Chapter Eight
Munro
The sun peeked through the sliver beneath the restaurant door, tracing across the small, carpeted entrance. Tables had been cleared, dishes washed, and patrons fulfilled hours ago, but Munro hadn’t stopped staring at the door. At any moment it could turn, and Hollen could walk through it, the wood moving aside with a small touch of his hand.
Munro licked his lips. Those few drops of blood—he hadn’t been able to banish them from his thoughts or the scent from his memory. After the bloodbath had ended and Corby had ceased to exist, he was ashamed to admit that he’d gone back to the room, breathing deep to try to catch the remnants of Hollen.
He’d gone to his knees, not quite stooping all the way down and licking the small, darkened spot. It was a battle that he’d almost lost, staring and reaching out to touch the few dried flecks that remained.
Sweetness didn’t begin to articulate the honey that rolled over his senses with each inhale, imbedded under his fingernails once he’d scratched the floor clean. He’d brought his fingers to his nose, sucking in the warmth with saliva flooding his mouth as hunger had consumed him.
Three hours had passed when he’d searched the halls and the restaurant for a hint of another drop—or any lingering sign of Hollen. There was nothing, not even a saturated hint clinging to the sodden mop.
Sean, the chef who had been with him for years, helped the servers throw most of the food away, only the tea leaves going back into storage. He did it quietly, his head down, probably with the knowledge that the pallets in the building had been sated more than he ever could be.
The servers were mostly unaware, a few of them grumbling about the absolute waste, while Sean was completely aware of exactly who and what he made his nightly pastries for.
The only true waste was the following day, when Munro had waited, his heart sinking further every time the door opened. He’s not coming back.
“I can’t believe this,” said Rhys, breaking the silence as he strode across the room, knocking into one of the tables on his way. While Munro had remained still, Rhys had paced, his thoughts carving a winding pathway around the restaurant until Munro was grinding his teeth, the sharp points cutting into his lips.
The fresh blood in his veins had obviously strengthened him, and he’d been insufferable all night. Munro was honestly surprised that he was wearing clothes instead of a robe, the sheer shirt leaving little to the imagination, regardless.
“I thought he would come,” said Munro, shaking his head. There was something pulling at him—something more than just centuries of experience turned to a sharp instinct that rarely steered him wrong.
There had been a few brief glimpses in his life when he’d developed a certain longing, his past with Rhys one of the more unfortunate of circumstances. But nothing like this.
“It would have made things easier,” said Rhys, curling his lips over his teeth as he strode toward the small display that was tucked between curtains in the front window. Munro made sure to refresh it every evening at eight o’clock, but it had long since grown cold, the small pastries losing their freshness until the bread would crumble from the lightest touch.
“Hmm.” Munro nodded, looking back to the door. The wood was thick and etched with flowers that had been tainted with a deep stain. He’d commissioned it shortly after the chair, the same hands creating art that had yet to be replicated.
Rhys curled his hand into a fist. “I could have ripped his throat out right here and put an end to it.” His nails sliced into his palm, vermillion dripping to the floor. It was bland and nearly as unappetizing as Corby had been. “He would be one of the easiest kills I’ve ever made.”
Munro jerked from his stupor, whirling on Rhys. “No.”
Rhys paused in his pacing, sending him an incredulous look. “You can’t be serious.” He stared at his own palm before licking it clean. “He’s a threat, and he needs to be eliminated.”
“Is he?” asked Munro, tilting his head. Hollen was all of five and a half feet, his green eyes the only thing that had looked somewhat unique about him. He wasn’t fast, or strong, and if his first day and ruined uniform were anything to go by, he was clumsy as well. “I don’t feel threatened.”
Hungry. Intrigued. Munro forced his gaze away from the door. Perhaps that was all. It had been too long since he’d fed, and longer still since he’d truly taken his fill in a play of lust and pain. He skimmed over Rhys, turning away. Not now.
“Covi, please,” said Rhys, closing the distance between them and placing a hand on his shoulder. “You won’t be able to hide in this tea shop much longer before reality comes knocking on the door. People like Hollen are dangerous. They know about us, but they don’t understand what’s at stake. Hollen’s friend—this man ‘George’ is a threat to our very way of life.”
Rhys always had a way of being so very short-sighted, which was astonishing for how long he’d been alive. Munro shrugged the hand from his shoulder.
“George is such an inconsequential name for a meaningless person,” said Munro. A lisp chased his words, his teeth too sharp for his own mouth. Whoever George was, Rhys was probably right, but Munro would be more than happy to drain him dry when given the first opportunity. He wouldn’t be hard to find—mortals never were. “I’ll be in my room if you need me.”
Rhys grasped him by the arm, his grip tight. “I’ll take care of him for you. You won’t have to lift a finger. Him, his family, and everyone he knows—I’ll take care of it.”
Something dark within Munro snapped, rearing its ugly head as he whirled, grabbing Rhys by the throat and squeezing. He growled under his breath, shoving Rhys along until his back pressed against an unforgiving wall. He pinned him there by his neck alone, rage curling in his gut.
The memory of Hollen’s blood was enough to blind him, stripping his control away, even as Rhys’ eyes went wide, his mouth opening in an airless gasp. You won’t touch him. No one will. Every drop was his to savor, focusing his thoughts into an obsessive claim.
Rhys’ eyes went wide as he reached for Munro’s wrists, choking through the pressure.
“He’s mine ,” said Munro, squeezing tighter until blood welled beneath his fingers. It was rich and dark in that way a vampire’s always was and filled with power—the lifeblood of every person it had come from. For the most part, those people were left alive, just missing a tiny part of themselves. But he wouldn’t put it past Rhys to take as many lives as he left.
Rhys narrowed his eyes, scratching at Munro’s hand until he managed to take in a breath. “Then take care of it.” He barely squeezed the words past his lips. “Or we’re all going to end up dead.”