Since Celine’s fight is over, there’s no reason for me to hang around any longer. Whistling cheerfully, I push past drunk witches and rowdy shifters, reaching the exit with no problems.
The stars wink down at me, so bright that I can see them over the blinding city lights.
I kick a mangled aluminum can, dribbling the trash all the way to the spot where I street-parked my SUV, pleased to see it hasn’t been stolen or keyed. I press the button to unlock it and squeeze the handle. Tonight went super well. After I get them used to seeing me around again?—
My face smacks the roof of the car, nose first.
Someone wrenches my arm behind my back.
I try to break their hold but they’re too strong. I scramble for my magic. I’m about to make whoever decided to touch me without permission run for the hills when I catch her scent and groan. “Hot wings, I thought you’d never find me.”
Celine grabs my hair, yanks my head back, and drives my face into the roof of the car again. It barely hurts. She’s being careful.
“Quit fucking with me,” she hisses. “I can’t waste time worrying about who’s hiding behind every face when my dad could attack at any minute.”
I frown. “Celine, I didn’t mean to scare you, I just wanted to?—”
“Play your stupid fucking mind games, I know.”
“Make sure you didn’t forget about me,” I admit, cringing into the cool metal of the roof at how pathetic that sounds. Her grip on my hair loosens, and the warmth of her body disappears a heartbeat later.
I spin to face her, relieved to see she hasn’t left yet. She’s standing across from me, arms crossed tightly over her chest.
“I don’t want to play,” Celine says.
“Are you sure?” I ask quietly but without any bullshit. “Everyone deserves games sometimes. Shit gets too serious without them.”Let me make you laugh. Please.Her face closes off, and she backs up a step. My stomach flips. Like always, I’ve said the wrong thing.
“Maybe that’s true at the enclave,” Celine says. “But the rest of us don’t have that luxury.”
She leaves me leaning against my car, heart pounding out of my chest.
I wait until she turns the corner and groan. “You were magnificent tonight,” I whisper. “Please forgive me.” Then I get into my car and drive back to my lonely apartment.
It’s time to make a new plan.
FOURTEEN
Unspoken rule of the Fringes #76:
Broken glass means trouble.
ALISTAIR
It’s times like this—when the sun forces me indoors like a rat in a trap—that I’m the angriest. Each twenty-four-hour stretch brings with it the same familiar torment. Unable to feel heat on my face during the day... Without Celine’s touch, the night holds no comfort for me either. I get a few short hours in her orbit before she slips away from me under the cover of dawn, leaving me to brood in my apartment alone.
I thought if I gave her time to consider my apology and cool off, she would come around. But if her anger is cooling, it’s also hardening—into an unbreakable crust, something I could spend a lifetime chiseling away at but never penetrate.
My angel is content pretending she never let me touch her. It’s horrible. And it’s not working for me anymore.
Tired of my own shitty company, I yank the refrigerator door open and select a bag of blood. Tossing the stopper on the counter,I bring the nozzle to my mouth, suck, swallow, and immediately gag.
It tastes like a garbage bag stuffed with rotting meat smells after a day in the sun. Eyes watering, I spit the blood into the sink and watch it trickle down the stainless-steel walls and slowly circle the drain.
Cautiously, I sniff the bag, then freeze.How strange. There’s no obvious stink. I’ve never found the flavor of cold blood gross before, but maybe my taste buds have decided to be fussy.
Resigning myself to the extra work, I get a ceramic cup from the cabinet, fill it, then put it in the microwave and wait. Forty-five seconds later, I give it a stir, then pop it back in for another fifteen.
Once it’s done, the blood should be close enough to body temperature that I can close my eyes while I drink it and pretend my fangs are buried in Celine’s throat while she rides my cock.
