Both their gazes flicked to me as Reid and I approached.

“Well, well, well . . . if it isn’t Madame Diggory.” The prince’s eyes glittered with amusement. “I see your husband made the right choice.”

I ignored him, though Reid bristled at his words. “Brie, we’re ready to go. Are you coming?”

Coco looked to the prince, who smirked. “This lovely creature will not be leaving my side for the remainder of the evening. Sorry, darling,” he whispered to me conspiratorially. “I’ll need to postpone that offer . . . unless you or your husband would care to join?”

I glared at him. Ass.

Reid’s eyes narrowed. “What offer?”

I tugged on his arm. “Let’s go find Ansel.”

“He already left.” Coco wrapped her arms around the prince’s waist. A wicked gleam lit her dark eyes. “Just the two of you on the ride home. I hope you don’t mind.”

I bared my teeth in an attempt at a smile. “Can I talk to you in private for a moment, Brie?”

Surprise flashed across her features, but she quickly recovered. “Of course.”

Smile slipping, I dragged her into the antechamber. “What are you doing?”

She shimmied her hips. “Trying to get you some alone time with your husband. The dance floor didn’t look like it was cutting it.”

“I meant with the prince.”

“Oh.” She arched a brow and grinned. “Probably the same thing you’ll be doing with Reid.”

“Are you insane? He’ll see your scars!”

She raised a shoulder in indifference, tugging at her tight black sleeve. “So I’ll tell him I was in an accident. Why would he suspect anything else? It’s not like Dames Rouges are common knowledge, and everyone here thinks I’m Brie Perrot, a healer and close friend of Captain Reid Diggory. Besides, aren’t you being a bit hypocritical? Beau and I are just sex, but you and Reid . . . I won’t claim to know what the hell is going on with you two, but something is going on.”

I scoffed, but my face flushed treacherously. “You really are insane.”

“Am I?” Coco took my hands, eyes searching my face. “I don’t want to tell you your business, Lou, but please . . . be careful. You’re playing a dangerous game. Reid is still a Chasseur, and you’re still a witch. You know you’ll have to part ways eventually. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

My anger evaporated at her concern, and I squeezed her hands in reassurance. “I know what I’m doing, Coco.”

But even I knew that was a lie. I had no idea what I was doing when it came to Reid.

She dropped my hands, frowning. “Right. I’ll just leave you alone then, and the two of you can continue this stupidity together.”

My stomach sank inexplicably as I watched her go. I didn’t like fighting with Coco, but there was nothing I could do to fix it this time.

Reid reappeared by my side a moment later, taking my arm and leading me to the carriage—the carriage that was suddenly too small, too warm, with Reid sitting beside me. His fingers brushed my thigh in a seemingly innocent gesture, and I couldn’t help but remember the feel of them on my waist. I shuddered and closed my eyes.

When I opened them a moment later, Reid was staring at me. I swallowed, and his gaze fell to my lips. I willed him to lean forward—to bridge the distance between us—but his eyes shuttered at the last second, and he pulled away.

Disappointment crashed through me, replaced quickly by the sharp sting of humiliation.

It’s for the best. I glared out the window. Coco had been right: Reid was still a Chasseur, and I was still a witch. No matter what happened between us, no matter what changed, this one, insurmountable obstacle would remain. And yet . . . I studied his rigid profile, the way his eyes kept gravitating back to me.

It would be stupid to start down this path. There was only one way it could end. That knowledge did nothing to stop my heart from racing at his proximity, however, nor dim my spark of hope. Hope that, perhaps, our story could end a different way.

But . . . Coco had been right.

I was playing a dangerous game.

A Question of Pride

Reid

The tension in our room that night was physically painful.

Lou lay in my bed. I heard her shift in the darkness, her breathing loud and then quiet. She shifted again. Rolled slowly to her side. Her back. Her side. Her back. Trying to stay silent. Inconspicuous.

But she was neither, and I heard her. Over and over and over again.

The woman was driving me mad.

