Page 83 of House of Crimson Hearts
She recoils at that, releasing my chin. “I prefer consent,” she says.
But I note that she says ‘prefer’ and not that she was promising not to compel me. Together, we resume a more normal pace, allowing my lungs the chance to calm down.
We turn down another aisle of market stalls, Octavia slows and runs her fingers over the rich silks and fabrics on display at one stall.
“Give me one good reason,” I say.
The Whisper Club door comes into view, finally revealing its location to us. Octavia leads me towards the door. It’s an enormous arched wooden door, dotted with aged silver studs and painted the kind of black that absorbs light and secrets and memories.
The gargoyle on the club door opens its mouth and sticks its spiked tongue out. Octavia presses her finger down and the goyle shivers in delight.
“Evening,” he says, and she gives him a polite nod. He’s kind of ugly but has sweet eyes. What a cutie.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Broodmire,” he says, raising his eyebrow at me.
“Well, Broodmire. Would you like another drop?”
He practically pants at me, nodding excitedly and sticking his tongue out for more. I place my finger on his tongue, giving him the promised drop. His eyes light up with delight and as we enter, the mansion walls ripple, the veins of the house accepting the blood.
The gargoyle smiles at me, so I stroke his cheek then follow after Octavia.
“You charm him like that every time, and you’ll be treated like a queen,” Octavia says.
“Even though the goyles are ugly, I think they’re cute,” I say.
Octavia shakes her head at me, a bemused smile on her lips.
We enter the main club room and take a seat at one of the enormous round sofa booths. While it’s evening, the club hasn’t opened yet and won’t for another hour or so, I don’t think. So the place is empty save for the bar staff and a few of the entertainers. There are two female dancers practicing on the poles.
Octavia kicks her shoes off and folds her legs under her. I find the movement so shocking I halt where I am. It’s so informal. So relaxed I’m not quite sure what to make of it.
“What? My feet don’t smell,” she says.
“No. I. Never mind. Anyway, why are there no paintings of you hanging in Castle St Clair? I noticed when I walked in, there’s ones of your siblings but not of you.”
“I don’t like them.”
“Why not?”
“Because they can’t help but paint me like a demon, okay? Now. Let’s settle this discussion. You’re moving in.”
“You didn’t answer me. I want a reason why I should temporarily move in with you.”
I take a seat opposite her, tucking my leg underneath me and pulling out the charcoal and sketch pad I bought. I figure I’ll just sketch something while we talk, maybe the dancers on the pole.
She waves her hand at the person behind the bar, showing him two fingers, and they nod. A moment later, they set down two tumblers of drink. It’s a greenish colour and I’ve no idea what I’m accepting. “Reason one, we only have forty-eight hours and I want to win,” Octavia says, taking a sip from her drink.
“That doesn’t explain why I should move in with you. Why do you even care about winning anyway?” I say.
“If I lose, the only one of my siblings I don’t want to take the crown is Dahlia. Unfortunately, she’s just vicious enough and invested enough to do whatever it takes to get it.”
“The masc looking one?” I run my fingers over my pencil markings, smudging this area, blending that and then set about making more marks.
Octavia leans over trying to see what I’m doing, but I pull back, tilting my sketch pad away from her. I’m not sketching for her, I’m sketching for me, and I’m not ready to share.
“Yes, she’s… well. Let me put it this way, our values donotalign.”
