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“Don’t worry. I’m burning up inside, so it’s the perfect challenge.”
He had a feeling someone was watching him, and he had a pretty solid idea who it was. But he didn’t turn. The last thing he needed was for Christa to think he was looking at her for the wrong reasons.
They were halfway up the stairs when a dark blur lunged at him from the corner of his eye. A blur with a skull-like head, double rows of serrated teeth, and nothing but slits for a nose.
Darien drew in a strangled breath as he lost his footing on the step, nearly falling backward. His hand fumbled for a weapon, but it wouldn’t cooperate. Gravity sucked him into its grip.
Ivy grabbed hold of his arm, catching him right on time. “Darien,” she tried, her voice echoing. She steadied him on the step, angling herself so she was facing him, both of her hands gripping his arm now. “Darien! Shit.” He was still teetering backward.
He was breathing so heavily, every inhalation was a gasp. It was so hot in here, he was sweating, and that thing…the creature—
“Darien,” Ivy said again, pulling him steady. He was able to focus on her face this time, able to slow his breathing. “Are you okay?”
He tried to swallow, but his throat was suddenly parched. “I thought I saw something.” He looked at the wall, where he’d seen the dark shadow emerge, as if it were peeling itself free from the cement. He gestured with a hand that felt as unreliable as his mind. Gods, he was fucking shaking. What the hell. “There.”
Ivy followed his stare, but he could tell from the worried look on her face that she was seeing what he was now seeing—what he should’ve been seeing all along.
There was nothing there but a wall. No skull, no teeth, no pit-like eyes. Nothing but cement.
“Are you feeling okay?” Ivy hissed.
It was by instinct that he looked down at the bar. Had someone slipped something into his drink?
Ivy voiced his name again, calling him back to attention, hand outstretched toward him.
“I’m fine.” He smoothed his hair back and adjusted his shirt. Sweat prickled on his back and brow. “Let’s get out of here.” He hurried up the stairs, resisting the urge to look back, Ivy right beside him.
They were nearing the club doors when three men, all of them hellsehers, stepped in their path.
Darien stopped, hand hovering near Ivy, ready to pull her behind him at the first sign of danger.
“Darien,” said the one in the middle. A big guy who looked like he was married to the gym. He had cold eyes, a square chin, and coarse flaxen hair cut into a flat top, the style making his already boxy head look boxier. “Got a minute?”
“No.” He didn’t like the looks of these guys; they were the kind of company his father would’ve kept.
The man smirked at his companions and straightened the lapels on his gray suit jacket. “My name is Gaven Payne.” He must’ve seen the look on Darien’s face, because he smirked again. “Now do you got a minute?”
—
In a small private room near the front doors of the club, Darien sat at a table across from Gaven Payne and his men. Ivy was seated at his right, her back ramrod straight. They’d both hoped for longer than a few weeks before Randal’s men came sniffing them out, but that was too much to ask for, it seemed.
Darien was the first to initiate conversation; he was tired of sitting in silence, tired of being gawked at and assessed, like a piece of meat. He kept his tone civil and low—something he knew his temper wouldn’t allow for long. “What can I help you with?”
“Business,” Gaven replied.
“That’s really fucking vague. Are you here to buy the club?”
“Actually, we’re here to buy you.”
“What is that supposed to mean? I don’t hook.”
“Shut up and let me explain, smartass.”
Just like that, Darien’s attempts at keeping this exchange civil went out the window. Now, he was seeing red. If this prick dared to speak to him like that again, this conversation would be over so fast, no one would see it coming. “Get on with it then and quit wasting my valuable time.”
“I take it you know who we are?”
“Gaven Payne-in-My-Fucking-Ass and cohorts. That’s all the introduction I need.”
