“Truth.”

“Is your heart still with the Chasseurs?”

They stared at each other for another long moment. I leaned forward eagerly, holding my breath, while Beau pretended not to listen and hung on every word. Reid tore his gaze away first, breaking the silence. “Is yours?”

Jean Luc leaned over and plucked the whiskey from his hand. After swallowing, he climbed to his feet and handed me the bottle on his way out. “I think I’m done for the night.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

“And then there were three,” Beau murmured, still toying with the edge of the quilt. He winked at me abruptly. “I dare you to lick the bottom of my shoe.”

Another half hour of antics ensued. The dares from Beau and me grew more and more ridiculous—serenade us, do four cartwheels, curse like a sailor for twenty seconds straight—while the questions grew more personal—What’s the grossest thing you’ve ever had in your mouth? To come out of your body?—until Reid was good and thoroughly drunk. He staggered over to me at his next turn, crouching down and dropping a heavy hand on my shoulder. Grayish light tinged the window.

His voice slurred. “What’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told?”

I might’ve snorted whiskey from my nose. “I never told you I was a witch. In Chasseur Tower. You never knew.”

“That’s stupid. How could I not have known?”

“An excellent question—”

“Lou, my darling sister”—Beau flung an arm over his face in a truly dramatic fashion, still lounging on the bed—“you must tell me: Do Coco and I stand a chance?”

“Of course you do! She’s head over heels for you. Anyone can see that.”

“Does she see that?” He peered at me through bleary eyes. The bottle in his hand held an alarming amount of whiskey now—which was to say, not much at all. “She called me Ansel, you know. The other day. She didn’t mean it, of course, but it just sort of slipped”—he began to tip the bottle over the quilt, but I crossed the room and snatched it from him just in time—“out. She’d been laughing at a joke I’d made.” He looked up at me suddenly, his gaze sharper and clearer. Calmer. “She has a lovely laugh, doesn’t she? I love her laugh.”

Gently, I pressed him back against the pillow. “You love more than her laugh, Beau.”

His lashes fluttered. “We’re all going to die, aren’t we?”

“No.” I pulled the blanket to his chin, tucking it around him. “But I dare you to tell her anyway.”

“Tell her . . .” His voice drifted on an enormous yawn. “. . . what?”

“That you love her.”

He laughed again as his eyes finally closed, and his body succumbed to sleep.

And then there were two.

I turned to face Reid, startled to find him directly behind me. His eyes fixed on mine with a deep, unsettling intensity that hadn’t been there before. “Truth or dare.”

Butterflies erupted in my belly as he stepped closer still. Heat washed across every inch of my skin. “Truth.”

He shook his head slowly.

I swallowed hard. “Dare.”

“Kiss me.”

My mouth parted without volition as I looked up at him—as I saw that primal fascination in his eyes—but even through the fugue of alcohol, of keen, desperate want, I forced myself back a step. He followed intently. His hand lifted to cradle the nape of my neck. “Reid. You don’t—you’re drunk—”

The tips of his boots met my bare toes. “What is this between us?”

“A lot of alcohol—”

“I feel like I know you.”

“You did know me once.” I shrugged helplessly, struggling to breathe at his proximity. At his heat. This glint in his eyes—he hadn’t looked at me like this since before the beach. Not on the horse, not on the bridge or in the treasury, not even beneath this very bed. My gaze darted to the whiskey in my hand, and that heat in my belly felt more like nausea now. Alcohol is its own form of truth. “But now you don’t.”

His hand edged to the side of my throat, and his thumb brushed my jaw. “We were . . . romantic.”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you frightened?”

I clutched his wrist to prevent his thumb from moving to my lips. Every instinct in my body raged against me. Every instinct craved his touch. Not like this. “Because this isn’t real. You’ll wake up with a throbbing headache in a couple of hours, and you’ll want to kill me all over again.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a witch.”

“You’re a witch.” He repeated the words slowly, languidly, and I couldn’t help it—I leaned into his palm. “And I know you.” When he swayed on his feet, my own hands shot to his waist, steadying him. He leaned down to bury his nose in my hair and inhaled deeply. “I’ve never been drunk before.”

“I know.”

“You know me.”

“I do.”

“Truth or dare.”

“Truth.”

His fingertips traced my scar, and he leaned lower, brushing his nose along the curve of my neck and shoulder. “Why do you have roses on your throat?”

I clung to him helplessly. “My mother disfigured me with hate. Coco transformed me with hope.”

He paused then, drawing back slightly to look at me. A nameless emotion shadowed his gaze as it flicked from my scar to my lips. “Why do you smell so sweet?”

Though pressure built behind my eyes, I ignored it, hoisting one of his arms over my shoulders. He would collapse soon. Clumsy with alcohol, his movements lacked their typical grace—lacked even basic coordination—and he continued to sway on his feet. Fervently, I prayed he wouldn’t remember any of this tomorrow. I shouldn’t have let him drink so much. Pain spiked through my right temple. I shouldn’t have drunk so much. With slow, heavy footsteps, I lugged him across the room toward the bed. “What do I smell like, Reid?”

His head fell upon my shoulder. “Like a dream.” When I deposited him carefully beside Beau—his entire leg spilling free from the mattress—his hand caught my own and lingered there, even after his eyes had fluttered shut. “You smell like a dream.”

The Hangover

Reid

I felt as if I’d been hit by a runaway horse.

Our own horses shifted nervously in the alley behind the inn, snorting and stamping their feet. I gripped their reins tighter. Dull pain throbbed behind my eyes. When my stomach rose suddenly, I turned away from them, clenching my eyes against the weak morning light. “Never again,” I promised them bitterly.

I would never imbibe another ounce of liquor for as long as I lived.

The horse nearest me lifted his tail and defecated in response.

The smell nearly undid me. Pressing a fist to my mouth, I struggled to tether their reins to the post and fled to our rooms once more. Inside, the others packed the last of their belongings with slow, sluggish movements. Except for Coco and Célie. Smirking, Coco watched from the bed, while Célie flitted to and fro in an effort to help. But she didn’t help. Instead, she talked. Loudly.