The collar is a lie.
The mark is not.
I repeat that truth with every step through the dark Brooklyn street toward The Marrow House.It’s the only thing keeping my beast from tearing through my skin and dragging her back to The Gin Room or her apartment, where the walls are warded, the doors are locked, and everyone inside knows better than to touch what she has chosen to give me.
Not what belongs to me.What she has chosen.There’s a difference.A very fucking vital one.My beast is learning it.Slowly.Painfully.But he is learning.
The night is cold enough that her breath fogs in front of her.The slit in her black velvet dress moves around her thigh with each step, giving me brief glimpses of the knife strapped there.Her hand rests in mine, freely, with no hesitation.No flinch when my thumb brushes over her knuckles.
That tiny thing nearly destroys me every time.She chose my touch.She chose my mark.She chose me.And tonight, she walks into a vampire blood club wearing a false collar because the monsters inside still believe they can make her kneel.
They are going to be very disappointed.
“You’re growling,” she says.Her voice is quiet, but a thread of warmth runs through it, brushing the bond between us.
I force the sound in my chest to stop.“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.I’m not.”
Her mouth curves, and the sight hits the bond like a spark to oil.Want moves through me, hot and sudden.Memories follow ...her body beneath mine, her hands on my face, her voice trembling around the word yes, and the way she fell asleep in my arms after marking me back.
I feel her answering heat through the bond.Faint and startled but real.
She glances up at me, cheeks flushed beneath the streetlights.“Now is a terrible time for that.”
“Most definitely.”
“Are you going to stop?”
“I’m trying.”
Her fingers tighten around mine.“Good monster.”
My entire body goes rigid.
Briana’s lips part, and the bond fills with a flash of wicked satisfaction that doesn’t help my restraint.
“You shouldn’t say that to me in public,” I say.
“Noted.”She tries to hide her smile, but I see it.
“You’re lying,” I accuse lowly.
“Yes, I am.”
Goddess help me.This woman is going to be the death of me.
****
Ahead of us, the oldtheater waits between two warehouses like something dead pretending to sleep.The marquee is dark, the windows are boarded, and the brick is stained black from old fires and older sins.
But there’s a red door beneath the broken awning that looks freshly painted.
Crimson Door.
I roll my eyes.Subtlety is clearly not their strong suit.
