“Hot,” a voice says. “And appropriately violent. Any chance you two can postpone the hate fuck for a few minutes, though? We’re in a situation.”
My eyes fly open.
Ciprian closes the door behind himself and locks it—securing all three deadbolts before he faces us. Alistair pulls away from me, horror and hunger flickering across his face before he smooths the expression into something blank.
“I’ll kill you, Casanell,” he says, his voice a ripple of pure menace.
“Of course.” Ciprian rolls his eyes. “You can issue as many death threats as you want if we can fast forward to the part where I convince you I’m suitably intimidated. We’ve got bigger problems.”
“There is no we,” I remind him, wiping the back of my handover my lips. It does nothing to erase Alistair’s taste from my mouth.
“I’m sorry, hot wings.” Ciprian’s black eyes snap to me. “I forgot to account for your pathological need to remind everyone you’re an island who needs no one. Consider me put in my place, then kindly shut the fuck up and listen for once!”
“Don’t talk to her like that,” Alistair growls, his voice barely recognizable.
That terrible night at the Fang flashes through my head. Alistair yelling at me; Ciprian calling him out for it. They’ve swapped roles, and I’m still miserable.
Ciprian’s eyes never leave mine, and I shiver. Alistair is dangerous—everyone knows that. Ignoring him is a simple way to communicate that you’re just as dangerous. It’s a hair’s breadth away from an outright challenge.
“One of your neighbors reported you to the enclave,” Ciprian says. “I’m supposed to take care of you now.”
My blood chills, and I brace my hands on the counter.
This is the moment Ciprian’s been waiting for. He’ll punish me for Roscoe’s death and the fiasco with the angels, and no one will question it. After all, we created a loud, dramatic incident. If a human heard or saw anything, the entire supernatural community would be at risk.
My heart sinks. We’ll have to kill Ciprian and run. Then it will be a race to see who catches me first: my father’s assassins or the enclave.
Blood drips from the ball of my foot to the tile floor, mocking me for how badly I’ve fucked up. Alistair’s gaze snaps to the growing red puddle and stays there. I frown and unspool a paper towel, pressing it against the cut to help it clot.
Ciprian begins to pace. “So completely fucked,” he mutters. “I knew they would be trouble, but this is godsdamned catastrophic. Dad’s going to be an absolute cuntabout it too.”
He glances at the couch and freezes as he spots Luca. Guilt swamps me. I should have checked on him immediately, but instead I prioritized making out with Alistair. What is wrong with me? This is a dream. It’s got to be. The worst kind—where I make all the wrong decisions. I’m going to wake up any minute.
“What the fuck did you do to him?” Ciprian looks at me in horror. “He’s a basilisk, not a ghost. Did you get hungry?” He directs the last question at Alistair, who blinks and reluctantly tears his eyes away from the bloody tile.
“I just got here,” Alistair says. He’s so outraged, it would be funny under almost any other circumstances. “I haven’t touched Luca.”
“Well, someone should!” Ciprian tosses his hands in the air. “There’s obviously something wrong with him.”
Malach strides into the room, the first aid kit woefully small and inadequate in his huge hands. “I retrieved your box of healing.”
Ciprian snorts and drops to his knees beside the couch. “Toss me Celine’s box of healing, big guy.” The euphemism breaks through my foggy thoughts like nothing else has, and I rush to the couch and press two fingers to Luca’s neck.
His pulse is strong, but Ciprian is right: there’s something wrong.
“My name is Malach.”
“I know that.”
“If you try to kill me while my back is turned, I’ll let Alistair eat you,” I threaten Ciprian, ignoring his exchange with Malach.
Ciprian snorts. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, babe. You forget he’s taken a bite out of me before, and I liked it. A lot.”
Frozen near the counter, Alistair doesn’t respond to Ciprian’s joke.
I frown. Ciprian bends over Luca but shifts his gaze deliberatelytoward Alistair. “Something is up with him,” he whispers. “Have you noticed?”
Have I noticed? I’m not sure. Alistair and I aren’t on good terms. We’re allies and fuck buddies at most. He wants things to go back to the way they were, and I... don’t have the first clue how to forgive him.
