34

Casimir

I'm hardly surprised to see Philippe in the midst of the rest of this night's chaos.

Maybe it's the lingering effects of nearly being shot, or the brewing storm of emotion I haven't let myself feel yet—the conversation I need to have with Ophelia about precisely what madness made her put herself in front of a bullet for me—but somehow seeing him here hardly registers as abnormal, given everything else that's happened.

"What do you want?"

Philippe takes in the look on my face and the arm I have wrapped around Ophelia, but his eyes flick away a moment later.

He pulls a small flash drive out of the inner pocket of his coat.

"You're in touch with the journalist who's here tonight?" he asks, and it's one more thing I shouldn't be surprised about, that he's aware of Audra's involvement.

"And if we are?"

"Then I would ask you to make sure she receives this." He offers the drive to Ophelia.

"What is it?"

"Evidence," he says with a casual shrug. "Information on the other two people Haverstad paid to lie about being attacked. Photos and bank statements and communications to corroborate their stories."

Ophelia meets my eye, clearly skeptical, and I tighten my hold on her.

"Why?" I ask.

"I can certainly try to deliver it to her myself, but I thought it may be better received from someone she trusts."

It's not an answer, or at least not a complete one, but I sincerely doubt he's going to offer more about why he'd want to help bring all this information to light, or how he uncovered it in the first place.

Ophelia takes it from him, albeit reluctantly, like she's handling something toxic and contaminated. I don't miss the way he skims his fingers along hers as he hands it over, and can do nothing to stop the warning that rumbles in the back of my throat until he pulls away.

Philippe only smirks at me.

We stay there for a few moments more in a tense, stony standoff. At least until Ophelia shifts a little beside me.

"We've got eyes on us."

She jerks her chin back toward the cemetery, where the young female aide peers in our direction. She's standing mostly away from the chaos around her. Handcuffed, but not drawing as much attention from the authorities as Derham, Haverstad or the aide who pulled the gun.

A brief, silent look passes between Philippe and the young woman.

I don't particularly like that look, though I can at least hazard a guess at what's behind it.

Philippe had to have gotten all that information from somewhere, and as the woman glances pointedly away, I'd be willing to bet I know where.

"You were right, brother," Philippe says, that smirk of his still firmly in place. "We live in a different world than the one we were born into, and perhaps it's time we act like it."

Neither Ophelia nor I feel the need to give reply, though that doesn't seem to phase Philippe.

"Enjoy the rest of your evening," he says, melting back into the darkness he came from.

It's entirely too much for the ragged threads of my reason and logic to parse through right now. Everything that happened and what Philippe's involvement means, where we go from here and what happens next.

So I stop trying. I hold Ophelia closer and lean into her warmth.

The rest of it can wait.

Serra snorts from where she's stayed back and out of the fray. "Gods, what a fucking tool. Now how about we get the hell out of here?"

Ophelia and I follow her down the darkened streets to where she parked her car. I keep my arm on Ophelia the entire time. I know full well she's capable of holding herself up, but letting her go feels impossible.

Not when, with each passing heartbeat, those few moments from the graveyard keep playing themselves on repeat in my mind.

The flash of silver bullets and the raised barrel of a gun. Ophelia, heedless of her own safety, charging into me to keep me from harm. With each looped memory, I want to drag her closer, to keep her near and convince myself she's real, here, safe.

That terrible, clawing need keeps me company all the way back to my home, where Serra lets us out and departs. It grows sharper and more demanding as we walk up the drive and to the front door. It nearly chokes the breath out of me as I let us inside, then draw Ophelia into my arms in a fierce embrace.

Ophelia holds me just as fiercely. As she does, I feel her muscles tremble, hear the rasp of her breath in a tight, ragged inhale.

My heart cracks in my chest when I pull back to meet her gaze.

There are tears in her eyes.

All of it—all those roiling emotions, everything that happened tonight—spikes sharp and jagged at the sight of those tears.

