Frost crept across Angelica's features.
This wasn’t the sharp flare she recognized. A stillness came instead. Cold seeped through, deeper than the skin. It stayed like ice beneath stone at winter's edge.
Each word came true. The tight line of his jaw showed her that. Behind red eyes, a quiet fire stayed fixed. Her voice belonged to him now, so far as he was concerned. Talk ended there. Her place was with the Voltaire. His, really. When it happened, it wasn’t up for debate. What she wanted never made it into the conversation.
Time without end, he said, was what she’d get. Like slipping into his life — where drinking blood, losing memories, stained hands from killing — should feel like winning a prize. A strange sort of kindness, wrapped in shadows.
“What breathtaking arrogance.”
Out ca
