Page 111 of The Vespertine Treaty
I barely registered the final turn toward the foyer, my mind occupied with plotting how to set a tapestry on fire just to see if the smoke would draw him out, when a voice rumbled from above.
"What are you up to, Ophelia?”
My body reacted before my mind did.
I gasped, my muscles seizing as I spun around, my hands flying up to protect my face—a reflex born in the dark, carved into me by males who liked the occasional hit.
But there was no blow. There was only Friedrik.
The gargoyle was perched on the edge of a high pedestal, looking down at me. As soon as he saw my flinch—the way my breath had hitched, the way my eyes had gone wide and feral—his amusement vanished.
I lowered my hands slowly, forcing my heart to stop hammering against my ribs. I plastered a smile onto my face, though I knew it didn't quite reach my eyes.
"What happened to 'Little Ophie,' Friddi darling?" I asked, my voice only trembling slightly. "Have we moved to impersonal titles now?"
Friedrik climbed down, his heavy stone claws clicking against the marble. He watched me carefully, his amber eyes sparkling with a mixture of joy at seeing me up and a deep, abiding concern that made my throat tight.
"I will go back to calling you Little Ophie," he rumbled, brushing a speck of dust from his granite shoulder, "when you stop looking like you are plotting a small heist."
I feigned shock, pressing a hand to my chest. "Me? Plotting?"
He chuckled, a sound like grinding tectonic plates. As he moved closer, small fragments of obsidian dust flaked off his hide, settling on the pristine, mirror-polished floor.
I stared at the mess. Cain would hate that. Cain would absolutely loathe the grit on his perfect floors.
Perfect.
"Oh, and a small heist?" I grinned, the expression feeling sharper, more genuine this time. "Is that how capable you see me, Friedrik? I am insulted. I was aiming for grand larceny at the very least."
Friedrik grinned back, his jagged teeth revealing a monstrous affection. "With you, I would expect nothing less than?—"
He cut himself off.
The air in the foyer changed. The temperature dropped five degrees in a second. The shadows, which had been lazy in the afternoon sun, suddenly snapped to attention, stretching toward the main archway.
And then I heard it.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Angry stomping. The heavy, rhythmic, terrifyingly familiar sound of boots on stone.
The confident strides of my malevolent husband.
He was back.
My smile didn't falter; it grew. It widened into something reckless, something that felt like standing on the edge of a cliff during a lightning storm.Exhilarating. Friedrik looked at me, confused for a second by my delight, but he didn't feel what I felt.
I felt the bond. I felt Poppy, somewhere upstairs, wake up and hiss. I felt her anger flaring, hot and protective. And I felt my own anger rising to meet hers—not the paralysing fear of the dungeon, but a hot, living fire.
Cain rounded the corner.
He looked like a thunderhead wrapped in black velvets. His hair was windblown, his jaw was set in a line of granite, and his eyes—those terrible, beautiful eyes—were fixed on me with enough intensity to strip the wallpaper from the walls.
"What is the meaning of this?"
His voice invaded my senses, deep and vibrating, soaking into my bones. It was a command, a threat, and a caress all at once.
"Planning a coup, wife?" he snarled, stepping into the light.
