Chapter 11
ELEVEN
“You owe me for this,” Tomas sighed.
Luis let cold water run down his cheeks and into his beard before he scrubbed his face clean of Yuri’s — Theresa Barton’s proxy — blood. Flicking his wet fingers toward the bowl of the sink, he threw back, “I don’t owe you fuck-all. I’m not the one who called you.”
“Your brother called me on your family’s behalf, so it counts.”
Yanking a towel off the rack, Luis swiped it over his face and damp hair in quick, ruthless strokes. There was some time between bouts, mostly to give the spectators a chance to drink and place more money on their bets for the next round, but every second mattered when he wasn’t with Francesca.
He gave himself a cursory glance in the mirror as he pushed his hair back from his forehead. Dressed in his unbuttoned tuxedo shirt and trousers, recently cleaned of blood splatter, he wasn’t looking exactly as Francesca was used to.
It’d have to do.
Tossing the slightly bloodied towel at his reluctant ally, Luis told him, “Listen, Bowan. I don’t need you to do anything except look pretty. It’s not exactly a labor-intensive job. Isn’t that all you do for your uncle, anyway?”
Tomas snatched the towel from the air before it could smack him in the face. Scowling, he replied, “You do know I’m the heir, right?”
Luis waved a hand. “I guess I heard that. You do anything else of interest besides swing your title around like a big cock?”
“Not that I have to explain anything to you,” Tomas drawled, “but I’m an investigator. I find people, things, money. Whatever needs hunting down, I can do it.”
Nodding, Luis replied, “Oh, so you’re a nerd. You like to research shit on the computer and call it investigating.”
Finally sick of him, Tomas snapped, “How did you even get involved in this shit to begin with? Dahlia would never approve of you participating in the Games.”
Sometimes, it was hard for him to reconcile the fact that Tomas and Dahlia weren’t genetically related. They carried themselves the same way, they possessed the same raw audacity, and they both enjoyed dressing to the nines at every available opportunity.
It seemed that the Bowans were all the same, even when they’d been adopted rather than born into the old family.
Turned by accident during an Amauri assassination gone sideways, Dahlia had become Alastair Bowan’s daughter by blood.
Technically speaking, she should’ve taken Tomas’s spot as the heir to the aristocratic syndicate family, but she’d refused to hold any official position in favor of taking over as co-head of the Amauri family with Felix.
A choice much celebrated by everyone on their side, since Dahlia was, as several members of the Amauri clan fondly described her, the meanest boss in the syndicate.
Luis wasn’t sure what Tomas would’ve done if she’d swooped in to take his place. As it stood, they’d become annoyingly fond of each other. The bad blood had been settled between them with a broken nose and the gift of a new car — a replacement for the one Tomas totaled.
The Amauris and the Bowans had never been on even remotely friendly terms before, but fate had a funny way of changing things in the blink of an eye. Or Dahlia did, anyway.
They were all one big, happy family now, according to her, and apparently that meant they could call in favors.
Might be useful, he allowed. Everyone else has allies. Why can’t I?
Luis rolled his tight shoulders. “Your cousin doesn’t know. There hasn’t exactly been a lot of time to send out a newsletter.”
“I know you’re old, but texting has been around for a while.” Tomas dropped the towel into the appropriate bin by the bathroom door. “She’s going to kill you. You know that, right?”
Luis liked playing fast and loose with danger, but even he could admit that he had no desire to tempt the sleeping dragon that was Dahlia Amauri. “If everything goes to plan, she’ll have nothing to be angry about,” he muttered.
“And what is the plan, exactly?” Tomas peered at him with an offensively skeptical look.
He ticked off the major points on his fingers. “Stay alive, win the fights, kill if I have to, and protect Frankie.”
Tomas grimaced. “That’s not a plan. That’s barely even a developed thought. The Games aren’t just about who’s the best fighter. They’re about good strategy between the rounds.”
“I’m not interested in fixing my fights,” he flatly replied.
Tomas rolled his eyes. “What a privilege it is to witness the first instance of an Amauri acting on morals. Every other fight is being negotiated as we speak. And no one else made themselves a target that way you did. Did you even think about how putting yourself in the ring puts you at a disadvantage? No one else is putting their bodies on the line like you are, and two thirds of the contestants have good reason to pivot their focus from winning to killing you.”
