Chapter 21 #2
I leave my phone on the bed and walk to the other side of the room, trying to cool down.
Because if I think about it a little longer, I might end up tying her up and then marching to that SPIA building and painting a very, very graphic picture.
One where every werewolf in that facility is ripped to shreds, their blood painting the walls, their screams echoing through the halls.
The fantasy is vivid and violent and satisfying in a way that should disturb me but doesn’t.
“Wait Tal, I think Asmo has a question.”
Oh no. I know that tone. Whatever Asmodeus is about to say is going to be inappropriate and annoying and—
“Sure, what’s up, big boy?” Talulla asks, putting on the lingerie set I bought her specifically for tonight.
The red silk looks perfect against her skin, and I want to tear it off with my teeth.
“This dilemma has been killing me for a while.”
“What is it?”
“I know Flynn doesn’t feed directly from a neck, right?”
What the fuck? Where is he going with this?
“Yes, that is correct.” Her eyes find mine, just as confused as I am.
“But what about—” I can feel it coming, can sense the inappropriate question forming.
“Asmodeus,” Talulla says, her tone turning serious.
“What about when you’re on your per—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” I growl, hoping the asshole takes the hint.
“Is that a yes?” He’s giggling now, the sound grating on my nerves. “And would that be considered the vampire equivalent of orange juice with pulp?”
I facepalm. Because he did not just say that. Out loud. To Talulla. To me, only a few feet away, clearly able to hear every single word that came out of this damn wizard I unfortunately can’t kill because she sees him as a friend.
The analogy is actually perfect, which pisses me off even more. Because yes, period blood would have texture, and would be different from regular blood.
No. I’m not thinking about this.
“You need to go wash your mouth with soap and choke on it,” Talulla replies, ending the phone call after he starts chuckling again.
I can’t help but sigh. “I can’t even be mad about it. It’s a fucking good analogy, and funnily enough, that’s what pisses me off the most.”
She snorts. “I can’t believe that guy is the future of magic.”
“Can’t believe Cassandra hasn’t turned him into a toad yet.”
She shrugs as she slips the gown on, and I watch the red silk slide over her body like water. “A lady can only hope. Maybe she’ll finally liberate us all by the end of the week.”
I pace toward her, and after helping her with the zipper—my fingers brushing her spine, making her shiver—I wrap my arms around her waist, enjoying her essence through the mirror in front of us.
We look good together. The vampire and the hunter. Darkness and light. Predator and prey.
Mine.
“What is it that kids say these days? I’m going to manifest it?” I ask, and she giggles.
The sound is pure joy, and it makes something in my chest warm. This is what I want—her laughter, her happiness, her choosing to be here with me despite everything.
“Look at you using the youth’s lingo,” she says, resting her head on my chest.
I can hear her heartbeat, steady and strong. Can smell her blood, sweet and tempting. Can feel the warmth of her body against my cool skin.
“Ready?” I ask, and she simply nods.
The drive to Marcus’s restaurant is quiet, both of us lost in our own thoughts. I can feel her nervousness, can smell the slight spike of anxiety mixed with anticipation. She’s thinking about the SPIA encounter, about us and about the evening ahead.
I’m thinking about her father’s texts, about the threats I haven’t told her about yet, about the conversation we need to have tomorrow morning.
But tonight—tonight is for us. For celebration. For showing her exactly how much she means to me.
Marcus’s restaurant is in Mayfair, tucked away on a quiet street where the wealthy and powerful come to eat without being disturbed. I’ve known Marcus for decades—he’s a vampire who runs one of the best restaurants in London, catering to both human and supernatural clientele.
More importantly, he’s discreet.
The hostess recognizes me immediately. “Mr. Lancaster, we were waiting for you. Please, follow me.”
She leads us through the main dining room—all white tablecloths and crystal chandeliers and the quiet murmur of expensive conversation—and toward the back of the building.
“Flynn?” Talulla asks, her voice curious.
“What?”
“A private room?”
“I wanted you to be comfortable.” And I wanted to be able to drink blood without worrying about human eyes, without having to pretend to eat food I can’t digest, without having to maintain the mask of humanity for hours.
The private room is perfect—intimate and elegant, with a single table set for two. Candles flicker on every surface, casting warm light that makes Talulla’s skin glow. There are two bottles on the table—one of blood, one of wine.
I help her sit down, and she looks at the table, her eyes widening. “Is that—”
“Blood? Yes, yes it is.” I pick up the second bottle and pour a crimson liquid into her glass. “And red wine for you, my love.”
“Thank you,” she replies, but her focus is on the bottle of blood.
She’s watching me. I can feel her eyes tracking my movements as I pour some into a glass, as I bring it to my lips, as I take a sip.
The blood is good, my preferred type, from a donor who was well-compensated and completely willing. It tastes like copper and salt and life, and it satisfies the basic hunger, the need for sustenance.
But it’s not what I really want.
What I really want is sitting across from me, her pulse visible in her throat, her blood singing to me in a way that no donor ever has.
She’s asked me to drink from her many times. Every time, I’ve told her no. Because her blood would be intoxicating in ways I don’t even know, in ways I can’t predict. It would be heaven and addiction and possibly my complete undoing.
I want to break. Every. Single. Day.
I want to indulge in her, to taste what heaven feels like, to know her in the most intimate way a vampire can know someone.
But not before she chooses to stay with me. Not before she knows everything about me—the good, the bad, the terrible. Not before she knows about my father, about the threats, about the darkness that follows me everywhere I go.
Not before she’s truly, completely, irrevocably mine.
A waiter comes in and tells us about the menu for the night. Talulla nods and waits for him to leave before speaking. “Aren’t you worried he could go off and tell his boss about—”
“No one will find us, Talulla. We’re completely secure here.” Marcus owes me several favors, and he knows better than to betray my trust. “This restaurant caters to our kind. Everyone here is either supernatural or knows about us. You’re safe.”
She relaxes at my words, her shoulders dropping, her scent losing that edge of anxiety. But something still bothers her. I can see it in the way she’s holding herself, in the way her eyes keep darting to the door.
The feeling of being watched. Constantly. I know it eats her alive.
“You’re right,” she says, grabbing her glass and taking a sip of the red liquid.
We talk through dinner—about her first day, about the artifacts she’s working on, about Carl Evans and his enthusiasm for Mesopotamian history. She’s animated when she talks about work, her eyes bright, her hands gesturing as she describes the cylinder seals and cuneiform tablets.
This is who she was meant to be. Not a hunter. Not a weapon. A scholar. A researcher. Someone who preserves history instead of making it through violence.
“Was your first day good, at least?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“It was. I’m sorry I was late.”
“Not a problem,” I say, keeping a cold stare for dramatic effect. “I’d like to meet your boss though.”
“That is unnecessary.”