And yet I’m barely able to walk away from the promise of more. I lick my lips, engaging in a staring contest with an inanimate object as I try to decide what to do. This isn’t my home. And as much as I want to step forward and pull a bag from the fridge, I’m not sure the protocol for feeding here, if there’s some sort of ration or expectation for taking from their stock.
But I’m too weak to fight it. And the longer I stand here, the more I feel my body leaning in, incapable of denying the magnetic pull.
A grunt from somewhere behind me pulls me from the trance and I stumble forward, whipping around as I nearly collide with the fridge. Zeke is behind me, in a dangerously low-sitting pair of sweatpants and nothing else.
“You’re up.”
It’s not a question but a statement as he looks me up and down, before stalking past me into the kitchen. He moves soundlessly over to the coffee pot, filling it with water and flipping the switch. As it whirs to life, he turns to face me, leaning back against the counter.
“So I guess the Angel’s Trumpet worked.” Again, not a question.
I rub my hand awkwardly over the outside of my arm, hugging my middle, suddenly dangerously conscious of the fact that the only thing I'm wearing is Quinn’s oversized white T-shirt. “No, actually,” I force myself to say after a painfully quiet moment. “But I wanted to thank you, nonetheless. Aamon told me it was you who figured out how to get it to Laurel for me. I don’t know how you did it, but—”
“What do you mean it didn’t work?” His voice is low, irritated, and I swallow around the lump in my throat. His gaze is so intense, those icy blue eyes penetrating me to the core. “You’re here, aren’t you? If it didn’t work, then how are you vertical right now?”
“I, uh—” I stammer over my words, my eyes flicking back to the fridge for a momentary reprieve from his. The scent of the blood is near blinding.
He must catch the motion, because his head tips back, his nostrils flaring as he inhales.
“Aamon, he . . . turned me,” I offer at last. But even as I say it, I can tell I don’t need to. He’s already sensing the difference in me. The full presence of the Arcane, along with Aamon and Quinn’s bond, most likely.
His muscles tighten, his shoulders going taut as he lowers his disparaging gaze on me. If it was possible for those eyes to grow colder, I think they would have. “He did what now?”
“There weren't a lot of options that would have worked,” I rush to say, not wanting to anger him. “My father has spent years formulating a treatment that actually suppresses the Arcane. Aamon’s only choice was to offer his blood in hopes—”
Zeke holds up a hand, cutting me off. “I understand. And I’d prefer not to hear the dirty details.” He turns to the cupboard, grabbing two mugs and slamming them down on the countertop with so much force I’m shocked they don’t break.
“Are you mad?” I ask, tentatively stepping forward. Out of all four of the males, I’ve spent the least amount of time with Zeke. And perhaps it was wishful thinking, but when Quinn and Aamon had filled me in on my time away, I’d felt the smallest spark of hope that maybe Zeke’s gracious offering was an opportunity for us to finally connect.
“No,” he growls, pulling the coffee pot from the burner and filling both mugs.
“Oh, I’m actually good,” I say, not wanting to be more trouble than I apparently already am.
He cuts me a sidelong glance, sneering in the most disgusted manner possible. “It’s not for you. It’s for Sterling.”
I cringe. I should have known that. The male is standing before me, revolting at my mere presence in the kitchen with him. Why would he be making me a cup of coffee? “I was actually hoping to speak with Sterling, if he’s around?”I hope the request is enough to gracefully move past my blunder.
Zeke sighs, setting down the coffee pot. “He’s sleeping. He came to my room, rather distraught, this morning. I had to give him a sleeping draught from Laurel to get him to calm down.”
My heart sinks, and I step forward again, ignoring the way he bristles. “Is he okay?”
“Aside from being scared shitless that his new favorite toy almost died? Yeah, he’s peachy.”
No, no, no. I turn, looking down the hallway leading to Zeke’s room. I need to see him, need to reassure him that everything is okay. He was by my side when I awoke last night, but I’d barely been able to talk to him before Laurel insisted they give Aamon a moment alone to explain what had happened. And everything had just spiraled from there.
“Leave him be,” Zeke orders. And when I turn around to face him, he’s stepping towards me with the cups of coffee in his hands. “He’s spent enough time being tormented over you. Meanwhile, you’re not even the least bit bothered to check in. Too busy fucking his friends, from the smell of it.”
“That’s not what happened,” I argue. But isn’t it? I hadn’t even thought to check in with Sterling last night. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to remember how things happened so quickly.
Zeke huffs. “Five seconds with Aamon’s blood running through your system and you’re a slave to him. Incapable of thinking for yourself, let alone about anyone else.”
I narrow my eyes, refusing to back down from his wrath. “What did I ever do to you, Zeke? Why do you hate me so much?”
Zeke scoffs, rolling his eyes.
“Is it because of Sterling?” I press, stepping closer towards him.
His face bristles, his jaw hardening. “You don’t know anything,Angel.”And while the nickname they favor has been sarcastic from the start, it feels like more than that on his lips. Like a curse—a threat.
