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I craned my neck. “What are you doing?”
“Tea. What do you want?”
“Well, the folder is—”
He sighed. “I meant, what kind of tea do you want?”
“Chamomile, please. Add vanilla and honey.”
“You got it.”
My eyebrows rose. Wild how much he and Kiara shared as far as phrases, yet funny how distant they were in both style and demeanor. Kiara was a bright and sweet young woman, while Eric was a hovering tank with a chip on his shoulder.
I slouched forward, picking at my nails. What do you expect when the woman you love ditches you right during a war? Because she’s a spy. Because she’s unfit to be a parent. Because she’s—
A mug of hot tea appeared in front of my face, held by a gargantuan hand. Up close like this, Eric was easily six feet tall, maybe with an extra inch or two, and he had to bow toward me just to hold the tea near my face. I accepted the mug and cupped it between my hands, flushing when Eric drifted past me.
“Be right back.”
Thwack.
The folder landed on the cushion next to me. The papers were neatly tucked into the folder, organized. Somehow, in under three minutes flat, he had made tea and fixed up the information to be presentable. How long would it take him to get dressed? That had to be what he was doing. There was no way I could survive sitting on this couch with him in a towel.
Minutes later, Eric returned wearing a pair of dusty black jeans that hugged his muscles and bulge, along with a taut black t-shirt. He lifted the folder, sat next to me, and dropped the folder on his lap. “This intel is decent.”
“I’m a decent researcher.”
“Like your father.”
I hung my head, cradling the mug to my lips and nose. Warm wisps of steam tickled my cheeks and comforted me.
Eric sniffed and cleared his throat. “Uh, I’m sorry about that. Your father is…was…”
“It’s okay. We’re all just getting used to it, aren’t we?”
His hand joined my knee, a significant wave of heat swamping my entire body from such a kind offer. As his fingertips dug ever so gently into my flesh over my tie-die cotton skirt, I felt another sensation radiate from his palm, something that reminded me of the quickening sensation whenever I got aroused.
I closed my eyes. “Ander Méndez is a direct descendant of the First Bloodline. His current clan location is Athens, Georgia, so that’s where we have to go.”
“Southern Vampires are finicky.”
“At least it’s an area we know and understand.”
He cast me a sidelong glance. “You make it sound like it’s going to be easy.”
I focused on his expression, the tight intensity of his passion. He really didn’t like vampires. At all.
I nodded. “It should be relatively quick and easy, yes.”
He snorted, retracted his hand, and returned to the folder on his lap. He lifted one of the pages, a mugshot from 1914 of Ander himself wearing a smug grin and holding up a placard with his name on it. “This kid is nothing but mischief. Have you seen this rap sheet?” He tossed the page aside to look at the one beneath. “Arson, arson, armed robbery, assault and battery, resisting arrest, arson, arson, and—oh, look, it’s arson.”
I huffed out of annoyance, but I was equally entertained. Vampires didn’t intimidate me in the least, mostly because I kept some silver around to protect myself. If that didn’t work, the silver saline solution in a pressurized bottle would be as good as deadly on any invasive vampire eyes.
After a light sip of my tea, I hummed with delight and set it on the coffee table in front of me. “Someone is traumatized.”
“You’re too young to remember the deadlier parts of the war, Regina.”
“You have no idea what it’s like for witches during supernatural wars, do you?”
