I swallowed hard, violently blocking out the image of her mouth on my skin. With slow, cautious movements—giving her every chance to change her mind—I climbed onto the bed. Several seconds of awkward silence passed.

“Relax,” she finally whispered, though she too lay stiff as a board. “Quit being awkward.”

I almost laughed. Almost. As if I could’ve possibly relaxed with her so . . . so close. The bed, standard issue in the dormitories, hadn’t been built for two. Half of my body jutted out into empty space. The other half pressed into her.

I didn’t complain.

After another moment of torturous silence, she turned toward me, her breasts brushing my arm. My pulse spiked, and I gritted my teeth, reining in my rampant thoughts.

“Tell me about your parents.”

Just like that, all thoughts of intimacy fled. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“There’s always something to tell.”

I stared resolutely at the ceiling. Silence descended once more, but she continued to watch me. I couldn’t resist glancing over at her. At her eager, wide-eyed expression. I shook my head and sighed. “I was abandoned. A maid found me in the garbage when I was a baby.”

She stared at me, horrified.

“The Archbishop took me in. I was a pageboy for a long time. Then I hit a growth spurt.” The side of my mouth quirked up of its own volition. “He began training me for the Chasseurs not long after. I claimed my spot when I was sixteen. It’s all I’ve ever known.”

She rested her head on my shoulder. “Claimed your spot?”

Closing my eyes, I rested my chin on top of her head and inhaled. Deeply. “There are only one hundred Balisardas—one drop of St. Constantin’s relic in each. It limits the positions available. Most serve for life. When a Chasseur retires or dies, a tournament is held. Only the winner may join our ranks.”

“Wait.” She sat up, and my eyes snapped open. She grinned down at me, her hair tickling my chest. “Are you telling me Ansel beat out all the other contenders?”

“Ansel isn’t a Chasseur.”

Her grin faltered. “He’s not?”

“No. He’s training to be, though. He’ll compete in the next tournament, along with the other initiates.”

“Oh.” She frowned now, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “Well, that explains a lot.”

“It does?”

She nestled back into me with a sigh. “Ansel is different than everyone else here. He’s . . . tolerant. Open-minded.”

I bristled at the insinuation. “It’s not a crime to have principles, Lou.”

She ignored me. Her fingers traced the collar of my shirt. “Tell me about your tournament.”

I cleared my throat, struggling to ignore the gentle movement. But her fingers were very warm. And my shirt was very thin. “I was probably Ansel’s age.” I chuckled at the memory—at how my knees had trembled, how I’d vomited down my coat minutes before the first round. The Archbishop had been forced to procure me another. Though it’d only been a few years ago, the memory felt very far away. A different time. A different life. When I’d lived and breathed to secure a future within my patriarch’s world. “Everyone else was bigger than me. Stronger too. I don’t know how I did it.”

“Yes, you do.”

“You’re right.” Another laugh rose to my throat, unbidden. “I do. They weren’t that much bigger, and I practiced every day to grow stronger. The Archbishop trained me himself. Nothing mattered but becoming a Chasseur.” My smile faded as the memories resurfaced, one after another, with painful clarity. The crowd. The shouts. The clang of steel and tang of sweat in the air. And—and Célie. Her cheers. “I battled Jean Luc in the championship.”

“And you beat him.”

“Yes.”

“He resents you for it.”

“I know. It made beating him even sweeter.”

She poked me in the stomach. “You’re an ass.”

“Probably. But he’s worse. Things . . . changed between us that year. He was still an initiate when the Archbishop promoted me to captain. He had to wait until the next tournament to win his spot. I don’t think he ever forgave me.”

She didn’t speak again for several moments. When she finally did, I wished she hadn’t. “And . . . and Célie? Did you continue seeing her after your vows?”

All remnants of humor withered and died on my tongue. I stared at the ceiling once more. Though she said nothing, her fingers resumed tracing my collar. Coaxing. Waiting. I sighed again. “You saw the letters. We . . . maintained our courtship.”

“Why?”

I stiffened, immediately wary. “What do you mean why?”

“Why continue your courtship after you swore yourself to the Chasseurs? I’ve never heard of a Chasseur marrying before you. There are no other wives in the Tower.”

I would’ve given my Balisarda to end this conversation. How much had she heard of my conversation with Célie? Did she—I swallowed hard—did she know Célie had rejected me? “It’s not unheard of. Just a few years ago, Captain Barre married.”

I didn’t mention that he’d left our brotherhood a year later.

She sat up, fixing me with those unnerving eyes. “You were going to marry Célie.”

“Yes.” I tore my gaze away, back toward the ceiling. A snowflake drifted in from the window. “Growing up . . . Célie and I were sweethearts. Her kindness appealed to me. I was an angry child. She tempered me. Begged me not to throw rocks at the constabulary. Forced me to confess when I stole the communion wine.” A grin tugged at my lips at the memory. “I had a chip on my shoulder. The Archbishop had to beat it out.”

Her eyes narrowed at my words, but she wisely said nothing. Lowering herself back against my chest, she brushed her finger against my bare collarbone. Heat erupted across my skin—and everywhere else—in its wake. I shifted my hips away, cursing silently.

“How many witches have you killed?”

I groaned and turned my head into the pillow. The woman could freeze Hell over. “Three.”

“Really?”

The judgment in her voice rankled. I nodded, trying not to seem affronted. “Though it’s difficult to catch a witch, they’re vulnerable without their magic. Still, the witch at the theater was cleverer than most. It didn’t attack me with magic. It used magic to attack me. There’s a difference.”