Page 81 of Wolfsbane Hall
And fuck, she missed him.Thishim.
Emotions trilled in her stomach, like the music of his voice. Too many to count or name. Everything she’d ever felt for himcolored the inside of her body. Bloodred like fiery passion, dust-gray like heartbreak, honeyed-yellow like comfort, vomit-green like revulsion, and on and on it went—the colors of her soul.
She touched the wall and pinched her eyes shut, her nostrils flaring and her cheeks stinging from the weight of her heartbreak.
“Who are you, Specter?”
She didn’t bother with pleasantries, because she already knew the answer. She knew he was Dean; she knew it in her bones. Everett and James didn’t have the capacity to be everything that the Specter was. Everett wasn’t serious enough, and James was too blunt, too cold. And Dean was a dark mystery, like her Specter.
Every bit of her knew it to be true. There was no other answer. But she wanted Dean to do the right thing. Drop all the games and just be honest with her—be with her—one last time.
When he didn’t respond, she asked again, “Who are you, Specter?”
“Don’t call—” it was all breath.
“Who are you, Winter?” she asked, but she knew the answer. It was in the riddles, in all the games from the night. The Marquess of Winterly, the eldest son of the Duke of Breython. He had been telling her all along.
“I can’t tell you that,” Dean said as the Specter on the other side of the wall.
She stroked the wall with her fingertips before laying her hand flat on it. She imagined him doing the same thing on the other side. “Why?” A tear dripped down her face. “Why?” Another tear dropped. “Why?” She sucked in a shaking breath. “Why?” Her eyes stung as tears littered down her cheeks. “Why?”
He sucked in an audible breath. “Because I am terrible. I am your villain.”
“Yes, you are.”
A long silence licked the room, and Celestine curled her knees into her chest, feeling the fine cotton against her legs.
“Celine…” He said her name like a prayer.
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t…” Her voice caught. “Specter, I ha—”
“Don’t call me Specter,” he said gently once more. “Just not tonight. Tonight, all I want to be is yours. Only yours.” He stopped, as if in thought, and she waited for him to continue. “Every night, I spin fictions, I tell you tales, and you read me mysteries, but for one moment, on one night, all I want is to be real with you.”
Her heart doubled in her chest, and a spike of pain shot through her left arm. She clutched the heel of her palm to her chest and tried to massage the pain away. Both physically and emotionally
“Why? Why me?”
“Because you are my match and my conscience.”
Celestine stared at the canopy of her bed, taking in the details of her carved rosewood. She wanted so much for what he said to be true. But words from pretty gentlemen were hollow things. They were as fleeting as time.
“Dean…” she said, breathless.
“Yes?” But it wasn’t the Specter who answered; it was a voice from the doorway—a shadow of a tall, dark, and wicked man. The villain of storybooks.
Celestine sucked and inhaled sharply. How long had he been standing there? Watching?
She must have asked the question out loud, because heresponded, “Only a moment. You stormed out, and I was worried…”
Confusion raked through her. Dean didn’t look like he’d just been speaking with her on the other side of the doorway. He looked like a dark, brooding, and avenging prince.
“You didn’t have to come,” she said, because she didn’t know what else to say. What was there to say other than, “You are the Specter!”
It was an accusation.
