Chapter Nineteen Bathing in the Moonlight

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Bathing in the Moonlight

I HAVE HIS BLOOD.

The wheels of the carriage turn under me as I clench the purse resting in my lap. The drenched bloody handkerchief is stuffed safely within it, weighing like a pile of rocks.

I should be happy.

After all, this was the goal—acquiring the vicomte's blood is the first step to stealing his Talent.

Dahlia will be pleased. I can only imagine how she'll reward me . . . And success means I'll get to see my sister. To have her live with me, far away from the arms of poverty.

So why do I feel like throwing up?

I'm not supposed to care about Nuriel. He's supposed to be my "perfect target"—the one I won't lose sleep over. Yet I cannot deny the exhilaration that passed through me at our touch, or the way my heart flutters every time I meet his speckled emerald eyes. There is something challenging about him, and yet . . . safe.

In our relationship, I'm the dangerous one.

"It wasn't your fault, my lady." Pauline touches my shoulder, pulling me out of my thoughts. "I'm certain Vicomte Lenoir will ask you out again. I think he likes you."

I can't even fake a smile this time. "I would rather he didn't."

"My lady? You seemed to be getting along so well. Did he say anything to upset you?"

"No . . ."

"You must be exhausted, my lady. Too much excitement for one day."

I nod, my head pounding.

The carriage finally stops at my estate, and soon I pass through the gates and up the wide stairs to the entrance. The door is already open, but I pay it no mind. The head butler must have heard us arriving, though he's not waiting in the foyer. Strange.

I take my hat off and hand it to Pauline, but when she reaches for my purse I clutch it tightly. I have far too many reasons to not let it out of my sight.

"Leave it," I order, my voice sharper than intended.

She drops to a curtsy, her fiery-red braids falling on her shoulders. "Sorry, my lady."

The bitter taste of guilt fills my mouth. None of this is her fault.

I turn to apologize for snapping at her when a loud crash echoes from the next room.

Startled, we both sprint to the main sitting area and burst through the double doors. Shards of glass cover the needlework carpet, while the main table lies on its side, toppled over, with one of its legs missing.

"Mon Dieu . . ." Pauline mutters. "What happened here?"

I take a step inside just as a dark shadow emerges from the corner of the room, holding the missing table leg. "I was waaaiting for you," he slurs.

A chill runs down my spine.

"Basset?"

The coachman I fired stumbles forward, and the stench of cheap whiskey assaults me. This time he truly is drunk. A messy beard covers his face, his hair unevenly cut. There are tears in his coat and on his pants. Unemployment has not been kind to him. He sways as if struggling to keep his balance before throwing the wooden leg aside, grabbing a vase from a shelf and smashing it on the floor.

Pauline screams, covering her ears.

He takes another wobbling step. But I cannot bring myself to run. I am utterly frozen in horror.

"I . . . kn-know your secret." He hiccups before bursting into a frightening laugh.

My blood runs cold. My secret? But he already knew my secret. That's why I had to get rid of him. "Basset, please." I raise my arms in surrender.

"Don't move!" he yells. "You—you did this to me, to keep your seeecret hidden."

"I don't know what you're talking about—"

"SHUT UP!" He grabs one of the large chairs and flings it across the room. It crashes against the wall, breaking apart from the sheer force of impact.

Pauline shrieks again and grabs my arm to drag me out of the room. When I don't move, she dashes out herself, yelling for help.

The coachman doesn't pay her any mind. "You-you ruined my life. I was a good man. An honest m-man. All I wanted was to provide for my family. For m-my sister." He is choking on his tears. "But I know your secret now. Just like I was promised—" He hiccups again. "And now I will ruuuin you."

His words make no sense. His sister? His family? He knows my secret now ? But it can't be . . . He was on to me from the beginning. He saw me from before. He was searching my room.

"Basset . . ." I draw out his name slowly, too scared to make any sudden movement. "What were you doing in my room the day after the gala?"

He halts for a second, his eyes squeezing as if to clear the fog of alcohol. "Your . . . your room? P-Pauline had a headache. She . . . sent me to find a torn blouse. To mend it."

