24

Casimir

I've never considered myself a particularly violent creature.

Aside from one notable exception, I've never taken a life, and I've rarely had cause to injure or maim to achieve my purpose when flattery or threats or bribes usually do the trick.

But standing in Philippe's doorway, seeing him with his fangs bared and hovering at Ophelia's throat, one hand in her hair and the other at her waist—a position and intimacy that should be mine and mine alone—sends violence ripping through me.

Without thinking, without hesitating, I'm across the room in a few short heartbeats.

My hand is at Philippe's throat before I've registered raising it. I haul him off Ophelia, slamming him into the floor-to-ceiling window behind him with a force I'm surprised doesn't fracture the glass.

"Cas, stop!"

Stop?

I'll stop when the arrogant smirk fades from his face, when the cruel glint in his eyes as they meet mine turns into a cold, dead, glassy stare.

It'll serve him right for touching her, for—

"Cas." Ophelia's voice is quieter this time, and the touch of her hand on my shoulder brings me back into my body in short, jerking increments. I'm still half-lost to the crimson haze overtaking my senses, but her soft words somehow make it through. "It's not what it looks like."

"What the fuck is it, then?" I snarl, and a little more sanity slams back into me when she flinches.

"He knows about the other two victims. How they tie to Haverstad. He was going to tell me for…"

Her voice trails off, and I'm not quite coherent enough to fill in the blanks. Not until Philippe rasps out the rest of the sentence from where I've still got my hand at his throat.

"For a taste. Isn't that right, Ophelia?"

"Which you didn't agree to," she snaps. "And which I wasn't going to let you have, even before Cas showed up."

Philippe's eyes dance with mirth as he regards Ophelia, and the pieces start to fall into place, slow they may be through the fury still clouding my judgment.

Ophelia was going to let him bite her.

For information.

For something so trivial as a break in the case, considering the price she would have paid for it.

But Philippe is still looking at her with challenge and amusement in his eyes, and the image of how closely he was holding her when I arrived is still seared into my retinas.

Perhaps it wouldn't have been such a high price for her after all.

"Cas," Ophelia says again. "Let him go. Maybe he'll still be willing to work with us."

I release my grip a fraction, and Philippe sucks in a ragged breath.

"No, I don't think I will," he says, and when his gaze lands on me, that challenge turns into a taunt, a silent victory held aloft as he takes in the roil of emotions in my expression.

It's probably exactly what he wanted from this meeting. To use Ophelia to hurt me, to toy with me, to score some point in this twisted, tangled, centuries-long feud between us.

"I wouldn't have expected such low behavior, even from you." I spit the words at him, showing a bit of fang for good measure.

Philippe smiles, but there's no warmth in it, no humor. Nothing but the depthless, age-old cruelty I've always known him to be capable of. The dying light of centuries past shines from his eyes like bonfires in a war camp, and the echoes of violence from throughout our shared history rattle in his words like a death knell.

"I've seen your darkness, brother. And you've seen mine. So tell me, why would you ever think I was above something like this?"

He's right. I should have expected something like this. And maybe some part of me did.

What I didn't expect was Ophelia's willingness to partake in it. I didn't expect her to think a trade like that would be worth it. I didn't expect her to believe such a sacrifice wouldn't have been worth more than this case by magnitudes of hundreds, thousands.

Have I made her feel that way? Have I made her feel like the gift of her blood means so little?

Or was it something she wanted, something she would have been glad to give him?

I finally drag myself away from Philippe and drop my hand from his throat. I turn to Ophelia and her eyes are wide, cheeks flushed, her hand still raised, though she drops it from my shoulder. Her gaze darts over my face, and she takes a few tentative steps back.

"We're done here," I say, barely able to choke the words out.

With a restraint I'm not sure how I still possess, I leave Philippe where he is and approach Ophelia. Placing a hand on the middle of her back, I steer her toward the door. I half-expect her to protest or pull away, but she goes without a word, and Philippe doesn't offer any parting shots as we leave.

Serra waits for us just outside the office. She has her arms crossed over her chest and a steely look focused on Vincent, pinning him in place on the opposite side of the room.

I catch her eye and jerk my chin toward the elevator. Ophelia's already headed that way, and with one last warning glare toward Vincent, the three of us step through the doors as soon as they open.

Sinking slowly back toward the earth, the air inside the elevator is nearly too thick to breathe. Ophelia stands as far away from me as she can, Serra between us, and not a single word is spoken as the seconds pass.

