I clap him on the back. “I don’t mind doing that.”
He grins. “I hoped you would say that.”
I gather my mixers as an ugly suspicion grows in my head. “Hey, Malach. In your study of English, did you ever run across the expression ‘weaponized incompetence?’”
He considers that, laughs out loud, then winks at me. “Never.”
That son of a bitch! Shaking my head, I focus on the drinks and hide my smile.
I have to get creative with Alistair’s Blood Tide, since Celine doesn’t keep all the ingredients I stock at the Fang, but I get close. Glancing at the back of Ali’s head, I drag a knife across the top of my forearm, then twist to let the blood drip into his drink. The first drop has barely fallen when he pins me against the cabinets.
“What happened?” he demands. “Did you cut yourself?” I was expecting the sting of fangs in my neck or arm, but his frantic concern takes me off guard.
“Yeah”—I clear my throat—“on purpose, and you’re wasting it.”
Gently, I reach around him to continue transferring blood from my vein to his drink. Once it’s the color I want, I hold my arm over a spare glass and add a few shots of blood to it. If we’re watching a movie, he’ll want a refill.
Satisfied, I present the faintly throbbing cut to him. “Do you mind?”
Without taking his eyes off me, Alistair licks my arm to close the wound. I shiver and open my mouth to tell him to quit hovering. I don’t get the chance.
Ali drops his head to kiss me, groaning against my lips.
I can taste his bewilderment. He licks into my mouth, then drops his lips to my neck, devouring the spot beneath my ear like he’s never tasted anything better. The possessive glide of histongue is sexy, and I’m obsessed with the way it feels to be the focus of his intensity.
Running my thumb over his throat, I pull back and grin. “Better?”
He nods, still sullen as fuck, so I kiss him again before pushing him out of my way to finish the drinks. A glass of merlot for Celine, a fruity vodka-based monstrosity for Ciprian, Alistair’s freshly sourced Blood Tide, and two domestic beers for Malach and I.
The overgrown angel adores beer, and I’ve grown used to ending the day with the twin clinks of our bottle caps hitting the kitchen counter.
“You’re wonderful, Luca.” Celine breezes into the kitchen with swollen lips, her skin pink from the hot shower. Even scrubbed clean, she smells amazing.
I kiss her, then hand Ciprian his drink.
He takes one sip, glances at me, snorts, and leans in to poke the side of my neck, eyes dancing with mischief. “He did it again.”
Groaning, I roll my eyes. “Godsdammit, Ali—I told you before, no hickeys.”
“What if I said it was an accident?” Alistair’s answering grin is confident and unapologetic. Seeing the tips of his fangs hanging over his lower lip makes me shiver.
Celine snorts. “Then I’d be forced to call you a liar.” She picks my arm up to examine the healing cut and raises her eyebrows. “Although I’m not surprised.”
“Why?” I ask. “Are you saying you’ll be tempted to give me a hickey every time I hurt myself? Should I start wearing turtlenecks around you all?” I fake a dramatic shudder.
“If you sliced yourself up to make me my favorite drink, I’d want to leave my mark on you too.” Celine winks at me, then takes a deep sip of her wine and heads for the couch.
Ciprian follows her, but Alistair doesn’t take hiseyes off me. He’s standing between the fridge and the counter, blocking my exit. To get past, I’ll have to move him.
Excitement rolls through me. Alistair’s attention hangs like a drunken dare between us, the kind of reckless enthusiasm you eventually outgrow, until one day it’s so far beyond reach you can barely remember the feeling.
“You’re standing in my way,” I say, my voice coming out raspier than intended.
“Am I?” Alistair pulls the corner of his bottom lip into his mouth. I’ve never seen him do that before—Wait... He’s mirroring me. I release my lip ring and grin.Bring it on, Ali.
I shift to the right. He does too.
Then the left.
