“You have a House to manage. And a vampire congress to build. You’re a fanged founding father. You don’t have time to babysit me.”
His eyes flashed hot. “You’re my future wife and the mother of my future child. I will well protect you against any threat, living, dead, or undead, just as I promised in my oath to this House.”
The reminder of marriage and children set an entirely different set of nerves on edge. Gabriel Keene, the leader of Jeff’s Pack, had prophesied a vampire child was in our future. And since no vampire child had ever been carried to term, that was a Very Big Deal for vampires, and for Ethan.
“I don’t want to play into his hand,” I said. “Or give him an opportunity to get to you because you’re sticking too closely to me.”
“Do I seem like the type of man who forces others to take my hits, handle my battles for me?”
eached out, hugged me before I could stop her. “I’m really, really sorry about what happened.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I assured her, but the hug—the breach of my personal bubble, even if it would normally have been fine—still lifted a clammy sweat at the back of my neck.
Another score for Balthasar.
* * *
They left us alone, but the apartments were still crowded with emotion, with memories, with the repercussions of what Balthasar had done.
Ethan’s fury had faded, replaced by grief. “I am so sorry this happened. I wouldn’t have had you know him, Merit. Not like this, not ever like this, or any other way.”
“I know.”
“There is such childishness in his narcissism.”
I nodded. “If you don’t play the way he wants,” I suggested, following the logic, “he’ll destroy your toys.”
“That is, and was, Balthasar to a tee.”
“The attack really sucked,” I said. “But I think there was one benefit.”
Ethan’s brow furrowed. “What’s that?”
“He’s told us what he wants—drama. He thrives on it. Feeds from it. And he wants more of it. He wants the House, Ethan, and he wants revenge. He’ll expect you to confront him about this—about me. To find him, give him your time and attention, fight him. You shouldn’t do that. Not yet.”
Ethan’s eyes narrowed savagely. “And why, precisely, shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t I find him and rip every limb from his body? Why shouldn’t I leave him for the sun to find, scatter his ashes, and salt the earth behind him?”
“Because that’s what he wants.”
“I doubt that.”
“Well, not the earth-salting or limb-ripping, but the theater. He wants you to come after him. He wants to, I don’t know, feast on your outrage. So don’t feed him. Don’t give him the satisfaction—at least, not on his terms.” I paused, considered. “Like you said before, we’ll draw him out. We’ll give him an audience, but in a setting we control and manage.”
Ethan tilted his head. “What setting? We’ve essentially ruled out disavowal.”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’ll have to think about that. But if we do something big, I promise you he’ll show up and cause trouble.”
“And force our hand.”
I nodded fiercely. “Exactly that. We’ll write the story,” I said. “And he’ll write the end.”
* * *
He let me shower, get dressed in my traditional black Cadogan suit. I paired my suit with a tank that matched the blue-gray of my eyes. Ethan had paired a perfectly fitted jacket and trousers with a white button-down, the top button open and revealing his glinting Cadogan medal. We’d both donned our professional best, a good thing since we were due at Navarre House—and the twilight drama had already made us late.
“You don’t have to go,” Ethan said as I checked the blade of my katana, slid it home again.
“Not after what you’ve been through. I’ve already sent Malik over to get started on the books—and I sent Juliet with him as a precaution. He’ll be better with the numbers than either of us.”