His shoulders slumped. Clearly, I hadn’t given the answer he’d wanted, and clearly, he hadn’t prepared a dare in advance. He waved a flippant hand. “I dare you to cut your hair with one of my knives.”

I laughed and took a shot of whiskey without a word.

“My turn.” Rubbing my hands together, I turned to Reid—then hesitated. This was my first real chance to woo him outside of our usual circumstances, outside of L’Eau Mélancolique, the heist, the rooftop. Outside of danger. I needed to make it count, yet every thought fled my mind as I stared at him. That suspicious gleam in his eyes—the clench of his jaw and the flex of his arms—he might as well have been impenetrable. Like Jean Luc, he knew my game, and he didn’t want to play.

How had I wooed him in Cesarine?

I wracked my brain, trying and failing to remember. Trapped in Chasseur Tower, surrounded by my enemies, I’d been jagged and sharp and guarded most days, lashing out at the slightest provocation. I’d tried to embarrass him, demean him. I’d mostly succeeded in that endeavor, yet still he’d softened toward me. Still I’d softened toward him. How? When? Already, the whiskey slurred my thoughts if not my words, eddying them into a single memory of warmth and nostalgia. There’d been a bathtub and a shared bed in Chasseur Tower, and there’d been books and plays and gowns—

I fought a frustrated groan. Through the thin walls, Coco’s snores echoed. She hadn’t yet trained me in the subtle art of seduction—if such a thing existed. I hadn’t needed it before. He’d simply . . . loved me—despite everything—and that love had led him to this heinous choice, to forget me, to save me.

I would honor it.

It wasn’t as if I could reverse the pattern anyway. Even as La Dame des Sorcières. If he couldn’t remember our past, I would forge a new future, and I sealed the promise with another swig. “Truth or dare, Reid.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Dare.”

Shrugging, I pointed the bottle at him. “I dare you to strip naked and dance the bourrée. While we watch,” I added swiftly when he moved toward the door. I couldn’t help my grin. He’d always been unexpectedly quick. “Not out in the hallway.”

He scowled and halted mid-step. “Truth.”

“Tell me how you’re feeling in this exact moment.”

“Give me the bottle.” He seized it before I could protest, and I smothered my disappointment. Perhaps this was better. Alcohol was its own sort of truth. With a few more shots, he’d become a plethora of information.