Page 84 of Wolfsbane Hall
Everything heightened between them. Every vessel in her body was hot and needy. Celestine had to touch him. Him, not his clothing.
“You’re wearing far too much clothing.” Her hands clawed up his chest and under his jacket, forcing it off his shoulders. Then she twirled her fingers into his hunter-green shirt and ripped open the buttons. If all the men she’d fucked could destroy her clothing, she could ruin some of theirs from time to time, too.
He chuckled, a hand sliding up her leg and underneath her silk dress. “You’re a naughty girl.”
“Yes, I am.” She sucked her lip into her mouth. “Now, be a naughty boy.”
He hummed into her mouth and clutched her by the throat, all dominance and masculine energy. Everything abouthim was swimming with control and command. Her dark prince. And she was his equal.
With each new caress, her body grew tighter and tighter with need. She was a bowstring, taut and ready for release.
But she really shouldn’t fuck him. It was too dangerous for her heart.
Her teeth nibbled at his tongue for a moment until she bit down hard. They were war and peace; right now, she was choosing a little bit of war because she wanted to test something. The elixir was formed from their blood, and it tasted like them. So she bit down again, causing his blood to gush into her mouth.
There was a hint of metal with orange liquor and coconut.
Celestine stiffened and jolted back, horrified, pushing him off her.
No. It was so wrong. Gooseflesh rose on her arms, and her heart skittered. No. No. No. No. It couldn’t be.
Dean wasn’t the Specter at all. He was far, far worse.
27
Saturday, November 11, 1939
Celestine’s Bedroom
She stepped back, her leg knocking into the wooden bedpost, horror lacing her bones. He took a step toward her, confused, and she held out a hand to stop him from moving any closer.
“No.” Her voice came out as liquid flames.
“Celine…” His brows knit together. “What’s wrong?”
Thick emotion laced her tongue. “How could you?”
Wetness gathered at the back of her eyes, but she wouldn’t release any more tears for him. But they gathered like raindrops on her lashes. Dammit, why the fuck did she have to cry so much. It felt like it was all she’d done lately.
She was so dumb. So fucking stupid. She should have figured it out much sooner. The game Specter was so different from the one she loved. Game Specter was flashy and impatient, caring nothing for feelings or the impact of his actions.
But theSpecter—Phantom in her rooms, he was patient, with a dash of dominance and warmth. He was home. It was so different, but she had thought it was because he didn’t like anything getting in the way of his genius. The truth was unfathomable. There were always two of them.
Always a Specter and a Phantom.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. It hurt so much.
Always two.
It was why he never wanted to be called the Specter. Why he went by Winter, it all made horrible sense. He never wanted to be called the Specter in her rooms, because he wasn’t the Specter.
He never had been.
He was the Phantom.
Bile rose in her throat, and her broken heart murmured. Angry and sad all at once. She closed her eyes and hit herself in the head. How could she fall for it?
Dean took a step toward her. She didn’t see it but felt it, heard it in the intake of his breath.
