Page 68 of Bitten & Burned
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” I replied.
I left Anton to his pastries and chocolate. I wasn’t entirely certain how to take his words anymore. He’d always flirted, but this felt like more than flirting. But I had time, I suppose.
Time, and plenty of chocolate.
The piece I’d stolen was lovely—smooth on my tongue, bittersweet, and rich. I let it melt, bit again, chewed slowly. It could’ve used a touch of rock salt, but otherwise? Perfect.
It lasted while I searched other areas of the manor, ending up in the courtyard, looking around at the emptiness and dead leaves rustling in the breeze. No secrets revealed themselves in the weathered flagstones, so I went back inside, going to the only other place I’d ever seen him. The library.
And, of course, there he was. Because where else would he be, if not hiding in plain sight?
He sat in a darkened corner, waiting out the sunset. A thick volume open and balanced in one hand, the other propping up his head against his knee.
I squinted in the low light, trying to make out the spine.
I’d have bet on dark philosophy. Or a field guide on regional animals. Plants. Local fungus, even.
The Left Hand of the Marquess.
Well then.
That was surprising.
I hadn’t pegged Quil Ashborne for a romance enthusiast.
Especially not enthused for a title I’d read before.
I stepped into the room, letting my footfalls land loud enough to be noticed.
“Has he ripped the laces on her bodice yet? Or are they still pretending to be overly cautious?”
Quil didn’t startle—he never did—but I saw it: the way his shoulders tensed, the stillness that overtook him. His finger froze on the page.
He looked up at me, eyes darkand steady.
“Not yet,” he said. “But I suppose that’s something to look forward to.”
I huffed a laugh. “Yeah, well. I suppose they have to drag it out. For… maximum satisfaction.”
“I didn’t know it was a romance when I picked it up,” he said with a shrug. “They’re still fencing with metaphors. It’s exhausting.”
“Well, I mean, it’s not my favorite,” I said, moving a little closer. “I prefer the swashbuckler romances. Those pirates don’t pull their punches.”
His mouth twitched. A shadow of a smile. “Pirates, huh? Far cry from your usual, isn’t it? Thought you went for those… quiet intellectual types.”
“That’s why you read it in books. For the fantasy.”
“Fantasy,” he repeated. “Is that all it is? No deep dark desires you’re keeping from the world?”
“Not keeping anything. I’m telling you about them, aren’t I?”
He was silent for a few seconds, closing the book thoughtfully and placing it on the floor beside him. His eyes were back on me. “Why are you here, Rowena? To talk trashy romance or?—?”
“This is yours,” I said, reaching into my pocket and producing the black embroidered handkerchief. “To replace the one you used to… wrap up Hemlock.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Hemlock?”
“Yeah… the rabbit?” I tugged him out of my pocket as well. “I’m calling him Hemlock. It’s a kind of carrot.”
