Chapter Three
Munro
Munro cast his gaze toward the door, letting it linger longer than he cared to admit. The soggy version of a young man had retreated long ago, the sodden stains of footsteps fading to a slightly darker shade than the carpet. The scent of wind and rain had remained long after the coolness had faded to the warmth of the tea in his hands.
The cold had always been his enemy—more an inconvenience now after centuries in this climate. He would much rather be slowed by a blizzard than have morbid thirst hit him beneath an unforgiving sun.
The man had seemed so weak, from his soaked clothes to the almost sickly dampness of his scent. But then he’d spotted that spark of defiance and the fury in his gaze that was absolutely unsettling. There had been a flash of power—of absolute darkness—that had drawn him in.
This is a terrible idea. He turned away, ignoring the familiar faces seated at his tables. Some were there to enjoy the same things he did, while others were looking to climb their way in the ranks. The latter would only find disappointment when they realized that he never mixed business with pleasure.
He hoped, at least, that they found some appeal to the smell and taste of fresh bread and spices, the tea slipping down their throats in a way that was satisfying, even if it offered little sustenance. He usually admired the food, running the bread and filling over his teeth and tasting the subtle nuances before setting it back on the silver platter.
It was about the senses, not the sustenance, and to hell with the waste. He’d gone from riches to times of famine where there had been little to eat except the few sips of a willing victim. But culinary delights and foreign aromatics were where he’d truly thrived in the last century. Blood, in comparison, was dull, albeit necessary.
The tea. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. The walls were soaked with it, herbs and flowers mixed with water to release the astounding concoction. There was a simplicity to it that always amazed him, but when it hit his lips, it opened every horizon.
A simple black tea was almost as good as the sweetest substance that had ever passed through his lips. It brought him back to the days of starvation when survival meant stretching each meal with crushed herbs and warmed water. He never knew how long he’d be waiting for prey to come while his belly rolled.
“Covi.”
Munro blinked his eyes open, turning to the familiar voice before the memories could take him.
Rhys stared back, his wavy hair falling just above his shoulders. He’d changed his clothes, a robe on instead of the shirt, with a tie at his waist keeping it from falling open. His brown eyes were narrowed, locked on Munro’s lips, where he swept a drop of blood clean with his tongue. Munro hadn’t realized he’d nicked himself while staring after his newest employee, so caught up that he hadn’t even asked his name.
Rhys glanced at the busy room, slipping his gaze over the others and dismissing them as he often did. “You seem unsettled.”
Munro hardened his gaze before glancing at the door. He didn’t expect another to walk through it tonight, mortal or not, but if one had found their way in, it could lead to more. He’d protected his establishment on so many levels, but the man had walked through every one, demanding a job. But perhaps that’s why Erie sent him to me.
“Not here,” said Munro, thinning his lips. There was a time and a place for discussion, but Rhys had never had the skill to know when or where. Ears and eyes were everywhere, the mindless chatter ready to halt in order to catch the latest gossip. Corby looked up from his tea, his smile knowing.
“Is it the new tech?” asked Rhys, fiddling with the tie on his robe. One pull and he would be nearly naked, which was a state Rhys was in more often than not.
Munro shook his head, clenching his jaw. When he’d first come to this city shortly after its founding, he’d kept Rhys and himself hidden the best way he’d known. Hypnotism, altering memories, and a little bit of skill had always been enough, and he’d honed the defense into a massive, webbed instrument that had allowed others to reap rewards.
But the world was a fast-paced killer that was quickly surpassing their best. There was only so much he could cover up to protect them all. That would fade out of existence if he invited a mortal inside, offering them a glass right next to a pair of sharp canines.
Rhys shifted, tugging at the tie. It pulled free by a few inches, barely hanging on by the thick knot. “Then something else?”
“Would you like tea…or perhaps something stronger?” asked Munro, touching Rhys’ chin and forcing him to tilt his head. “You look hungry.”