I let out a short burst of air. It can't be. But with so much alcohol in his body, I doubt he's even capable of lying. Which can mean only one thing . . .

He is innocent.

I ruined his life, tore it to shreds and cast him aside, made him into a laughingstock—a condemned man. All for nothing. I made him into a monster. And now he will take me down.

I deserve it.

"And m-my poor s-sister . . . they need a doctor to come to the farm." He sobs, and my heart writhes in pain. His family are farmers, hard workers who probably never had enough luck to hone a magical Talent. Everything he shared with me was true; he only came to the city to help them. And I took everything from him.

He is not the monster. I am.

"I . . . I can help you. I will help your family."

But the coachman shakes his head. "Sh-she was right about you."

She? Does he mean Pauline?

He advances again, now only inches from me, his boots smashing the glass under his feet. " Cleodora Finley. " He spits my true name in my face, and a stab of shock pierces my heart.

That's when two officers burst through the open doors. "Stop right there!" one of them yells as they yank the coachman away.

He curses and kicks in the air, his words a nonsensical mess as he fights against the restraining men, hitting one of them in the gut. "She will get you!" he manages to scream before the second officer hits his head and he goes limp.

"My lady!" Pauline shakes me. "I can't believe it . . . Mr. Basset was always such a gentleman. Are you alright? Did he hurt you?"

I shake my head, unable to speak.

I did this.

This is my fault.

One of the officers puts shackles on the coachman's hands, while the other turns to me. "My lady, you're safe now. "

I force my eyes from the coachman's unconscious body and look at the officer. A shout nearly escapes me when I recognize his face. This isn't an officer staring at me. It's Henry, one of Dahlia's henchmen, wearing an official police uniform.

"You are very lucky we were patrolling the area," he says. "We heard your maid shouting and ran right over."

He means they were right outside watching me, but all I can do is nod, keeping up the facade. "Thank you, officer."

"I'll need you to come to the police station to make a statement," he says, staring at me without blinking.

Translation: Dahlia is waiting for me.

"No!" Pauline snaps, an unusual harshness in her tone. "I mean, surely this can wait until morning." Her face is a cold mask, eyes wide and unblinking as she stares at the coachman.

"It's alright, Pauline. It's over, nothing to be afraid of." I try to soothe her. "I should go with them. Better to get this over with."

"I'll come with you, my lady," she says, finally tearing her gaze from the horrific scene.

"No need. I will accompany the lady myself to the station and back," Henry says. "Edmund, take this man to the carriage."

The other henchman flings Basset over his shoulders as if he were nothing more than a broken mannequin. I cringe. The poor man doesn't deserve this.

"My lady, please follow me," Henry says.

We step into the cool evening air, where a black carriage already waits. Edmund shoves the coachman in the back before offering me his hand to follow. I hesitate for just a second before taking it. He climbs in after me and shuts the door. Then we are moving.

The coachman's head flops from side to side with the rocking of the carriage. I swallow as Edmund shoves his unconscious body into a corner so his head won't hit his shoulder.

"Be gentle with him," I utter .

Edmund doesn't even glance my way.

"Where are we going?"

Again, no reply.

My teeth chatter and I clench my jaw in an attempt to control the tremors.

Edmund makes sure to keep the shutters closed the entire ride, not saying a single word. At least this time they didn't cover my head. After what feels like an eternity, we come to a stop.

My heart hammers as the door opens. "Out," Henry orders, waiting for me to join him outside.

"What about Basset?" I ask.

"None of your concern anymore."

My eyes jump between the coachman and Edmund's cold stare—the bulging muscles in his arms, the tension in his jaw. A sickening sensation overtakes me. I don't want to leave this innocent man with him. Even if he wishes me harm.

"Lady Sibille doesn't like waiting." Henry repeats the words I've heard from Lirone before.

I have no choice. I guess I never had a choice. Not after I pledged myself to Dahlia. My thoughts are in turmoil, one following the other in an incoherent jumble. I tighten my grip on my purse, still clutched close to my chest. The bloody handkerchief inside it is yet another proof of how low I have sunk.

Yet it's too late to turn back.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper, though I know the coachman can't hear me.

