"So now you've both come to cause trouble in my bar?" Winston asks, appearing with a rag tossed over his shoulder, giving them that practiced bartender glare.
"Double trouble," Kayden replies, flashing teeth. "One's more trouble than the other, but you knew that."
Winston huffs. "Rules still apply. No drama, no mess. And if you get banned, there's no coming back. Keep your hands—and other parts—off my barmaid."
With that, he wanders off to greet someone who's just walked in. But not before giving Kayden a warning glance sharp enough to slice leather.
I turn back to Kayden. "Don't get me fired. I mean it."
He brings his palms together like he's praying to every god in existence. "I swear on my brother's life, I'll behave."
Asher snorts. "That's not exactly comforting."
I laugh—really laugh—and it surprises me how easy it comes. It's starting to feel… right. Comfortable. Too comfortable, maybe.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Sage
Two more nights working atCole's. No trouble, just banter, music, and decent tips. Not enough to buy a car, of course, so Kayden drives me home again. Asher's out with Astrid on some business I don't ask about.
Kayden is focused on the road, expression more serious than usual. I pretend to be interested in what's outside the window.
Neither of us mentions that the druid is coming tomorrow.
Technically, that makes tonight my last one here.
Technically.
We haven't talked about it. But the silence in the car says everything. It's not the comfortable kind, but heavy with everything unsaid.
When we step inside the house, Kayden's hand catches my wrist, fingers warm and firm. "Are you tired?" he asks, his voice low. "Or would you have a glass with me?"
I am tired. Bone tired. But something in the way he asks—like he needs it—makes me want to say yes.
"Sure," I say softly. "But no beer or whiskey. I've been inhaling those fumes all night. Wine. Red, if you have it."
He grins, the smirk returning like muscle memory. "Classy. Red it is. I'll join you. Glasses are in the top cupboard. I'll grab the wine from the cellar."
He disappears. I grab two dusty glasses and start rinsing them in the sink. The water is lukewarm, the house quiet. It feels domestic and peaceful.
Then I hear his footsteps again. I turn to see him holding up two bottles.
"Cabernet Sauvignon or Merlot," he offers. "Or both."
I smile faintly, but the moment breaks as I fumble a glass, wet fingers slipping. It shatters against the edge of the sink.
"Shit," I mutter.
Pain slices through my palm, sudden and white-hot. A shard must've cut deep. Blood rushes out in fast, red ribbons. I curse again and clamp my other hand over it.
"Damn it. This might need stitches."
Then—
Another crash.
I turn. Both wine bottles lie shattered on the tile, their contents bleeding into a dark red pool at Kayden's feet. But it's not the wine I'm worried about, it's his eyes—dark and dilated. His fangs are fully dropped, glinting faintly in the dim light.