Finally, she leaned over the side of the bed, blue-green eyes meeting mine in the darkness. Her hair spilled to the floor.

I sat up on my elbows too quickly, and her eyes dropped to where my nightshirt gaped open across my chest. Heat rushed to my stomach. “What is it?”

“This is stupid.” She scowled, but I was at a loss for why she was irritated. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

I eyed her suspiciously. “Are you sure?”

“Okay, first of all, stop looking at me like that. It’s not a big deal.” She rolled her eyes before scooting to make room for me. “Besides, it’s freezing in here. I need your big-ass body heat to keep warm.” When I still didn’t move, she patted the spot beside her coaxingly. “Oh, c’mon, Chass. I don’t bite . . . much.”

I swallowed hard, violently blocking out the image of her mouth on my skin. With slow, cautious movements—giving her every chance to change her mind—I climbed onto the bed. Several seconds of awkward silence passed.

“Relax,” she finally whispered, though she too lay stiff as a board. “Quit being awkward.”

I almost laughed. Almost. As if I could’ve possibly relaxed with her so . . . so close. The bed, standard issue in the dormitories, hadn’t been built for two. Half of my body jutted out into empty space. The other half pressed into her.

I didn’t complain.

After another moment of torturous silence, she turned toward me, her breasts brushing my arm. My pulse spiked, and I gritted my teeth, reining in my rampant thoughts.

“Tell me about your parents.”

Just like that, all thoughts of intimacy fled. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“There’s always something to tell.”

I stared resolutely at the ceiling. Silence descended once more, but she continued to watch me. I couldn’t resist glancing over at her. At her eager, wide-eyed expression. I shook my head and sighed. “I was abandoned. A maid found me in the garbage when I was a baby.”

She stared at me, horrified.

“The Archbishop took me in. I was a pageboy for a long time. Then I hit a growth spurt.” The side of my mouth quirked up of its own volition. “He began training me for the Chasseurs not long after. I claimed my spot when I was sixteen. It’s all I’ve ever known.”

She rested her head on my shoulder. “Claimed your spot?”

Closing my eyes, I rested my chin on top of her head and inhaled. Deeply. “There are only one hundred Balisardas—one drop of St. Constantin’s relic in each. It limits the positions available. Most serve for life. When a Chasseur retires or dies, a tournament is held. Only the winner may join our ranks.”

“Wait.” She sat up, and my eyes snapped open. She grinned down at me, her hair tickling my chest. “Are you telling me Ansel beat out all the other contenders?”

“Ansel isn’t a Chasseur.”

Her grin faltered. “He’s not?”

“No. He’s training to be, though. He’ll compete in the next tournament, along with the other initiates.”

“Oh.” She frowned now, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “Well, that explains a lot.”

“It does?”

She nestled back into me with a sigh. “Ansel is different than everyone else here. He’s . . . tolerant. Open-minded.”

I bristled at the insinuation. “It’s not a crime to have principles, Lou.”

She ignored me. Her fingers traced the collar of my shirt. “Tell me about your tournament.”

I cleared my throat, struggling to ignore the gentle movement. But her fingers were very warm. And my shirt was very thin. “I was probably Ansel’s age.” I chuckled at the memory—at how my knees had trembled, how I’d vomited down my coat minutes before the first round. The Archbishop had been forced to procure me another. Though it’d only been a few years ago, the memory felt very far away. A different time. A different life. When I’d lived and breathed to secure a future within my patriarch’s world. “Everyone else was bigger than me. Stronger too. I don’t know how I did it.”

“Yes, you do.”

“You’re right.” Another laugh rose to my throat, unbidden. “I do. They weren’t that much bigger, and I practiced every day to grow stronger. The Archbishop trained me himself. Nothing mattered but becoming a Chasseur.” My smile faded as the memories resurfaced, one after another, with painful clarity. The crowd. The shouts. The clang of steel and tang of sweat in the air. And—and Célie. Her cheers. “I battled Jean Luc in the championship.”

“And you beat him.”

“Yes.”

“He resents you for it.”

“I know. It made beating him even sweeter.”