Chapter 18 Marcus
MARCUS
Fuck. All that effort, all that playing nice, and it ends in nothing but blue balls. A complete waste.
All right, maybe not a complete waste. Esmerelda wriggling on my lap is enough to make my pulse thunder, and that kind of sweet torture leaves my body begging while my brain snarls. I’m not mad at that. Not even close.
What pisses me off is how close we were.
A sliver away from hearing the truth about the Mephistus coven, only for it to slip through my fingers.
Drunk, useless vampires, drowning in their own vices.
The information was right there on the edge of his tongue, I’m sure of it.
But to push would have raised suspicion, and I am not prepared to put my people in danger.
Not when they are here trying to get information for me too.
The frustration grinds in my chest. Small paper cuts of annoyance. My hand flexes against Esmerelda’s thigh, half to steady her, half to ground myself. Because if I don’t channel these feelings somewhere, I’m liable to rip the table in half just to get the anger out.
We’re not going to get anything more sitting here.
The vampires have left to drink and take drugs, and I’m done wasting time.
I lace my fingers through Esmerelda’s, and nearly flinch when electricity races up my arm.
Her skin is warm, softer than I remembered, her hand fitting against mine too perfectly to be chance.
My pulse stutters, then hammers. Damn, I need to get some control.
Having her on my lap has been pure torture. Every small shift of her hips brands me, every brush of her breath against my neck is like fuel to an open flame. I want to drag her closer, bury my face in her hair, claim her in a way no one here could mistake.
But I can’t. Blowing our cover would be reckless. Making her uncomfortable? Unthinkable. So, I rein myself in and hang on to the basics—a handhold, steady and unassuming—though my whole body burns like I’ve been scorched by her touch.
Grief twists everything out of shape. Makes you crave things you shouldn’t, confuse longing with need. Gods, maybe that’s all this is. Pain dressed up as hunger. But as her fingers curl tight around mine, I don’t believe it. Not for a second.
The club is slipping into chaos. When we first arrived, people weren’t being shy about what they were getting up to, but now, drugs and liquor strip away what’s left of their inhibitions.
A couple in the corner are tangled together, pretending no one can see, but the look on the man’s face gives them away.
Others avert their eyes, pretending at privacy.
Some seem to get off on being watched, if the crowds gathering around them are anything to go by.
My stomach knots as I watch them grind against each other in plain view. Intimacy should be sacred, something cherished, not put on display for everyone to see. I even said as much in my vows.
The thought of anyone seeing Esmerelda, lips parted, her body arching in pleasure, sends heat ripping through me but not with desire. With fury. Possessive, protective rage that blinds me. My blood is boiling before I even realize it, my jaw clenched so hard my teeth ache.
I tell myself it’s because she’s my wife now, bound to me whether she wants it or not. That it’s duty, not jealousy, driving the insanity clawing at my insides. But I know better. This isn’t about guarding what’s mine. It’s about wanting what’s not mine.
We catch sight of Minerva, grinning like a maniac as she produces a sleek leather paddle from nowhere.
She delivers a sharp smack to a stranger’s backside, and the poor guy yelps before leaning in for more.
Min cackles, loving every second. Leonard, meanwhile, is at the bar, flirting shamelessly.
Of course those two are pulling their weight. Which means I need to do the same.
I force a breath into my lungs, bracing myself, and tighten my grip on Esmerelda’s hand. The contact anchors me, but it’s more than that. I never expected her presence to bolster me. To ground me. Yet here she is, and I can’t let go.
We weave through the crowd, hand in hand, laughing, chatting, and flirting as we go. I lean close, murmur things meant to sound wicked, and she tips her head back with a smile that would make anyone watching believe it. Together, we’re convincing—maybe a little too convincing.
A man at the bar drags his gaze over her, slowly, hungrily, before flicking up to meet mine.
His smirk is a silent dare. Heat spikes in my chest, sharp and immediate, and it takes everything I have not to bare my teeth.
I shift my stance, sliding closer until my arm brushes Esmerelda’s waist, until there’s no space for anyone else’s claim.
She doesn’t comment, only arches a brow, the corner of her mouth twitching like she knows exactly what I’m doing.
The whole act scrapes against my nerves.
In real life, I could never do this. I don’t share.
Not the woman beside me, not the way her body curves into mine, not the sound of her laughter.
