Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
Hold the line.
LUCA
My hands shake as I try to unlock the club, the obvious sign of weakness infuriating me.
Never in my life have I been this at odds with the monster inside me. While I knew Celine was planning some kind of stunt with Alistair, nothing prepared my basilisk for the sight of the vampire wrapped around her.
She isn’t ours. I repeat the thought four times, hoping it will penetrate the cloud of rage. It doesn’t. The basilisk is furious, doubly so because I’m not making any effort to fix things.
Like a dozen snakes writhing behind my ribcage, the low rattle in my chest isn’t something other people can hear, but it’s unnerving to experience firsthand. Gnawing at my sanity, the rattle has ruined two nights of sleep, making it even harder to control my basilisk.
If I’m not careful, the next person to piss me off will pay with their life. I imagine turning a mostly innocent patron to stone for ordering a pisco sour, and the trembling in my hands gets worse. I drop the keys, and my vision shifts—cold and imprecise, colors fade as my basilisk eyes take over.
No. Fuck. Losing her. Claim. Ours. CLAIM HER.
“You don’t control me,” I hiss, gritting the words between my descending fangs before hauling back and punching the concrete wall. The sharp pain of my knuckles splitting sends enough of a shock through my body for my mind to regain a sliver of control.
I lose it again when someone grabs my shoulder.
Spinning, I seize my attacker and shove them against the wall.
“It’s okay,” Celine wheezes. “It’s me.” She braces her hands on my chest, and through the haze of my rage, I see her eyes squeezed shut. A horror beyond anything me or my basilisk have ever felt consumes me.
“Oh gods. Celine, I’m so—fuck,” I sputter, releasing her to stagger backward. “I could have killed you.” I cover my face with my hands, muffling my voice. With a heartbroken hiss, my basilisk retreats to a corner of my chest. Its shame is all-consuming, and I slump under the weight.
“Shh, I’m okay,” Celine whispers. “I could tell something was wrong. I said your name a few times, but you were out of it. Don’t worry, I closed my eyes before I touched you.”
“That makes it worse,” I moan, tugging violently on my hair. “Do you know how dangerous it is to remove your sight and trust me not to hurt you? I could have snapped your neck.” I crowd her against the wall, illustrating my point by carefully wrapping my fingers around her throat.
Celine swallows against my palm. “Give me some credit,” she scoffs. “I was trying to help, but I have no issue kicking your ass with my eyes closed.”
I hear her. I do. But seeing my fingers wrapped around her neck is doing something to me. My stomach flips, and I tighten my grip experimentally, carefully avoiding putting any pressure on the front of her neck.
“Careful, Luca,” she whispers. “Unless you want a firsthand demonstration of my fighting skills, you should think twice about what you do with those fingers next.”
My breath catches, and I flinch—it’s the opposite of a sexy noise. Why do I sound like I’m choking on a powdered donut? I clear my throat desperately . . . Celine can’t talk about my fingers that way and expect my imagination not to supply a long and filthy list of things I could do with them.
She laughs, as if I’m not fighting a fucking war with myself in front of her. “Okay. Okay. I didn’t think about how that would sound,” she says. “It was supposed to be more threat, less innuendo.”
“I took it as both.” I attempt a joke, but my voice is too husky to be playful. Celine drops her head against the wall and crosses one ankle over the other, pretending she doesn’t have a care in the world.
With her eyes closed, I can look at her as much as I want.
Flame-red hair secured in a sexy messy bun, she’s not wearing any makeup yet.
Her crop top and cutoff shorts hug her curves like they were made for her, but I don’t love the idea of her riding with only her combat boots for protection.
I glance around, noticing her bag and leather jacket lying on the ground a few feet away. Did she drop them to check on me?
She’s everything, and I almost hurt her. I can’t forget that.
Groaning, I dip my forehead to hers, prop my left forearm on the wall, and steal her air like any of that can fix what I did. The least I can give her is an explanation.
“I’m sorry,” I rasp. “My basilisk and I were having a disagreement. It’s making things hard for me, but I want—no, I need you to know I would rather die than hurt you.”
Celine lifts her hand, then freezes, holding it next to my face as if she isn’t sure whether she’s allowed to touch me. I want to scream. Please. Touch me. I would do anything to have her skin against mine.
“Luca, I need to see you. Can I open my eyes?”
A shiver racks my body. I don’t trust myself yet. I’m too on edge. To be safe, I close mine. “Yeah, go for it,” I mutter. Losing our vision makes my basilisk nervous, but it’s prepared to put up with it in exchange for having Celine close.
“You didn’t hurt me,” she insists. Her fingers graze my jaw, then travel up my cheek to bury in my hair. I shudder as her fingernails rake over my scalp. “I’m not scared of your basilisk, Luca. And I’m certainly not scared of you.”
“I’m not myself right now,” I argue, more terrified than ever that she’s not taking this seriously.
“Have you been body-snatched?” Celine asks sarcastically. “Because you look like Luca.” Her fingers tighten in my hair. “You feel like Luca.” She buries her nose in my neck. “You smell like Luca.”
“But my basilisk—”
“Is still you. You’re still yourself when it’s in the driver’s seat,” Celine declares. “You don’t trust it. I do. But ask yourself this: Does it want to hurt me?”