"What did you think you would accomplish, jumping in front of that bullet meant for me? What were you thinking, Ophelia?"

I'm caught off-guard by the depth of my fear. I want to talk some sense into her, hold her to me and never let her go, kiss her long and deep and desperate until she understands how foolish it was to put herself in danger on my behalf.

"I couldn't… I couldn't…"

"Couldn't what, love?"

Ophelia's eyes widen at the harshly rasped endearment. "I couldn't let him hurt you."

All at once, the frenzy of those emotions slides away. In its place, a slow, trembling sort of warmth. A disbelief and awe at the woman standing before me.

I pull her back into my arms. "That still doesn't mean I'm worth putting yourself in danger."

"You're going to have to let me decide that," she says with a small, wet laugh.

We stay that way for a few long moments. My heart beats in time with hers, my breath becomes her own, and a wave of knee-buckling relief washes over me.

With no defenses, no excuses, the realization of just what's happened over these last few weeks settles over me right alongside that relief.

I've fallen for Ophelia.

Hard, fast, irrevocable.

Whether or not she feels the same, what's left of my soul is now in her keeping.

With each beat of my heart, each beat of hers, I feel it settling more and more firmly into place. I can't find the words, can't even begin to figure out how to start the conversation that needs to be had, so I do the next best thing.

I just hold her. I hold her and savor the warm, vibrant life of her in my arms.

When we finally pull back a few bare inches from that embrace, I take in the tangled state of her hair, the small bits of dirt and debris caught in its length and scattered across her clothing from our tumble in the graveyard.

"Come on," I say, offering her my hand. "Let's get cleaned up."

We walk upstairs together, climb into the shower, and take turns washing and tending to each other. There's hardly an ounce of seduction in the touches, and the easy comfort that flows between us is one more healed crack in my battered heart.

A heart that belongs entirely to Ophelia.

I'm nearly undone by it, nearly ready to drag her into my bed and ask if she'll let me bond her here and now, though it's a question that certainly needs a good night's sleep and several hours, days, perhaps weeks to entirely tease out.

But I don't get the chance.

Almost as soon as we step back into the bedroom, my phone rings from the pocket of my discarded pants.

"Ignore it," Ophelia groans as she sprawls across the bed.

I want to agree with her, but a nagging voice in the back of my head prompts me to at least look.

I regret it immediately.

"Philippe," I say curtly as I answer. "You have five seconds to convince me not to hang up."

I glance to Ophelia. She props herself up on an elbow, watching me with a furrowed brow and concern written all over her face. My chest aches again, and I can't imagine there could be anything in the world important enough to take my attention away from her now.

"The covens are meeting to discuss what happened tonight and how we're going to respond."

Well. I stand corrected.

"Representatives from all three," Philippe goes on. "Not just mine. As a courtesy, I've been asked to extend the invitation to you as well."

"Why?"

Philippe doesn't bother responding to that, no doubt irked I'm being included. "Should I tell them you won't be attending?"

"I'll be there."

My gut twists painfully with the idea of leaving Ophelia, but if the coven leaders are meeting to determine how they're going to handle Haverstad being exposed for the monster he is, and where they go from here in determining their place in our post-Acts reality…

Philippe gives me the time and place, just an hour from now, in neutral territory outside city limits. Knowing how long it's going to take me to drive there, I'll have to leave immediately. I hang up without a farewell and turn to face Ophelia.

"What is it?"

I relay what Philippe told me, and by the time I'm done, she's nodding in agreement.

"Yeah. Yeah, you should go."

"I want you to know it's not willingly," I tell her, trying and failing to inject a teasing note into my voice. "I'd much rather stay here and—"

"I'll still be here," she says softly. "When you get back. I'll be here."

Though it nearly tears me in half, I dress and prepare to leave. I press one last kiss to her lips before I depart, leaning into the strength of her and trusting I'll be able to find the courage to tell her all the things I need to when I return.