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More tests. They never ended when the Tricking was leeching your life away.
“Where you going?” Malakai asked, leaning forward to put his elbows on his knees.
“I’m meeting Loren.”
Malakai frowned. “I passed her in the hallway.”
“Did she look okay?” He hoped he wasn’t too late.
“I guess so. I don’t think she saw me.” Malakai studied him, the emotions on his face impossible to read. “Some guy was with her.”
Darien didn’t get punched very often, but he was well aware of what it felt like—and Malakai’s statement was like a fist to the gut. Suddenly, he couldn’t draw air, but he managed to use what was left in his lungs to bite out one word that was as empty as his head suddenly felt.
“What?”
—
Loren’s heart thrummed, each separate beat blending into one, making her feel dizzy and sick. She knew her feelings had less to do with the tattoo procedure and more to do with the person lounging on a stool at her side, in the spot where Darien should’ve been.
Thank the Star it wasn’t Doctor Atlas this time. Instead, it was a young nurse doing an extra careful job of refreshing her ink, prolonging the pain for accuracy. Loren would take it this time, would grin and bear it. The last thing her relationship needed was for Darien to find out she was getting this procedure done without him, another man sitting in his spot beside the examination table, only here right now because they would be meeting the imperator as soon as they were done.
Klay was different than Darien. He didn’t once offer her any words of comfort or even a pat on the shoulder, not that she wanted him to give her any of that. If he’d tried, she would’ve smacked him in the face. He wasn’t here for her, he was here for his dad, and it showed in the way he swiveled his stool back and forth, eyes drifting to the ceiling. Loren kept half-expecting him to say, “Are we done yet?” like a ten-year-old whining to his parents.
“You know you didn’t have to come with,” she said, wincing as the iridescent ink bonded to her bloodstream. It spread beneath her skin like acid, her free hand crumpling the crepe paper on the table. The sound brought back an onslaught of memories of how she’d felt the last time she’d had this done, when Darien had stepped forward and taken her hand into both of his. Back when she’d first felt that electric current coursing between them, a wonderful feeling that was both wildly addicting and wholly satisfying, like finding something she’d spent her whole life looking for without knowing what it was.
“Are you kidding?” Klay tipped back the stool, hands behind his head, teetering precariously on one wheel as he studied the textured ceiling. “I’m having a great time. This is loads of fun. No place I’d rather be.” Mister Stares A Lot had a new nickname, and it was Mister Sarcasm. Loren pictured that stool crashing to the ground, his stupid ass falling with it. Maybe he’d break it on the way down, along with his stupid face.
Loren drew a hiss in through her teeth as the nurse colored in the last of the tattoo, the ink lighting up her forearm with neon pastels.
In her peripheral vision, Loren saw Klay look toward the door.
And then he was lunging forward and grabbing her hand, his fingers lacing with hers.
Her head whipped in Klay’s direction. “What are you doing?”
Before he had a chance to speak, and before she could pull her fingers free of his too-tight grasp, she caught sight of who was standing in the doorway, looking very much like a shadow of death.
“Am I interrupting something?” Darien’s deep voice floated through the room, and although it was calm, Loren knew him well enough to sense an undercurrent of ire.
Crap. This was not supposed to happen.
Loren tried to yank her hand free of Klay’s squeezing fingers, one of her knuckles cracking with the attempt. “Let go, you imbecile!” When he finally released her, she held that hand out for Darien instead.
She tried to see what Klay was seeing in that moment, and smug pride spread through her, filling her heart up like a balloon.
The midnight-black hair, the face that was as handsome as it was frightening in its intensity, the black leather jacket with zippers and the odd patch of ancient symbols, the black cargo pants and boots that had walked places where most people wouldn’t dare, the tattoos on his scarred hands and knuckles—and, of course, the small one below his ear that let people know precisely how dangerous he was.
The Darkslayer headed for Klay, footsteps pounding. He propped a boot on the stool base and pushed Klay several feet away from the examination table, wheels squealing.
“What’s your name?” Darien demanded, his tone far from polite as he positioned himself between Loren and Klay, his broad back blocking her view.
Klay answered immediately, his tone stiff but not rude. A wise decision. “Klay.”
Loren reached for Darien, her fingers closing around the worn leather of his sleeve, but he didn’t turn.
“Do you know who I am?” he said to Klay.
“Yup.”
