Chapter 19
NINETEEN
A supernatural instinct ignored too long will become someone else’s problem.
CELINE
Working the pole is more of a penance tonight than anything else. My body hurts. Each muscle screams at me to cut it some slack. Internally, I scream back, reminding them they only get to feel sore because they aren’t rotting in a shallow grave.
Dad’s killers are here. Like a breeze against my skin, I feel it. They’re coming for me. I’ll have to kill them all. Sore muscles or not.
My grip falters, and I drop a foot down the pole. A few guys clustered around the stage gasp, but I catch myself before I hit the ground. That draws a few scattered claps—good, they think I did it on purpose. That’s better than everyone here knowing I’m too tired to work the pole.
My song ends, and I force myself to bend and pick up the loose cash, groaning quietly. There’s no way this is sexy. I feel about two hundred years old.
I hobble off stage, skirt the main floor, and drag myself directly to the bar.
Luca hands me a water bottle. I consider rolling it over my aching joints, but that would send a weak message. What I need is something to take the edge off. Leaning against the bar, I do my best to look natural.
“Tequila,” I say, sipping the cool water slowly. “Can you pour me a double shot?”
Luca raises one eyebrow and checks me over from head to toe.
I wait for him to offer solutions I didn’t ask for. He’ll tell me to rest or suggest I skip my next set and do a floor routine instead . . . I’m so primed to argue that I wilt when he scoops ice into a cup—four cubes, exactly how I like it—and fills it to the brim with top-shelf tequila.
“I’m rattled,” he tells me, glancing around to make sure no one is within earshot. “Can we watch a few episodes of that crazy island dating show when we get home?”
I haven’t thought about that show in weeks, but the idea of collapsing on the couch with him and distracting myself from everything sounds so euphoric I moan.
“Is that a yes?” Luca asks, his crooked grin startling the butterflies in my stomach.
I toss my head back and down the tequila. An ice cube bumps my upper lip, cold and soothing—the perfect contrast to the burn of the liquor as it crashes down my throat.
“You’ve got yourself a date,” I say, leaning over the bar to kiss him.
It’s a spontaneous decision. Strippers typically don’t kiss their boyfriends fifteen feet from the main stage. It isn’t good marketing. I’m selling a fantasy, like Malach said, and if I remove the illusion of availability . . .
“Only a couple of people saw,” Luca says, correctly reading my expression. “I’ll come find you during my break.”
He smirks, and the familiar playful expression melts some of my worry.
I love both sides of Luca—the one who respects my boundaries, and the one who accommodates nothing but the raspy screams he tears from me while he fucks me.
My libido lifts its head speculatively, and I hand off my empty glass and push it down. Now is not the time to get horny.
The music pounds around me, and I drag my tired feet down the hall toward the employees-only spaces. Inside the dressing room, the girls giggle as they change.
I smile, but duck into the storage room instead.
If I join them, they’ll know something is wrong and ask questions.
I can’t tell them the truth for their own safety, and the pain of lying to them would drive me to my knees—my magic would make sure of that.
Avoidance is my best option. I wish it didn’t sting so much.
Keeping my distance has shown me how important my friends at the Fang are to me.
Sighing, I close the door behind me and freeze. I’m not alone.
I cock one hip and raise my chin, ignoring how the extra weight on the ball of my left foot makes me want to lop it off and throw it at his fucking head. “You look like shit,” I say, running my eyes over him.
I’m not just being bitchy; Alistair really does look terrible. His blue eyes are sunken, and his pale skin somehow skipped porcelain and went straight to corpse white.
“And you’re beautiful, as always,” he says, something wild flickering across his face.
I narrow my eyes. His voice sounds like he hasn’t cleared his throat in a decade, but why do I even care? Alistair isn’t my problem. He never was.
“There’s no reason to flatter me,” I say. “You got what you wanted. Do us both a favor and stop pretending.”
Alistair sits down on a wooden crate, and I settle sullenly on the one across from him. I feel cheated by his appearance. He isn’t struggling because of me—and I want him punished at my hands or no one’s.
“We were good together,” he says, his eyes raking over my legs.
I bite back everything I want to say. Alistair has no right to look at me as if he’s starving.
Not anymore. I’ve tolerated him showing up at my fights because I can’t stop him and he introduced me to Resker, but he doesn’t get to sneak around the Fang acting pitiful.