Taking a shaky breath, I step out of the carriage. We are standing in a dark street with no lampposts in sight. The building before us is short, with two sculptures of lions' heads mounted above its wide doors. There are some letters painted between them, but in the darkness I cannot make them out.

Henry grabs my arm, pulling me inside as the sound of trotting horses echoes behind me—the coachman is being taken toward his fate. But I cannot allow myself to think about that. I wince at the strength of Henry's grip, but he doesn't let go.

Candles light the wide entrance area, revealing a vivid mosaic floor and a colorful array of silk, cushioned alcoves right within the walls. A fountain sits at the center, its water covered with rose petals. Henry drags me toward a side corridor, forcing me through an open doorway.

The aroma of purifying oils envelops me as soon as we walk inside—a fresh mixture of rosemary, lemongrass, lavender, and what I'm pretty sure is myrtle. I blink in surprise at the imposing columns standing all around a large rectangular pool, each one linked to the next by a perfect archway. Above, the ceiling is lined with carved stars inlaid with gold. Hot steam rises from the water, as blue as a summer sky.

And right there, within the fog, is Dahlia, her body submerged in the water, which reaches just below her clavicle. Her raven hair is free of its usual tight bun, cascading in tousled waves around her, while her cheeks are flushed from the heat. The gentle sound of rippling water surrounds her, adding to the peaceful aura that emanates from her serene form.

"Leave us," she orders, and Henry obeys. "Cleodora . . ." She spreads her arms over the cold marble edge of the pool. "What an unfortunate sight."

Her words stab me like a knife to the gut. "Dahlia, I—"

"I thought I made myself very clear the first time we met," she says, circling the surface of the water with one finger. "I work only with people I trust. You broke my trust."

I want to explain to her what happened. To defend myself. To tell her none of this is my fault. But my voice is stuck in my throat. I cannot lie to her.

"What a mess you created," she continues. "If only you had come to me before, all of this could have been avoided."

"I wanted to, but Lirone and I—"

"Tsk, tsk, tsk." She hushes me. "I haven't given you permission to speak yet. "

I watch in silence as she swims toward me. Even through the water, I can see she's naked, ripples caressing every soft curve of her bare body. Heat courses to my cheeks despite myself, luckily masked by the rising steam.

"So, let's see if I understand it all," she muses. "The man who broke into your estate is the same coachman you fired a few weeks ago. The one you told me was a drunkard. But in truth, you fired him because you believed he knew your secret. And now he does."

None of these are questions. She isn't looking for information; all she wants is to show me that she already has it. That I can't hide.

"You lied to me—abused my trust." She barely whispers it, yet somehow it's worse than if she'd shouted at me. "This wasn't supposed to go this way. I had hoped . . ." There is disappointment in her tone, a glint of pain in her eyes that makes me want to reach out to her. But before I can make a move, she shakes her head. "Now I'm in a difficult position, Cleo. I don't like to be in difficult positions." She dips her head backwards, letting her hair fall back into the hot water. It swirls around her like a black halo of shadowy tendrils. A moment later, she sighs. "You are special, my lovely one . . . I truly did want it to be different, but I believe we must part ways."

I gasp as though she has just ripped my heart out of my chest with her bare hands. No. She cannot leave me. I need her. I need my Talent. I need to help my sister.

"It pains me more than I expected it to. But I can no longer trust you. You have failed me," she says, her voice soft, tinged with sadness. "I will have to find someone else to get Vicomte Lenoir's Talent."

"But I have his blood!" The words spill out of my mouth.

She pauses, her brow lifting ever so slightly before a delicate smile dances on her lips. With a graceful move, she stands, walking toward me without shame or modesty as droplets glisten over her naked body. My eyes travel from her face to her collarbone, then down . . .

"You have his blood," she repeats after me.

I nod, hands shaking as I dig into my purse and pull out the handkerchief, the fabric still wet, leaving red marks on my fingers. Her eyes light up at the sight of the crimson cloth.

"Oh, my Cleo . . . how happy you've made me!" She claps her hands and Henry marches inside, not even blinking at her naked form standing before him. "Henry, dear, store the blood sample properly so it doesn't dry. Our client will need it for the transfer ceremony."

