Page 39 of The Devil's Trials

I find myself nodding in agreement, fighting the urge to admit that I often feel the same. Raking a hand through my hair, I slide my hands into the pockets of my jacket. “And you thought you’d find yourself in the Big Apple?”

Camille blinks at me, hesitating before she comes up with, “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

I nod. “I wasn’t asking you to.”

“Then whatareyou doing?”

Good fucking question.

I exhale softly through my nose. “I didn’t kill Lucia for any reason other than to stop her from killing you. There wasn’t time to consider the consequences or consult a moral compass. Whether or not you believe my intentions were in the right place is up to you.”

Her heart pounds like a drum, her hands balling into fists at her sides. When she starts blinking faster, her gaze darting about, and sweat dotting her brow, I realize she’s tumbling toward a panic attack.

“Stop,” I say in a low voice. “I can see you spiraling. The guilt is clear on your face.”

Her jaw works, and she whispers, “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Are you asking me to leave?”

“I should,” she murmurs.

“Are you?” I repeat.

“No.” She swallows hard, her eyes glassy when she looks at me. “I’m asking you to let me go.”

Pressure clamps down on my chest.

“Camille—”

“We both knew this wouldn’t work. What we were doing was reckless before, but it’s nothing short of impossible now, and we both know it.”

I rub the stubble along my jaw. “Is that why you ran away and rejoined the organization you vowed you’d never return to?”

“No,” she snaps, her pulse ticking faster. “Why did you send Blake after me, anyway?”

I purse my lips, then tell her, “He was in New York already.”

She stares at me, searching my face as if she’s trying to figure something out. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

Instead of crafting a not-entirely-truthful answer, I offer, “I wanted to see you.”

“Okay.” She looks as if she wants to say more, but doesn’t know what or how to articulate it. The tendrils of uncertainty are floating off her like ribbons of darkness, even within the dreamscape. The fear woven in them calls to me, and if it were anyone else, I wouldn’t hesitate to feed on it. But I can’t. Not with Camille. I’ve taken enough from her.

“I can feel everything you’re experiencing right now. The fear, the anger, and that pull you still have to me.” I steal the remaining distance between us in the time it takes Camille to blink, tracing my fingers along the side of her face. When she stumbles back, I catch her wrist with my other hand, pulling her close.

“Let go,” she breathes, her hands pressed to my chest.

I dip my face and speak low in her ear, my fingers lingering against her cheek. “We both know that’s not what you truly desire,mo shíorghrá.”

TENCAMILLE

My breath catches, but I manage to shove away from him and pull my wrist free of his grasp. “Why are you doing this?” I demand, my hands shaking at my sides until I tighten them into fists. I keep my eyes locked on the king of hell to be, waiting for him to answer my question.

He looks the same, but different. Power emanates from him like a warning. It’s impossible to ignore and even more impossible to escape. He’s dressed uncharacteristically formal—besides the leather jacket—in a navy button-up, black slacks and dress shoes, with his hair tousled stylishly. His chiseled features are sharper but his eyes…they’re the same deep, warm brown ones I fell for.

He shrugs. Fuckingshrugs, as if this means nothing to him.

Maybe it doesn’t.

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