The “we” he throws around so casually is broken. He did that all on his own.
I let my knees fall open—punishing and testing him at the same time. My inner thighs wail in relief, and I laugh out loud. “Of course we were good together,” I say. “We’re both hot and great in bed. Why wouldn’t the sex be awesome?”
“It was more than that,” Alistair snaps.
“Maybe to you . . .” I shrug, being careful to trail off before my magic can call me a liar. “For a dildo and a slut, we did exactly what we were designed to do: fuck and come.”
Alistair winces, and I smile. Luca told me to take my power back. I doubt he meant this, but when you give vague advice, you should expect creative liberties to be taken. I’m sore and tired. If I want to see how far I can push Alistair to cheer myself up, I will.
I spread my legs wider and massage my right inner thigh.
Alistair grabs the edges of his crate and scoots closer. My green bodysuit is sheer. He can see right through it, and he’s not pretending to look anywhere else.
My pulse jumps, and I fake a yawn as I drop my legs open fully. The fabric shifts against my pussy. It’s irritating, confining, and I want someone—not Alistair—to tear it off me.
“You seem to be missing your dildo, angel,” he whispers.
My eyes lift to his, and my body comes alive under his stare, every nerve singing with anticipation. The magnetism between us is unreal, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
I want Alistair to beg to touch me.
I want him to crawl for me.
Maybe then I’ll be able to forget what he said.
“Dildos wear out,” I say, deliberately skating my thumb over the crotch of my bodysuit. My nerves light up, then sputter with disappointment when the erotic touch stops. Who am I teasing? Him or me?
Alistair’s gaze collides with mine. The naked hunger . . .
“Please,” he hisses, palming the outline of his hard cock.
I smile, soaking in his desperation. There’s no better revenge than giving him a taste of what he threw away. Deliberately nonchalant, I lean back, my lower half liquefying under the heat of his stare.
“No biting. No kissing on the mouth. No being nice,” I say, showing him the angry angel behind the sexy act. “If I allow you to fuck me again, you don’t get to play pretend.”
“But—”
“Take it or leave it, Alistair. You won’t get another chance.”
He drops to his knees on the concrete floor and inches toward me at a glacial pace. My leg muscles burn. I order them not to tremble under the strain of my wide stance.
Alistair runs his fingers up the inside of my knee, then digs his thumb into the aching muscle of my inner thigh.
I wince and recoil. He eases the pressure.
“You’re sore,” he says.
Angry that he noticed and angrier that I gave him a reaction, I scoff. “Do you like it when I flinch away from you?”
Alistair digs his thumb into my other thigh, working the muscle almost savagely. I manage to hide my reaction . . . barely. But when he presses both thumbs in at the same time, a groan escapes my parted lips. Damn him.
“I like making you notice me—especially when you don’t want to. I like leaving marks on you that you can’t wash off or explain.” He presses my legs wider, and I bite my lip. “And I like helping you push your limits.”
“Be honest,” I say. “You like breaking me down.”
Alistair shakes his head; his stare fixed on my legs and says, “I like that you can’t be broken.” He slips his right hand over my pussy, dragging the damp fabric to the side and working two fingers inside me. “I like that you fight me every step of the way.”
He releases the pressure on my left leg, ending the painful stretch. The relief is euphoric, and my hips rock greedily toward him, eager for more.
“I’ll always fight you,” I snarl, dropping my fingers to rub my clit.
For a second—just a second—I remember the last time I touched myself like this.
The skin of Alistair’s belly was pink from the healing sword wound.
He was pale and exhausted, and I wanted to make him forget the pain.
I climbed on top of him and fucked him slow and quiet while wearing that stupid T-shirt he cut holes in to accommodate my wings.
The same one still hiding in my bottom drawer.
The same one I can’t bring myself to throw away.
It scared the shit out of me then, but remembering now hurts.
Part of me wishes that had been the last time. That he was the one who stayed broken and soft, instead of transferring that vulnerability to me and using it to tear me apart.
Alistair watches me touch myself, transfixed by the sight, then slaps my wrist away. “Lean back on your hands,” he orders.
I narrow my eyes and lean forward instead, daring him to boss me around again.
His eyes flash red, and the tips of his fangs peek past his lower lip as he smiles. “If you need me to stop or slow down, all you have to do is tell me.”
“I won’t,” I assure him, my words clipped.