Henry takes the handkerchief from me, his rough hands gentler than I thought possible. For just a second, a pang of guilt stabs me at the betrayal of the vicomte. Though my treachery already happened the moment I hesitated to pull him to safety—in truth, it began the very first moment I smiled at him. He trusted me, opened up to me. He is not who I thought he was; there is so much more hiding behind his arrogant mask. But I cannot allow myself to think like that. I push the thoughts out of my mind. This is all worth it.

"Oh, and Henry," Dahlia calls. "Please bring in the gift I saved for Cleodora."

He bows once before heading out the door.

"Gift?" I mumble. "Does . . . does that mean you forgive me?"

"Almost." Her wet hand caresses my cheek. "It means you've earned another chance. But you must never abuse my trust again. Do you understand?"

"Y-yes. I promise," I stutter. "I will deliver Nuri—Vicomte Lenoir's Talent to you."

Dahlia freezes for the slightest moment, her dark eyes searching mine. Can she see my reservations? The emotions I'm trying to hide? The new connection with Nuriel feels like a direct betrayal of her.

"Yes . . ." She draws out the word. "Focus on staying close to the vicomte . The time to steal his gem is almost here. I need you to be ready." She flashes a dazzling smile that makes my heart skip a beat. She takes my hand, her soft skin warm, inviting. "And Cleo, don't you worry about the coachman anymore." She squeezes my palm. "I promise he will no longer be a threat to you."

The meaning of her words is both comforting and frightening. But with her looking at me this way, I'm not sure I care.

Henry's heavy boots announce his return. "As you requested, Lady Sibille," he says.

Dahlia doesn't even look at him, stretching out her hand without breaking her gaze at me. "Thank you, Henry, dear. Now, leave us."

I barely notice as he walks out again, every bit of me focused on Dahlia and the coat now resting in her hands. It's the same coat she's worn every time we've met—on our midnight stroll, in the restaurant . . . Her fingers run over the monochromatic fabric, tracing the lines of black chenille along the collar. Once again, I'm struck by a sense of familiarity I cannot place.

"Do you recognize it?" Dahlia asks, wrapping it around her naked body, the fabric soaking up the remaining droplets.

"I saw you wear it."

She tilts her head before pushing a lock of wet hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear. "Is that all? Maybe you should look in that book you carry."

Father's book?

I stare again at the coat, now hiding her perfect body from my eyes. The seamless mix of silk and velvet, the play in the textures, the elegance of the cut, and those black lilies . . . I have seen those black lilies before.

I dig into my purse at once, pulling out the book and flipping through it with trembling hands. The countless notes, the designs, the patterns all mix on the page, hard to read through the haze of fog. But the drawing of the lilies is unmistakable. I freeze as I stare at the page, the memory flooding my mind.

A bolt of fabric on the top shelf.

The scent of dried lavender keeping the store refreshed .

Father standing up on a chair while a five- or six-year-old me holds it for balance.

"Aha!" he exclaimed. "Mon coeur, this is it! Our next masterpiece!"

"But Papa, won't the fabric be too heavy? The stitches might not hold."

"No, mon coeur." Father laughed and patted my head. "A good tailor must trust the designer." He leaned in to kiss Mother and toddler Anaella, who was propped up in her arms. "Our job is to make sure her vision comes to life, to help it manifest into the world. Finding the way to work with the material is a part of the art."

Dahlia's long finger wipes away the tears from my eyes. "You remember."

"It . . . it's my father's."

"One of his earlier creations," she says, taking the book from my hand and storing it back safely inside my purse. "I acquired it when you and I decided to work together. I want you to have it."

My gaze snaps up to her face, to her beautiful doe eyes and thick eyelashes. Innocent as they may seem, there's so much hidden behind them. Too many secrets to count—her past, her motivations . . . her magic. But at this moment I can see right through them, to the woman behind it all, to the Dahlia who is not a criminal working in the shadows. She is the Dahlia I ache for most . . . her pain, her tenderness, her excitement . . . her lust.

