2. Rowan #3
“Risked your life or were already dying?” Rowan was privately mortified he’d cared so deeply whether Lane lived such a short time ago.
He was scheming. Of course he was. Pointing out how he’d risked his life proved all he was after was Rowan’s gratitude.
He wanted Rowan to feel indebted. “Was the curse even real?”
Lane looked like he’d been slapped.
“I’d say so,” Hunter put in.
“Yeah, what the fuck?” Lane seethed. “The Hillmans caught me, cursed to kill, and I wasted my last moments dragging my ass across the Banks to the damn Business District. To find you.”
Still stuck on the lack of gratitude for a useless warning, was he?
This was all a waste of time and feeling.
Maybe Lane was dumb enough to risk his life to manipulate Rowan into trusting him.
Maybe he hoped Rowan would be too distracted by emotion to see the obvious play.
And Rowan had been, even when suspicion was his first instinct.
Lane played him so easily. This time and last.
“Luckily, they weren’t your last moments. You’ll live another day, Lane, but don’t think it matters to me.” Rowan turned and retrieved his suit jacket, slipping it on to cover his ripped sleeve, not daring to dwell on how he’d shredded his clothes to save someone so treacherous.
“Why would the Hillmans kill you for discovering they had it out for my coven? It makes no sense. You shouldn’t even be in this city. That right there proves you’re up to something.”
“I wasn’t planning on coming to Shearwater Landing.” Lane’s cheeks reddened in anger. “I followed the Hillmans. Look, my dad’s gotten himself caught in a bad deal again. I was trying to figure out what was happening so I could warn him off. He wouldn’t believe me without anything solid.”
Marshall Blackburn scheming again was no surprise.
The man had led his coven against the Valeros alongside another group of witches ten years ago, posing as allies.
People like Marshall didn’t spend nearly a year playing nice with the intent to double-cross, then give up treachery for good.
They regrouped and did it again. But Marshall’s future schemes hadn’t been Rowan’s concern.
The Blackburns had been banned from Shearwater Landing, and Rowan hadn’t thought Marshall was stupid enough to return.
His son, either.
“Well, thank you for the warning, Lane. Rest assured, the Valeros will prevail against this coven of—are they witches or vampires?”
“Witches.”
Right, so the Hillmans couldn’t even be behind the feral vampire, if they existed at all.
He sneered, “Witches so unnoteworthy, I’ve never heard of them. You can leave the city now. And remind your father, if any of his people are caught here again, it won’t be pleasant. You can consider tonight a free pass, but I won’t let your presence slide again.”
“Fine. Whatever. I don’t know why I bothered.” Lane stood, his defiance undermined by the way he gripped the chair to steady himself.
Rowan strode to the door, unmoved by the evidence of Lane’s brush with death. Emotion had made him a fool tonight, if only to himself. His anger surged. “Hunter will walk you out. Don’t try to seduce him on your way downstairs. That’s Lane’s modus operandi,” he added to the doctor in warning.
Hunter’s eyes went wide.
Lane made an enraged sound. “That wasn’t what I was doing back—”
“Don’t bother.” Rowan stormed from the room. Hearing Lane out would be nothing but embarrassing for them both.
The fact of the matter was, Lane had attempted to seduce Rowan with the intent to spy on him.
Marshall had admitted that Lane had been assigned to gather intel when Rowan sent his coven packing.
The only saving grace in the whole ordeal had been Rowan rejecting what he’d believed at the time to be an honest advance.
Rowan had never been more relieved that he kept everyone outside his walls.
He trusted and loved the members of his coven, had plenty of sexual partners, but he was never completely uninhibited, never truly vulnerable, and never took anything when his need for it was desperate.
Not even in safe spaces where he could let his guard down, like his parties, which only allowed vetted guests.
Lane’s attendance meant he should have been trustworthy, and he hadn’t been.
It was a violation. A betrayal far worse than the one his coven committed.
Lane was nothing but a snake, and he could rot.
His actions proved that being guarded was the only way to survive.
Rowan’s desperation—his deepest longings—would always lead him to ruin, for he had wanted Lane something fierce that night, and if his whirlwind of emotions in the clinic were anything to go by, he still did.
Rowan’s footsteps thundered down the hall. He needed to forget—
Lane’s scream pierced the air, and Rowan’s heart strangled. He gasped, pain shooting along his arm like a heart attack.
What the Devil?
Rowan turned and stumbled back the way he’d come, his movement sluggish. He fell, his heart rate slowing to a crawl. Damnation, he couldn’t move. He wasn’t in danger of permanent death unless someone ripped out his heart while he was incapacitated, but still, this was bad.
How is this happening?
Lane’s continued screams did nothing to drown out the answer. It had been a trap after all.