Page 73 of Ophelia's Vampire

“You may enter.”

The voice from within is low and masculine, muffled behind the door, but accented in unmistakable French. Hand on the sleek metal handle, I ease it open to face the vampire it belongs to.

My eyes dart from one side of the room to the other before I find him, catching briefly on what must be the most luxe, expensive-looking office I’ve ever been in. It’s saying a lot, considering some of the upper-crust clientèle I’ve served overthe years, but the rich furnishings and artwork on the walls, the sheer size and grandeur of the place momentarily distract me.

At least until I spot Philippe.

Nearly as tall as Cas, though a bit slimmer, he’s dressed to impress in an all-black suit with a black shirt beneath and no tie. He has raven black hair, elegantly styled and smoothed back from a sharply handsome face that’s almost gaunt in its dramatic angles. His red eyes rake over me before his lips turn up in what I assume is meant to be a welcoming smile, flashing a bit of fang.

It doesn’t ease my nerves in the slightest.

“Ophelia,” he says in that same smooth tone he used on the phone. “Please, come inside.”

There should be warmth in his debonair French accent, or charm, but whether it’s the mismatch that rich alto has with his eyes—something cool and calculating about them, even in all their brilliant crimson—or some deeply ingrained instinct that won’t let me see him as anything other thandanger, all I hear is a threat.

Pushing the instinct to flee aside, I step deeper into his office.

He crosses the room in a few slow strides and offers me his hand, though not to shake. Palm up, fingers extended, I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to do, but when I extend my own he catches it, bends into a half-bow, and draws the backs of my fingers to his lips.

I try to convince myself I’m imagining the soft inhale of breath just before he presses a kiss to my fingers, the sinking suspicion that he’sscentedme, for some godforsaken reason.

“Thank you for coming. Please, be seated.” He gestures to a pair of chairs set in front of another wide wall of windows.

This side of the building has more incredible views, with sight lines into the harbor—dark now except for the occasional light from a couple of passing ships or ferries.

“I trust Vincent showed you better hospitality than what you received the last time you were here?”

“He did,” I say, letting myself settle back in my chair, loosen my posture, and match the teasing edge in Philippe’s tone.

If he wants to act like this is just a friendly chat, I can play along. Especially considering what Cas said before about getting him talking.

“Though I have to say, I was surprised to get your call,” I tell him with my own coy smile.

“Were you? I would have thought you’d be waiting on it, considering how determinedly you’ve been trying to pry into my affairs these last few weeks.”

His tone has barely changed, and his face is an alabaster mask, but the warning in the words is unmistakable.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Please, Ophelia. Playing dumb certainly doesn’t suit you. You’ve been here, in my city, poking around the coven with no regard to consequences for such behavior.”

I barely bite back a snort. His city? The absolute arrogance is a little comical.

Instead, I paste a bland, innocent expression onto my face. “I’ve been investigating rogue vampires preying on the city. I didn’t realize that had anything to do with the coven.”

“You spoke with Cassandra,” he snaps, brushing the insinuation aside.

“An old friend. I thought she might be able to help me out.”

“An old friend,” Philippe murmurs. “As is Casimir, I suppose?”

“Right.” The word sticks in my throat. “Just like Casimir.”

He hums contemplatively. “What was it? Five years ago? The last time you showed your face here at the Raven.”

“Seven.”

“And, if I recall correctly,” he continues like I haven’t spoken, “you had some kind of tryst with Marcus, before moving on with Casimir? Sowing such discord between my two brothers.”

---