Not sure what to think of this Giorgio, Ashwini held her silence while Janvier whispered in Marie’s ear, the rich brown strands of his hair sliding to touch the gold of hers. The sight should’ve made Ashwini jealous. It didn’t. Because Janvier’s capacity for loyalty was unrelenting and she had his unspoken promise . . . even though she’d done her hardest to give it back, regardless of her desire to hoard it close.

Smile washing away to a faded watercolor of its previous self, Marie bit down on her lower lip, her mouth a perfect pink bow, and glanced over her shoulder. “I shouldn’t say.” It was a whisper.

“Marie.” Janvier touched his finger to the creamy skin of her cheek, a coaxing smile on his face. “It is a complaint. You know I must investigate.”

Marie glanced over her shoulder again, then gestured him closer after shooting a wary look at Ashwini. “It’s not all of us, just Brooke.” Her nose scrunched up. “She’s been with Giorgio the longest and she was mad because she thought Giorgio was paying more attention to me and Leisel than to her, so she started telling people he was hurting her.”

Taking a breath, Marie continued. “Today she even cut herself! Now that Giorgio’s been so good to her with the doctor and everything, she’s sorry, but the rumors have already started.” The stamp of a small foot under the lace of the dress. “It’s so unfair.”

“I’ll need to talk to Brooke.”

“I’ll get her.” All the fury leaked out of her as quickly as it had built up. “Don’t be angry at her, okay?” Her eyes pleaded with Janvier. “She’s crazy about Giorgio. She thinks . . .”

“What, bébé?” Janvier tucked her hair behind her ear, his voice gentle.

Marie melted.

He was good at that, Ashwini thought, at making women trust him. Funny thing was, he never tried his tricks on her, except in play, both of them fully aware of his motives and desires. Quite unlike the innocent Marie May.

“Brooke thinks she’s getting old,” the girl whispered, blinking back tears. “Even though Giorgio loves her, she doesn’t believe him.”

There it was, one immutable reason why a relationship between a mortal and an immortal could never work long-term. The mortal would inevitably fade, and even if the love survived, it would leave the immortal broken when his lover died. Especially, she thought, her eyes lingering on Janvier, when the immortal was the kind of man who knew how to be loyal.

“Hush.” Janvier bent his legs to bring himself down to Marie’s height. “I will be kind.” He drew the girl into his arms. “You know I do not hurt women.”

A jerky nod, Marie’s throat moving as she drew back. “I’ll go find Brooke.”

“Is it only the three of you who serve as Giorgio’s blood family?”

Shaking her head, Marie said, “Penelope and Laura do, too.”

“Fetch them all, won’t you, Marie.”

“I will. You can wait in the parlor.” Leading them to the room, the girl left in a rush of sweet, floral perfume.

Ashwini and Janvier stood there in silence, tension a taut thread that tied them to one another. The expensive but cold décor—white walls, white sofas overflowing with black cushions, the paintwork on the wall a dripping canvas of darkest red—only intensified the silent, intimate thing that pulsed between them.

As if they had become lovers long ago.

8

When Marie returned, it was with four others: a gorgeous black woman as dewy skinned and soft as Marie, whom Ashwini pegged as Leisel, two leggy brunettes apt to be Penelope and Laura, and a handsome auburn-haired woman in her late twenties with a small bandage on the pale skin of her right cheek. Brooke, unless she was mistaken.

All the women were dressed in a style Ashwini had termed “vamp couture.” Leisel’s dress was heavy aqua silk bordered with lace of the same shade, the lush fabric and simple style throwing the rich hue of her skin into sharp relief. A thin bracelet circled her wrist, its cost probably equal to Ashwini’s pay from a difficult hunt.

One of the brunettes wore tight black pants with a cherry red top, the tails tucked into her waistband and the sleeves slashed to expose the delicate gold of her skin. Around her neck was an intricate gold choker with a small padlock in front. Her fellow brunette wore an identical outfit, except that her top was emerald green and the choker silver.

A matched pair. Cute. Or stomach churning.

Brooke, meanwhile, was in a tailored gown that hugged her curves, the fabric a pale peach striped with vertical lines of raspberry. No lace on the gown, but she’d sheathed her hands in fine lace gloves that exactly matched the peach of the gown, her hair twisted up into a chignon anchored by jeweled combs.

“Ah, we must have drinks for our guests!” The words came from the vampire who’d followed the women into the room. Against the royal blue of his fitted velvet coat, his skin glowed a white as true as the fall of lace at his throat and wrists, his eyes a brilliant topaz and the thick golden waves of his hair shining in the light thrown from the crystal chandelier above. Giorgio was a living, breathing advertisement of the beauty that could come with vampirism.

It made Ashwini think of what Janvier would look like in another five hundred years. She didn’t think he’d ever be this glossy, this uncomfortably perfect—as with Dmitri, his rough edges were internal and part of what made him Janvier. Never did she want him to lose the heart of the bayou-born boy he’d once been.