Without a word, she takes off the coat, revealing once again her smooth porcelain skin. "You should try it on."

I take it from her, savoring the soft fabric in my hands.

"Your dress is in the way." Dahlia smiles before spinning me on the spot. "May I?" she whispers in my ear, and I nod.

My heart picks up as her hands run along my back, untying the bodice. Goosebumps rise on my arms at the touch of her fingers against my skin. When she's finished, my dress falls to the ground. But she's not done. My undergarments soon follow, silk brushing my thighs as they drop to the floor .

A shiver passes through me as Dahlia's eyes move up and down my length. Compared to her, I'm no more than ordinary. I lower my head, a wave of insecurity passing through me. Yet when Dahlia's hand lifts my chin, her gaze searching mine, I'm struck by the pure admiration written on her face—as though I am the most beautiful woman in the world. She bites her bottom lip as she takes the coat from my hands and drapes it over my bare body. It wraps around me like a cloud—soft and caressing.

"It suits you," Dahlia purrs.

My heart has climbed out of my rib cage all the way up my throat. "I—I'm sure it looks better on you."

Then she's pressing her lips to mine, her arms wrapping around me as the coat falls to the marble floor, forgotten as our bodies entwine in a frenzy of desire. Her touch is electric; every nerve in my body is burning against her skin. She is a drug, intoxicating me with every light stroke, every gentle pull on my hair, every brush of her lips, every soft bite.

I lean into her, my hands searching the curves of her body with ravenous hunger I doubt I could ever quench. Her kisses flow down my neck, her warm breath making me shiver as her nails dig into my back, the hint of pain turning into a symphony of pleasure that sends me spiraling.

She is danger incarnate, her impure ways a vortex of thrill and peril that has already damaged me beyond repair. Two monsters forged by struggle, claimed by unruly passion.

Her long fingers graze my inner thigh, trailing upwards. A broken sigh escapes me, and I shudder as electrifying currents light me from within, begging her to move her hand higher.

Instead, she bites my bottom lip, so softly it's merely a taunting brush. Her breathing is heavy as she pulls away, and my chest heaves, aching for her. The rising steam circles around us in a frenzy that echoes the turmoil within me. Pushing my hair away from my face, she smiles, her dark eyes meeting mine. She doesn't say anything, but a question dances in her gaze, a slight tremble of hesitation in her bottom lip. She won't go further without my consent .

Dahlia is every bit the seductress I feared her to be from the first time we met—the beast stalking its prey, her softness the perfect trap leading to an endless abyss. But just another second of her love is worth delving into the darkest void.

I want her more than I've ever wanted anything. The craving in my body lingers on the verge of pain. "Please . . . " My voice is but a broken rasp.

Her nails dig into my thigh, bringing a surge of divine pain that draws a moan from my lips. She grants me one of her dazzling smiles. Then her hand moves higher, circling, teasing.

"Say it," she whispers in my ear.

"What?" I pant.

Dahlia nibbles my earlobe gently, sending another wave of goosebumps through me before repeating, "Say it."

And when the words leave my lips, I know there is no going back. "I need you."

She obliges.

I gasp as her fingers slip the missing inches upwards. Pressed together, we move in a steady rhythm, like waves in a sea of desire. I feel a sense of wonder at how perfectly we fit. As if we were made just for this, to fall into one another.

My body starts to tremble, my knees weakening as Dahlia pushes my back against the wall, the cool stone against my skin reviving my senses. I cling closer to her, utterly entrapped in a slow, sensual dance.

My moans echo around us, the watery depths turning them into a chorus of passion. Ripples of energy pass through me, growing, shifting, multiplying. The tension in my body is almost unbearable. My back is arching, my toes curling, my heart soaring. And just when I think I might burst, a wave of pleasure takes me with the most euphoric release.

Dahlia's lips find mine. Her hand moves to the small of my back, its confident touch pulling me irresistibly closer. "How beautiful you are," she whispers in between kisses, her voice a soft melody. "My lovely Cleo . . . promise you are mine."

I'm not even sure why she's asking. How could I possibly be anything but hers?

"Only yours," I say.

With another low moan, I give myself to her as she draws me into the steaming pool.