If that was the case, Grayson expected Vander would be joining them in the basement shortly.
“You know,” Grayson said, wanting to lighten the subject to something more suitable for lap snuggling, “if someone unlocked the basement door right now, I’m not sure I’d be willing to leave.”
Chelle’s head popped up from his shoulder, and in the hazy blue light, he saw a smile transform her usual grimace. The gap between her top front teeth had seemed adorable to him the first time he’d seen her allow herself a smile. Now, however, it struck him in the gut as alluring.
“You should have left with Luc and your sister,” she said.
Grayson feathered her bangs back from her forehead with a careful brush of his fingers. He had taken a risk, allowing himself to be captured. The mersian blood could wear off while he was locked up in this cellar hole, and he could fall under Axia’s command or just start to scent and crave Chelle’s blood. But he couldn’t have run.
“I wasn’t going to leave you,” he said. “I failed you on the bridge with Yann. I don’t regret stopping you from killing him.” He needed to be clear about where he stood. “I just regret making you a promise I couldn’t keep.”
Chelle turned her head away from Grayson’s fingers as they threaded through her hair once again. “So you stayed, you allowed the Roman troops to take you, because you felt guilty?”
He filled the basement with a sound that didn’t belong there: laughter.
“No,” he said, still smiling. Feeling bold. What more did he have to lose? “I stayed because I’m mad about you.”
She stared up at him, eyes narrowed, the scowl settling back into place. He waited for a string of harsh words. He waited for rejection. It was all right. It was Chelle. She wasn’t the sort of girl to melt into a puddle from a confession of ardent admiration. She was the sort of girl who challenged such confessions.
So when Chelle leaned her head against his shoulder once more and let out a shaky breath, Grayson wondered which parallel dimension he’d been plunged into.
“I don’t want to be this way,” she said, gasping on the last word as she fell apart into a sob. “I don’t want to be a Duster.”
Chelle crying seemed so foreign a notion that for a moment, he sat stiffly. He recovered, however, and pulled her tighter against him.
“I don’t want to be this way, either,” he said instead. They were locked in a basement with strangers most likely hanging on every word of their private conversation. But why shy away from honesty now?
“I killed someone. I murdered her. And I’m relatively sure I enjoyed it. It doesn’t matter how many days pass; the guilt keeps digging in. It keeps carving away. I’ve reached the point where it feels as if I’m walking around with a gaping hole in my stomach.”
Chelle hadn’t hurt anyone. Yet.
“Your blood can’t mix with Vander’s, but he can still help you. He can take away some of your dust and make things easier for you. Provided we get out of here,” he added.
Chelle lifted her head and pressed her lips against Grayson’s cheek. They were wet with tears. He turned toward her, instinctively, and her lips brushed against his. She kissed him, her fingers inching up his neck, running through his hair, against his scalp. Grayson shifted her closer, not caring if she felt his reaction to her. He didn’t care about the cold floor or the other Dusters listening. He didn’t care about much of anything beyond the salty taste of Chelle’s lips, the feel of her hands as they departed his scalp to stroke his neck, then the front of his shirt, and then—oh God—low against his stomach.
He tensed. Chelle must have felt it, for she stopped kissing him long enough to laugh.
“Am I making you uncomfortable, Lord Fairfax?”
Usually, hearing someone address him by his proper title annoyed him to no end. When Chelle said it, though, with her voice purposefully seductive, it made him catch his breath.
“Yes. And I’ve decided I never want to be comfortable again.”
Chelle tipped her lips to his. Of course, that was when the basement door gave a shuddering rattle.
She tore her mouth away and leaped to her feet. Grayson followed, albeit a bit more slowly. His body didn’t quite want to shed its reaction to Chelle so swiftly.
“Qui est là?” one of the other Dusters shouted, and approached the short set of steep stairs that led to the basement door.
Two more of the other Dusters followed. The door opened.
“Move away from the bottom of the stairs,” a man with a deep, cavernous voice ordered. He spoke in English, but his words had a strong Italian accent. This was one of the Roman Alliance members.
“Why have you imprisoned us?” the same Duster asked, this time in English.
“Let us go! You cannot keep us here!” another shouted.