Are you saying that theBook of Erebosbelongs to Devereaux?”
“Technically, the Book belongs to no one,” he corrected.
“So, you lied when I asked you if it came from Ethervale.”
“No, not technically. The Bookwasbound in Ethervale, but I didn’t obtain it there.” The ghost of a smirk traced his lips. “I stole it from Devereaux’s château.”
I bit back a growl of frustration. “Fine, you didn’t lie, but you purposely misled me. That’s just as bad!”
“Look, it doesn’t matter!” he cried, throwing up his hands and standing to flick on a nearby lamp. Warm light bathed his golden skin, illuminating his severe expression. “I refused his offer outright.”
My blood went cold. “You refused? Aren’t you worried Devereaux will retaliate?”
He scoffed, shooting me an all too familiar arrogant smirk. “Let him try. The rite cannot take place without theBook of Erebos.”
“What if Devereaux manages to steal back the Book before the full moon?” At the puzzled look on his face, I clarified, “Will you participate in the ritual? Don’t tell me the prospect of getting your powers back isn’t a tempting offer.”
Was it so unreasonable to wonder whether Devereaux’s offer hadn’t wavered his iron resolve, if only for a moment?
His eyes flashed dangerously. “As debased as I may seem to you, Farrow, I’m not exactly keen on the idea of drinking your ex-lover’s blood if it means being in Devereaux’s debt.”
I closed my eyes as if to shut out his corrosive words. “How noble of you,” I fired back.
At that, he stalked over to me, his furious gaze driving icy daggers into my skin.
“The fact that you could even think—” He ground his jaw. “After everything that’s happened?—”
I cut him off with a derisive snort. “You mean, after you tricked me into making a veilbound bargain and left me with this tattoo?” I raised the hem of my dress to display the tattoo bearing his name.
A shadow darkened his expression, and I could have sworn the temperature inside the loft dropped several degrees.
But then his anger deflated, his shoulders softening. “We want the same thing, Farrow. You said so yourself.”
It was true. We wanted the same thing, and yet… He’d concealed so many secrets, told so many lies by omission. First, by concealing his familiarity with the Order; second, by neglecting to inform me that he was a Daemon and a Darkseer; and third, by refusing to tell me about Isolde.
Only last night, Casimir had held me on the veranda and kissed me beneath the faerie lights. I recalled the way his lips curved against mine, like a match on the tinder of my undoing. How his touch had ignited my skin, burning a wildfire in my blood. Then, my dawning horror at my body’s reaction, at just how badly I wanted to succumb to the flames. But now, as we glared at one another across his sun-crested living room, I wondered how all that fire had cooled into ice-cold resentment in the span of just one conversation?
Living in Casimir’s orbit was like trying to outrun wildfire; his chaos consumed everything in his wake, and I had already allowed him to devour too much of my attention.