Rhys grinned, his lips stretching over sharp teeth. In the outside world he could use illusions to keep some parts of his appearance hidden in the same way the faeries did. When that failed, he could pluck a memory from someone’s mind without a second thought, taking his fill without them being any the wiser. But Rhys rarely strayed from him to feed.
“Starving,” said Rhys, slipping from Munro’s hold and grasping his hand. “Come with me.”
Munro followed, avoiding the knowing looks from his patrons as he disappeared through the kitchen to the wide hallway beyond. He’d decorated the space with hues of red, accented with a leather couch and deep wooden table that was just large enough for two cups.
The couch was occupied with two lovers feeding when they approached, the stiff leather doing nothing to deter them. Munro had designed this spot after he’d grown tired of the constant taint of blood in the dining room. Here, at least, someone could feed in peace, and the leather was far too uncomfortable to do much more than that.
Rhys let out a hiss, drawing their attention. One look and they were mumbling out apologies and wiping the blood from their lips. The younger of the two bowed his head at Munro in a sign of respect that seemed more like an afterthought. The flush on their cheeks was from more than the heat of the room, which Munro always kept high.
The few who weren’t his kind that came through the door without some persuasion , quickly left once they started sweating, the hot tea only encouraging them on the way out. For him, the extra heat added a languid energy to his bones that he was so often lacking.
“What are you thinking of?” asked Rhys, pushing Munro onto the couch. Munro went without a fuss, catching Rhys as he landed in his lap. Rhys was exceptionally light for his size, or maybe it was that Munro was so used to him, his weight unchanged through so much memory.
Turning his head to the side, Munro let out a hum as Rhys pulled at the collar of his shirt, popping the first few buttons to expose the scarred skin there. His heart picked up as soft lips touched his neck, teeth scraping over such a sensitive spot.
“My son, Erie,” said Munro, tightening his grip where he’d settled his hand on Rhys’ hip. That name had been the last thing he’d expected from the sodden man’s lips, and he still hadn’t recovered from the jolt. It had been so long.
“Oh,” said Rhys before licking a stripe along Munro’s neck, his saliva cooling and tingling almost instantly. “I haven’t seen him in years.” Rhys was breathing fast, his excitement obviously growing when he opened one last button, exposing more of Munro than was strictly necessary.
With one last lick, he bit down, his fangs piercing through Munro’s skin like tissue paper. Blood rushed to the surface, the taint of copper striking the air, even as Rhys sealed his lips over the spot, sucking to make the blood well faster.
“Nor I.” Munro resisted the urge to shake his head, locking his limbs as Rhys fed from him. The soft noises and sharp prickling were an absolute routine that had gotten old centuries ago. No matter how much time passed, it never hurt any less than the first time he’d felt teeth in his flesh, but he refused to let Rhys go hungry.
Some seemed to enjoy the sensation, others turning the pain into something more sensual. Munro struggled to see the appeal when he was the one playing victim. If their roles had been reversed, it would have been another situation entirely.
“Ah.” Rhys gasped, licking over Munro’s skin as he started to heal, catching the last of the blood on his tongue as it rolled down Munro’s shoulder. A few drops soaked into his shirt, ruining the fabric. “Covi, you taste so good.”
Rhys rolled his hips before resting his flushed face against Munro’s neck, the heat of his cheeks burning into him. His breath came in ragged spurts, his hard cock pressing into Munro’s belly. As he dipped his fingers beneath Munro’s stained shirt, Munro caught him, pulling his hand away.
“Please?” asked Rhys, drunk on blood with his pupils blown wide. He rocked his hips insistently, his movements becoming more desperate. “I want you. It’s been so long.”
“No,” said Munro, standing from the couch and lifting Rhys along with him. He looked away as he pulled Rhys’ hands from him before depositing him on the couch. He straightened his shirt, smoothing the front and slipping the buttons back into place. The blood at his collar was still damp, the bits that didn’t soak into the fabric stamping on his skin.
A little mess was bound to happen when hungry bellies were combined with sharp teeth. His neck still ached, even as it healed, his own grumbling stomach extending the process.