I tell myself I’m not jealous, that it isn’t the same thing.
Maybe that’s true. But possessiveness burns hotter than jealousy ever could, and every wandering gaze aimed at her is like fuel to the fire.
A satyr stumbles into us, half his drink sloshing across my sleeve. The sour stench of liquor clings to him like sweat.
“You looking for trouble or fun?” His pupils are blown wide, his grin sloppy.
“Information,” I snap before I can temper my tone.
He throws his head back and laughs like I just delivered the punchline of the century, then staggers off toward the bar. My hands itch to grab him and shake something useful out, but he’s already gone, making his way between bodies.
“Excuse me.” A dryad at the next table leans forward, eyes glazed, her chin barely staying upright in her palm.
“I couldn’t help oversee…” She giggles. “I mean overhear. Oversee. Ha! I said oversee.” She says it to no one in particular before whispering conspiratorially, “The council’s behind everything, don’t you know? ”
Finally. Something. I lean closer, but before I can press, a pair of half-naked dancers swoop in and drag her away. She squeals, legs kicking, drink splashing down her dress, and is gone, giggling like she never said a word.
Esmerelda exhales hard through her nose, a sharp, frustrated sound. “We’re drowning in gossip here.”
“Yeah.” I rake a hand down my face. “I know.”
Her gaze sweeps the room. “Elves,” she murmurs, tipping her chin toward a couple at the bar. “They gossip more than most, but usually there’s a grain of truth under it.”
I nod, though at this point I’m not sure this filth is worth wading through. Still, it won’t hurt to try.
Esmerelda straightens her shoulders and slides up to the female elf like she was born to own the room.
“Hey, I’m a reporter for the Thornwatch Journal,” she says, her voice sweet as honey.
“I’m doing a piece on the recent wolf pack attacks.
You wouldn’t perhaps know anything about it?
Heard who’s been targeting packs in these parts? ”
The elf leans in, her purple hair brushing Esmerelda’s arm. My stomach knots as her fingers trace an idle pattern over Esmerelda’s skin, deliberate, intimate. “Maybe,” she purrs. “But what’s it worth to you, pretty thing?”
Gods above. If she leans in any closer, she’ll be breathing Esmerelda’s air. My chest tightens, jaw locked so hard it aches.
Her boyfriend materializes, shoving his way between them, his glare sharp enough to cut. “Back off. She’s not your type.”
Esmerelda only laughs, flashing me a look that’s half-tease, half-challenge. “Apparently, I’m everyone’s type.”
Heat spikes through me, ugly and fast. “Not everyone’s.” The words grind out harsher than I mean them to, my jaw twitching with the effort to keep the rest back.
Her smile falters. She tilts her head, her eyes glinting with something I can’t quite read. “Don’t worry. Of course I wasn’t implying I was anywhere near your type.”
There’s a note in her voice. It’s almost brittle. Pain, maybe. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Either way, my stomach sinks. My remark was unnecessary, cheap, and now I feel like a complete bastard.
We push through the press of bodies, catching only scraps of conversations. Blood shipments, disappearances, don’t go near the river. Nothing that holds.
A nymph brushes my arm, nails dragging lightly down to my wrist and snagging on my leather glove. “Forget the questions. You should let me show you a good time.”
Esmerelda slides smoothly between us, her voice satin and steel. “He already has one.”
The nymph pouts and drifts away. Esmerelda doesn’t look at me, but my chest is tight all the same.
We pass the vampire couple again, and I part my lips to try one more angle, desperate to salvage something useful. But before I can get a word out, a drunk vamp stumbles into us, the sharp reek of bloodwine rolling off him as half his drink splashes down my sleeve.
“Less interrogation, more dancing,” he slurs, grinning with too many teeth. “Are you here for answers or a good time? ’Cause unless you start moving, I’m starting to think you don’t belong here at all.”
My jaw tightens. The words “don’t belong” grind against my temper. He’s too close, too loud, and for one dangerous second I want to shove him hard enough that he remembers who the fuck he’s talking to.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Esmerelda.
Her lips part, hesitation flickering across her face.
It twists something in my gut. But then her chin lifts, her eyes catching the strobe lights, glittering with mischief instead of fear.
A new song thunders through the speakers, bass vibrating up through the soles of my boots.