I pressed a kiss to her forehead. Ignored the unfamiliar scent of her skin. “Sleep, Lou.”

“I’m not tired,” she purred, her eyes too bright in the darkness. Too pale. “We slept all day.” When her hand crept up my chest once more, I caught it, lacing my fingers through her own. She misinterpreted the movement. Mistook it for an invitation. Before I could blink, she’d hoisted her knee across my lap to straddle me, lifting our hands awkwardly above our heads. When she arched her lower back, pressing her chest into mine, my stomach dropped like a stone. Shit.

I fought to keep my gaze impassive. Of course she wanted to—to touch me. Why wouldn’t she? Less than a month ago, I’d craved her like an addict. The subtle curve of her hip, the thick wave of her hair, the impish gleam in her eyes. I’d been unable to keep from pawing at her every moment of the day—the presence of my own mother hadn’t stopped me. Even then, however, it’d been so much more than physical.

From the very start, Lou had woken me up. Her presence had been infectious. Even infuriated, exasperated, I’d never stopped wanting to be near her.

Now I glanced at Beau, at Coco, at Célie, praying one of them would stir. Hoping they’d open their eyes and interrupt. But they didn’t wake. They slept on, heedless of my inner struggle.

I loved Lou. I knew that. Felt it in my bones.

I also couldn’t stand the sight of her.

What was wrong with me?

Anger cracked open as she moved her lips against my ear, nibbling the lobe. Too many teeth. Too much tongue. Another wave of revulsion swept through me. Why? Was it because she was still mourning? Because I was? Because she’d attacked her supper like a rabid animal, because she’d only blinked twice in the past hour? I mentally shook myself, irritated with Beau. With myself. She’d been stranger than usual, yes, but that didn’t justify the way my skin crawled when she touched me.

Worse still, these thoughts—this looming dread, this unsettling aversion—they felt like a betrayal. Lou deserved better than this.

Swallowing hard, I turned to meet her lips. She kissed me back enthusiastically, without hesitation, and my guilt only deepened. She didn’t seem to sense my reluctance, however. She pressed closer instead. Rocked her hips against mine. Clumsy. Eager. When she again dropped her mouth to my throat, sucking at my rapid pulse, I shook my head in defeat. It was no good. My hands descended on her shoulders.

“We need to talk.”

The words came of their own volition. She blinked in surprise, and what looked like . . . insecurity flickered in her pale eyes. I hated myself for it. I’d seen Lou insecure approximately twice in our entire relationship, and neither instance had boded well for us. It vanished as quickly as it’d come, however, replaced by a wicked gleam. “That involves tongues, yes?”

Gently, firmly, I slid her from my lap. “No. It doesn’t.”

“Are you sure?” Crooning, she leaned into me seductively. Or at least, that was her intent. But the movement lacked her usual finesse. I leaned back, studying her overbright eyes. Her flushed cheeks.

“Is something wrong?”

Tell me what it is. I’ll fix it.

“You tell me.” Again, her hands sought my chest. I seized them with tightly leashed frustration, squeezing her icy fingers in warning.

“Talk to me, Lou.”

“What would you like to talk about, darling husband?”

I took a deep breath, still watching her closely. “Ansel.”

His name fell between us like a carcass. Heavy. Dead.

“Ansel.” She tugged her hands away with a frown. Her eyes grew distant. Shuttered. She stared at a spot just over my shoulder, her pupils expanding and contracting in tiny, nearly imperceptible movements. “You want to talk about Ansel.”

“Yes.”

“No,” she said flatly. “I want to talk about you.”

My own eyes narrowed. “I don’t.”

She didn’t respond right away, still staring intently as if searching for . . . what? The right words? Lou had never cared for the right words before. Indeed, she reveled in saying the wrong ones. If I was honest with myself, I reveled in hearing them. “Let’s have another game of questions, then,” she said abruptly.

“What?”

“Like in the patisserie.” She nodded quickly, almost to herself, before facing me at last. She tilted her head. “You didn’t eat your sticky bun.”

I blinked at her. “What?”

“Your sticky bun. You didn’t eat it.”

“Yes, I heard you. I just—” Shaking my head, I tried again, bewildered. “I don’t have your sweet tooth.”

“Hmm.” She licked her lips salaciously. When her arm snaked behind me along the pew, I resisted the urge to lean forward. When her fingers threaded through my hair, however, I couldn’t resist. She followed like a plague. “Venison is delicious too. Salty. Tender. At least,” she added with a knowing smile, “if you eat it directly.” I stared at her in confusion. Then horror. She meant if you ate it raw. “Otherwise rigor mortis toughens the meat. You have to hang the animal for a fortnight to break down the connective tissue. Makes it hard to avoid the flies, of course.”

“When the hell have you eaten raw deer?” I asked incredulously.

Her eyes seemed to glow at the expletive, and she hummed with excitement, leaning toward me. “You should try it. You might like it.” Then— “But I suppose a huntsman would have no need to skin a deer in his ivory tower. Tell me, have you ever suffered hunger?”

“Yes.”

“Real hunger, I mean. Have you ever suffered cold? The kind that freezes your insides and leaves you like ice?”

Despite the hostility of her words, her voice held no contempt. Only curiosity. Genuine curiosity. She rocked back and forth, unable to keep still, as she watched me. I glared back at her. “You know I have.”

She cocked her head. “Do I?” After pursing her lips, she nodded once more. “I do. Yes, of course. The Hollow. Dreadfully cold, wasn’t it?” Her index and middle fingers walked up my leg. “And you’re hungry even now, aren’t you?”

She giggled when I returned her hand to her lap.

“What”—I cleared my throat—“is your next question?”

I could humor her. I could play this game. If it meant breaking through to her, if it meant unraveling what had . . . changed in her, I would sit here all night. I would help her. I would. Because if this truly was grief, she needed to talk about it. We needed to talk about it. Another stab of guilt shot through me when I glanced down at her hands. She’d clasped them together tightly.

I should’ve been holding those hands. I couldn’t force myself to do it.

“Oooh, questions, questions.” She brought her interlaced knuckles to her lips, musing. “If you could be anyone else, who would you be?” Another grin. “Whose skin would you wear?”

“I—” I glanced at Beau without thinking. She didn’t miss the movement. “I wouldn’t want to be anyone else.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Defensive, I asked, “Who would you be?”

She lowered her hands to her chest. With her fingers still laced together, she could’ve been praying. Except for the calculated gleam in her eyes, her fiendish smile. “I can be whoever I want to be.”