Page 8 of Wolfsbane Hall
Easier said than done.
Anxiety snaked up her body, climbing the rungs of her ribs. Celestine sucked in a breath and held it, begging for a bit of luck from God or whatever entity existed up in the sky. Slowly—miserably slowly—she clicked the door shut.
She’d done it!Thank heavens.Now, all she had to do was find her next victim. Celestine had three options to choose from—thank God Dorothy was as amorous as she was—and she would choose the first one she stumbled upon.
She headed in the direction of the commotion.
Celestine turned the corner and was about to reach her destination when a tall, haunting figure appeared inches before her as if conjured. As if he were a predator seeking his prey.
Fuck.
She jolted and clutched a hand to her chest, a small squeak escaping her lips. She didn’t respond well to surprises, and it took her a moment to process who, or what, was before her. It could have been a ghost. They lurked on the edges of the manor. The Spectercouldsummon creatures from the great beyond.
But this man was no ghost.
“Oh, you gave me a fright,” she said, flattening out a wrinkle in her dress to hide her nerves.
Silhouetted by a darkness that seemed to stick to his clothing, like parasites feasting on human flesh, was Dean Ashbrook—the man who made brooding an art form. He was James’s cousin and one half of a set of identical twins. The twins had black hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. Many considered them the ideal gentlemen, looking like a modern-day Adonis. And boy, were they indeed mouth-watering.
“Are you going to say anything?” Celestine twisted the straps of her bag awkwardly and waited for him to do something…anything, but all he did was glower, and his stare was like obsession, like possession. His eyes traced her like the chalk outlining a corpse, catching first on her new red dress, then moving on to the wet tips of her red hair, and finally landing on a spot behind her ear.
“You have something—” Dean ended his sentence by pulling out his pocket square and using it to point to her neck. He held it out by a corner, making sure to hold the cloth at an angle to avoid touching her.
Dean Ashbrook hated Celestine and always had. From the moment they first met, Dean was obsidian, unknowable and as cold as mountain rock. But regrettably, that’s what excited her about him. The hatred fascinated her, and she spent countless hours trying to figure out what she’d done to offend him. Alas, she’d never discovered it.
But perhaps one day she would.
Celestine grabbed the cloth and dabbed it against her neck, holding his glare the entire time. Electric tension stormed between them, and her traitorous heart leaped into her throat, her stomach tying itself into knots. It happened every time Dean was near. He was a poison designed solely for her.
Celestine bit her lip and glanced down at the fabric—a drop of red coated the sea of white.
Well, fuck.
He lifted one manicured eyebrow. The gesture said,I assume you weren’t gallivanting with vampires.
Anxiety twisted her gut and burned her lungs. Dean had to know she was the night’s murderer, but if he said anything, it would ruin the Specter’s show. And it was far too soon to unmask the killer.
Celestine gulped and steadied her hand against the wall, glancing at her surroundings. She’d never been caught out this early.
No one was around. Could she murder him and get away with it?
No, it was far too risky.
But Dean noticed far too much, including her fear. The side of his mouth curled up as he drank in her current state. He slid his hands into his suit pants pockets, and his eyes sparkled with mirth. Oh, he enjoyed torturing her, having her at his mercy.
The man always delighted in having something over her.
“Please don’t say anything yet. It’ll rui—”
“Sometimes you should let the show be ruined instead of suffering through something you loathe,” Dean interrupted, his voice like a velvet noose circling her slender neck. “Leave your Specter and get far away from this den of sins. Go down to Hollywood and leave us be.”
Celestine jerked back as if slapped. Did he really hate her so much that he wanted her gone immediately? Dean normally wasn’t this direct. Usually, he barely spoke to her, let alone said, what was that, twenty words? It was the most he’d ever spoken to her at once, and he used it to tell her to leave. The valves in Celestine’s heart clenched.
He wanted her gone. And that hurt more than Celestine cared to admit.
A manufactured breeze stroked her neck, and the hair on her arms rose.
“You must truly hate me.”