“Your family’s clout is supposed to help keep me alive,” he pointed out.
Tomas dryly replied, “Not even my esteemed family’s name is enough to cover the black hole that is the Amauri reputation, Luis.”
Growing increasingly impatient to get back to Francesca, he sighed, “Then what do you have in mind?”
“Use that reputation to your advantage,” Tomas suggested. “Be the piece of shit they think you are. Scare them so bad that no money they’re offered to fuck with your chances is worth it.”
“Huh.” He rubbed the back of his neck as he considered the idea. It wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever heard, but there was one glaring issue with it that he couldn’t get past.
“My girl is watching,” he quietly admitted. “That could scare her.”
If she wasn’t scared off already. She’d looked white as a ghost when he caught her eye in the basement, and she hadn’t even seen him kill a man — just lightly maim one.
Luis never wanted Francesca to see that part of him. One of the reasons he loved chasing her was because she didn’t see him the same as everyone else. In a way, it’d been another role for him to play. One that he now realized he never could’ve maintained, no matter how hard he tried.
That part of him was just that — a singular part. Just as the playboy was a part, and the shrewd businessman, and the man people called when they needed answers from the unwilling.
He put on masks and took them off to suit whatever situation he’d been in, but no single aspect of him could be maintained indefinitely. Even if he wished it could.
“What’s worse: scaring her or losing her?”
His body knew the answer before his mind did. Luis tensed, his claws digging into the freshly washed skin of his neck. In a raspy voice he answered, “Losing her.”
Tomas sniffed. “Then suck it the fuck up.”
“You’re not very nice,” he observed.
The other vampire flashed his fangs in a chilling smile. “I’m a Bowan. We don’t play nice.”
“Noted.” Luis patted his shoulder as he moved to slip out of the room.
Milo waited outside, one boot pressed flat against the wall and his arms crossed. He didn’t even wait for Luis to open his mouth before he informed him, “They brought her into the parlor. Maxine and Easton are with her.”
The hair rose on the back of his neck. The parlor was reserved for the contestants and their proxies, which meant she wouldn’t be shown to the mass of hungry spectators that had shown up. But it still exposed her too much.
Quickening his steps, Luis told his brother, “I need to get her alone.”
Milo, who’d been joined by Tomas, followed him down the hallway. “That’s not going to be easy. If the others see you get a second of private time with her, they’ll all start demanding it. You don’t want her alone with Malachi, do you?”
I’ll kill him first
Luis drew in a deep, calming breath. “Someone has to figure out a distraction, then.”
Behind his back, his companions shared a look.
The air in the parlor was charged. Bloodshed had a way of changing the vibe of a room, as did a healthy dose of alcoholic synth and the potential to win a lot of money — not to mention the presence of coveted prey.
He knew immediately that Francesca was there. The roots of his fangs gave an angry pulse as he spied the cluster of vampires gathered around the center of the room, where a lounge had been strategically placed for optimum viewing.
Normally, Luis was a fairly easy-going man. Outside of the bedroom, at least.
He didn’t let instincts rule him, and he didn’t particularly care if a woman he was fucking wanted to spend time with another man. Possessive instincts were limited to playing in bed, and if they began to leak out into real life, he was ruthless in cutting off whomever had spawned them.
But when he saw Francesca surrounded by other vampires, the man Luis thought he was disappeared.
The entire reason the Games had been invented was to civilize the instinct to fight for a single anchor. Rules had been agreed upon, and everyone pretended to follow them rather than outright slaughter the competition.
At that moment, Luis didn’t feel like pretending.
The open sides of his shirt flapped as he strode across the room. His world narrowed to the flash of red silk that appeared between shifting bodies. People parted for him as he neared, and those that didn’t got a hard shoulder for their trouble.
When he finally got to the center of the group, he found Francesca seated on the lounge, her hands balled into tight fists in her lap and her expression shut down. Worry punched through him when her eyes, normally so full of warmth, immediately met his.
Help me, they screamed, as a vampire’s heavy hand dropped onto her bare shoulder.
She tried to shake it off, but he didn’t let her go. Instead, he dragged her backward, toward him, and bent low to speak directly in her ear. Francesca’s hand came up to push him away, a wince crossing her expressive face as the vampire tightened his grip.