My forehead furrows, and she smooths the wrinkle out. Meanwhile, my basilisk rattles in my chest, shoving angrily against my control. It’s furious it can’t tell Celine it would never hurt a hair on her head.
“No!” I hiss. “It doesn’t want to hurt you, but accidents happen.”
“I know,” Celine assures me. “That’s why I closed my eyes. Seriously, though, how can you function if you don’t trust half of yourself? I know I can’t fully understand shifter dynamics, but would it kill you to compromise?”
I snort. “I don’t think this bastard knows the meaning of that word.”
“Which is hilarious, since again . . . it is you.” Celine laughs, and I imagine closing the last inch between us and tasting the lips that consume my dreams. “Why is it pissed at you anyway?”
I want to answer, I really do, but how can I make her understand without telling her about all the nasty, possessive thoughts she stars in?
If I tell Celine that my basilisk never agreed to the friend zone, and that it’s only behaved this long because no one else was poaching in territory it considers ours . . . she’ll break me in half.
“It’s not modern,” I mutter pathetically. “And it causes friction.”
My basilisk grumbles, not caring that it makes us come across barbaric and flatly refusing to accept that Celine would never be interested in signing up for a possessive relationship.
She considers my pathetic response, then drops a smacking kiss to my cheek. “You don’t have to answer; it’s not my business.”
“No,” I grunt, panicking as she pulls back and I lose her touch. “That’s not it. I just don’t know how to answer.” I wince, wishing desperately that I could see her face, and knowing I can’t tell her the truth. She’ll turn her back on me if I come clean, and I wouldn’t survive that.
My basilisk can continue its obsession, but I have free will. I’m the one who chooses our actions. “I won’t let it control me,” I tell her. “That’s important to me, Celine. More important than I can ever say.”
She hums thoughtfully. “Then open your eyes.”
Her statement is firm and straightforward—so dependably decisive, so unmistakably Celine—that a smile curls up the edges of my lips. “That easily?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. “At least, I think it is.”
When she says it that way, I believe her despite my fears. Opening my eyes, I blink a few times to adjust to the blinding sun, then focus on her face. Celine’s skin may seem like lifeless alabaster, but I’ve never seen anyone so vibrant. She is living, dancing, fighting, cursing perfection.
Her pink lips are grinning mischievously. “There he is.”
My gaze dips, transfixed by her mouth, hungry to discover how it would move against mine. An inch—that’s all it would take. We can’t. Because if I taste her, that’s it. I’ll become as immovable as the people I turn to stone. Forever hers, even if she doesn’t want me.
I step back, the movement as painful as forcing a thorn out of my skin. She’s embedded in me. I allowed that, encouraged it even, and now I’m paying the price.
“You didn’t give me a chance to explain the situation with Alistair,” she says, holding eye contact while wiping her face free of expression. My stomach churns.
“There’s no need,” I mutter. “It’s not my business.”
“Dammit, Luca, that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” she snaps, her brown eyes sparking. “It is your business.” My heart leaps into my throat. Is she claiming me?
“I didn’t want to worry you before, but Ciprian keeps asking questions about Roscoe.” Celine crosses her arms over her chest.
My heart sinks to my gut as I realize what she meant. Of course, she wasn’t claiming me. Why do I do this to myself? “And how does Alistair make that better?” I ask.
“By providing an alibi,” Celine explains, glancing around to make sure the alley is still abandoned. “He’s more powerful and influential around here than some cocky demon. If Ciprian makes accusations, Alistair can add weight to our story.”
Rocking back on my heels, I consider her scheme. It’s fucking risky. Alistair is crafty, and I highly doubt he would agree to help us out of the goodness of his heart. “Are you going to tell him what actually happened?”
Celine purses her lips. “Not unless I have to. He wants me—you were right about that. I can use it as leverage.”
“Playing with him is risky.” I groan. “What if he decides he doesn’t appreciate your game?”
Celine pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. “Then I’ll end it.”
“Do you want him?” I ask boldly—even though I have no right—terrified of her answer.
“I don’t know,” Celine says, then grimaces.
I hold my basilisk back, telling it we aren’t about to hunt Alistair down and eliminate him. It pushes back, and a growl comes out of my mouth despite my best efforts to stay calm.
“Please try to remember that you like Alistair,” Celine says.
I scoff. “Like is a strong word. If he steps one toe over the line; you let me know. One tomato is all it would take.”
“I have no idea what that means.” Celine scrunches up her nose and points to the door. “Can we go inside now? I’m only wearing face sunscreen. My shoulders are going to burn if we stand around out here shooting the shit for much longer.”
I shake my head. “Literally, no part of this conversation could be classified as ‘shooting the shit.’”
“Whatever, dude. Pick your keys up and open the door.”
I groan. I hate it when she calls me stupid, bro nicknames. “I’m not your dude,” I insist.
“No, you’re the guy trapping me under a corrosive ball of gas that could turn my skin into boiling candle wax. You’re my murderer,” she says. “Is that better?”
I roll my eyes and grab my keys from the ground where they fell, scooping up her bag and jacket while I’m at it. “You’re being melodramatic.”
“Until the day I die,” she teases, dropping into a sarcastic bow. “Which will likely be today if you can’t get the door open.”
Snorting a laugh, I unlock the club door with no issues this time. My hands are solid as a rock, and I realize they haven’t shaken once since Celine touched me.