“Is it me?” asked Rhys, closing his eyes as he leaned against the couch. He shoved his hand into his robe as he laid back, his movements partially hidden by the fabric. He parted his lips, tracing the bright red flush of them with his tongue.
Yes. Munro couldn’t say it aloud and shatter that spark within Rhys that made him thrive. What they had was routine , but so different than opening the shop on time or greeting his guests every evening. In his work there were different flavors and exciting spice combinations that weren’t always as pleasing as he would have hoped.
Routine was what led a vampire to their final resting place, lost beneath layers of dirt because they could no longer stand the surface. If he gave in, Rhys would soon become the shovel and tedium that put him there.
Sure, he was beautiful, but with his ragged breath and desperate eyes, he wasn’t attractive. There was no fire—no excitement, only the promise of a somewhat satisfying endgame.
Munro turned away, reaching into his pocket and plucking out his phone. There were few contacts listed, and he dialed the one near the very top. So few of his family carried the devices, still stuck in the old ways instead of embracing the technology that was all around them.
Rhys had started to gasp from his spot on the couch, picking up the pace of his hand as he jerked himself in the confines of his robe. When he grew louder, Munro took a few steps down the hall, putting space between them. Something deep in his chest kept him from leaving altogether.
“Who is this?” a voice answered on the other end, the angry hiss so familiar that it shocked him. “How did you get this number?” It had been years since Munro had heard that voice, but it hadn’t changed a bit, with the same dark undertones and steady rage.
Erie had always been like that—so cool, calm and collected, but ready to destroy all if he faced a threat. He had threatened to remove Munro from the surface of the planet when Munro had found out about his less-than ideal lover situation. A shifter? It was maddening.
“When was the last time we spoke?” asked Munro, flicking his gaze to the delicate wallpaper of the hall. “I ask you to infiltrate a pack, you defect, then I never hear from you again.”
He’d asked Erie to do it on an absolute whim, his knowledge of shifters limited to the very few encounters he’d had. There was no reason to stray from his family and immerse himself in the drama of another that was equally as secretive.
But his society was getting too behind, shifters and faeries encroaching on their territory while he turned a blind eye and watched the news, looking at the places he had seen before and how severely they had changed.
It had been a first step that he’d regretted ever since—asking Erie to befriend a shifter and dive deep into the pack to earn their trust.
The last he’d heard from the few sources he had in that world, there were defectors involved—ones who weren’t even recognized by their own pack. They could be the most dangerous of all.
“They’re mine,” said Erie, his voice dropping into a growl. “I’ll fight you for them, and I’ll win. You know you can’t beat me on this. Your power diminishes by the day.”
Munro raised one brow. Really? He’d hoped, even with the rumors, that his son would have better taste than that.
“There’s too much at stake.” Munro glanced toward the couch at the sound of a gasp. Rhys has thrown back his head as he came, his body going tight. It was always the same. His throat would bob once before he let out a low moan, curling his naked toes as his pace stuttered.
“Fuck you.”
Munro looked to the blank surface of the wall as the line clicked and went dead, the phone call effectively over. Such filthy language. There had been a time when they would end an argument by outsmarting the other, twisting words in a battle of wits. But it seemed now they were destined to throw callus insults.
“That’s rich,” said Rhys, laughing as he wiped his hand on his belly. He’d gone soft, going limp on the uncomfortable couch. “You tell him to get rid of his pet while you invite your own new one to work here.”
It’s different. Something curled in Munro’s gut at the memory of those eyes and the taste of something other on the air. He usually dismissed mortals within a few sips and a touch of convincing hypnotism. His teeth ached just thinking about it.
“I’m looking forward to having a new snack,” said Munro, taking a moment to glance at his watch. Hours had passed, and he’d dwelt on the same sweet scent and stretch of flesh. A bite would look after this new obsession, maybe a deep one that would have the bright spark of life draining from a willing victim.
Rhys laughed. “You have no mercy, Covi. I love it.”