She was right to hate him. He hated himself. Who doesn’t hate you?

The exterior door whooshed open and Chrysabelle emerged. It slid shut and became part of the wall again. She pointed her prop cane toward the crumbling hole across from him. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” Liar liar liar.

“Oh good. I was afraid it was something else for me to deal with. Happy to hear everything’s fine. Should probably tell Dominic his walls are leaking blood.” She twisted away and headed down the corridor, her cane lightly tapping the floor.

Son of a priest. He went after her. “Sorry isn’t good enough for what I did to you, but I am sorry. If there is anything I can do to make it up to you—”

She stopped. “There isn’t.” Her gaze dropped to a spot between them. “Except for helping me get through these next few days.” Her head lifted and she met his eyes again. “Without drama, without threats, without making me wish I’d said no.”

“I can do that.” No, you can’t. In theory. He’d been who he was for five centuries. Five hundred years of killing and terrorizing. Changing now wasn’t exactly as easy as putting on a different T-shirt. But if it meant being at her side and being able to protect her, he’d find a way. Even if it killed him. If only.

“Can you?”

“Yes.” Liar liar liar.

“All right, then. I just need to speak to Mortalis and then we can go.” She started walking again.

He matched her stride. “Anything I can help with?”

“No.” She kept silent a few moments. “It doesn’t matter now, so you might as well know. He’s been keeping the ring safe for me.”

Mal just nodded.

“No comment?” she asked.

“No.”

Her brows lifted, but her mouth thinned with obvious disbelief. “How quickly the leopard changes its spots.”

He slanted his eyes at her. “The spots might change, but the teeth are still as sharp.” Show her.

“So noted.”

Little more passed between them until they emerged on the main floor of Seven. They found Mortalis in Greed dealing with a gambling dispute. They waited until he was finished, then she motioned him over. “I need what you’re holding for me.”

He glanced at Mal, then back at her. “I’ll get it as soon as I can. Hopefully by tomorrow night.”

“Fine. Do you want me to meet you back here?”

“No. Too dangerous. I’ll come to your house.”

She nodded. “I’ll be there. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” His gaze went back to Mal. “Sun’s coming up. Need a car?”

“It’s taken care of,” Chrysabelle replied before he could answer. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Taken care of? Mal kept his mouth shut with great effort, despite the voices’ pestering.

“Good night, then.”

As Mortalis went back to work, they made a quick exit. The driver Chrysabelle had hired, a varcolai named Jerem, had the car idling one street over. He jumped out and opened her door before she could reach for the handle.

When the door shut, Mal spoke. “I appreciate the ride home, but I could have let Mortalis take care of it. You should be home, resting.”

She tapped her cane. “This is just for show, remember? And I’m not giving you a ride home. Not to your home anyway.”

“You’re not?” He sat back. “Where am I going, then?”

“My house.” She sank deeper into her seat and stared out the window like she’d said something about the weather or how pretty the sky was or wasn’t it nice to see Mortalis again.

Her house. Maybe she’s going to try to kill you at last. Was this one of those times he should shut up and let things happen, or should he ask? Ask. Damn, this new-leaf business was hard work.

Minutes ticked by before she said anything. “No questions? My, my, you are giving this your all, aren’t you?” She looked at him, a wicked smile bending her lush mouth. “How are you not hyperventilating?”

“I’ve never hyperventilated. I don’t even breathe, for crying out loud.” Hades on a cracker, he wanted to kiss her in the worst way. Literally. With fang. Bite her. Drain her. Kill her.

“You know what I mean.”

He shrugged and took his own turn looking through the helioglazed windows. The best games had two players. “I’m doing what you asked. Is that a problem?”

“No.”

They rode the rest of the way to her house in silence, Mal dying to know what was going on in her head because he knew what was going on in his. Torturous thoughts about why she might be taking him to her house. Most of which started with them undressing each other and ended with him kissing the scars he’d caused before spending the day memorizing every silky, golden inch of her, making her writhe with pleasure and pant his name. He tried to exhale the heat building in his body.

That couldn’t be the reason she was taking him home.

Could it?

Chrysabelle’s enjoyment of Mal’s discomfort turned to real concern as they pulled through the gates of her estate. He leaned forward with a hard gasp.

She laid a hand on his back before she realized that she’d touched him. She pulled her hand away. “What’s wrong?”

“Dominic moves fast. Your new guests are moved in.” Glints of silver danced in his eyes as he straightened. “The scent of comarré blood is thick as smoke. I wasn’t prepared for it.”