Gods & Monsters (Serpent & Dove #3) by Shelby Mahurin

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.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” She swatted Jean Luc’s arm before bending to search under the bed for his missing boot. “You know I have always wanted to try whiskey, and you all drank an entire bottle without me! And played truth or dare too! How could you leave me to sleep in the next room while you had all the fun?”

“It wasn’t fun,” Beau muttered, accepting his shirt from Lou. Sometime in the course of the night, it’d ended up in the washbowl. He wrung it out now with a miserable expression. “Fun is the last word I’d use to describe it, actually. Can you stop talking now, darling?”

“Oh, nonsense!” Abandoning her search beneath the bed, Célie rose and planted her hands on her hips. “I want to know every single detail. What questions did you ask? What dares did you undertake? Is that”—her eyes fell to a dark smear on the corner of the dressing table—“is that blood?”

I strode to wipe it away, cheeks hot, mumbling, “Fell doing a cartwheel.”

“Oh my goodness! Are you all right? Actually—never mind. Forget I asked. Clearly, you all had a grand time without me, so a little blood can be your penance. You do have to tell me everything that transpired, however, since you couldn’t be bothered to invite me. Fortunately, we have plenty of time to recount every detail on our way to L’Eau Mélancolique—”