We reach the ground floor with a ding, and the doors slide open into a short, familiar hallway. Ophelia strides forward, heading for the back exit with Serra and I trailing behind, all of us more than ready to be away from this place.

It's not until we step into the alley that Serra breaks the silence. She shoots a nervous glance to where Ophelia's waiting a few yards away before turning back to me.

"You good?" Serra asks.

I give her a curt, jerky nod. "Yes. Everything here is handled. Thank you for your help tonight. With all of it. Do you need a ride back to—"

"Nah." She shakes her head. "I'll… find my own way."

I'll find my own way that doesn't involve a vampire who's got murder in his eyes , more like, but she gives me a small smile before she goes.

"Hope you're alright, Ophelia. And nice to meet you, by the way. I'm Serra."

"Nice to meet you, Serra," Ophelia murmurs. "And thanks. I'm fine."

I very much doubt that. With high color still staining her cheeks and a slight tremble in her limbs as she shifts from one foot to the other, I'd be willing to bet she's not in much better shape than I am right now.

Serra leaves, and the tension that kicks back up between Ophelia and I feels liable to snap with the next word or breath or slightest movement.

"Come on," I say gruffly. "We're going home."

I walk toward the end of the alleyway, careful not to touch her as I pass, though my hand flexes and aches as I brush by. I'm half-certain she won't follow, that I'll have to turn back, throw her over my shoulder, and carry her, but after a few silent seconds the sound of her heels hitting the pavement echoes behind me.

As soon as we settle into my car—parked just a block away—some of the coiled tension in me finally loosens. Not entirely, but enough for me to get a better breath into my lungs, enough to form words that don't feel like gravel and broken glass in my throat.

If only I knew what to say.

Because, as I pull away from the curb, I can't come up with a single damn thing.

My mind runs over and over the past few minutes.

A terrible, looping repeat, I see Ophelia's pale throat bared, Philippe's fangs, the cruel satisfaction in his eyes. I hear her words, his, and I don't know how to make sense of it, how to even begin to unravel and understand what happened, so I rasp out the first thing that comes to mind.

"You shouldn't have met with Philippe without me."

Ophelia huffs an indignant breath. "I tried calling, and you didn't—"

"Then you should have waited until I did." It's a harsher tone than I meant to take, and I barely recognize the sound of my voice.

"Oh, fuck off with that," Ophelia snaps. "You didn't wait for me before going off to meet with one of your brothers ."

My veins turn to ice. Philippe must have told her about our conversation.

"What the hell is up with the three of you, anyway? Because I fucking swear, Cas, if you've been playing me in all of this, I'm going to—"

"Enough." Her lips snap shut, and my knuckles ache with as hard as I'm gripping the steering wheel. "You know nothing about the past I share with Philippe and Marcus."

The stoplight ahead of us changes from yellow to red faster than I was expecting, and I bite out a curse as I hit the brakes. Ophelia braces a hand on the dash and glares at me.

"Fine. But if you're too pissed off to get me home in one piece, let me know and I'll get out here."

A wave of shame surges up to join my anger and regret. It chokes me, leaves me unable to answer as cars pass through the intersection in front of us, casting the interior of the car in flashes of light and deep shadow.

Ophelia reaches for the door handle. "Fuck this. I'm outta—"

"Enough." I hit the locks, and she whips her head toward me.

"Real mature." Ophelia turns back to the door, fumbling in the dark for the lock, but the light turns before she can find it and I hit the gas.

Throwing herself from a moving car must be a less appealing prospect than the misery of staying here with me, and she lets out an irritated breath and settles back into her seat.

"Can you at least tell me what the fuck happened back there?"

I don't answer her.

"Cas, seriously, what the hell was that between the two of you? And does it have anything to do with the case?"

Again, I remain silent, thoughts too much of a tangle and throat too tight to dredge up any words.

It seems to unsettle Ophelia enough for her to fall silent, too, though at the next intersection she doesn't make another escape attempt.

Small victories, I suppose.

The silence between us lasts all the way back to my home, growing all that much heavier as I turn off the ignition.

Barely suppressing the urge to circle around to the passenger door and pull her out of the car so I can carry her inside, I climb out, close my door behind me, and head for the house.

It's up to Ophelia if she wants to follow.

It has to be her choice.

As it stands, I feel my control fraying to a single, straining thread. I don't know how much longer it will last, but I do know that if I get too close, I'm not going to be able to stop myself from wrapping my arms around her, getting my lips on her, my fangs. I'm going to hold her close and keep her there until I have answers, until I understand just what the hell happened tonight.

So I turn away and head for the door, not daring to hope that she might follow.