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“That’s my girl,” he said with no little pride. “And while it will go against every instinct in your body, you’ll need to pretend to be biddable.”
“Biddable?” Every syllable of the word left a bad taste.
At least he looked marginally apologetic. “It will be expected,” he said, “and we’ll attract less unwanted attention that way.”
“Why can’t you play biddable?”
His smile was pure Sullivan. “Because I’m the Master.”
I supposed I had that coming. “So, to review, you want me to play submissive Marilyn Monroe?”
Ethan paused. “That’s a loaded question with several appropriate answers.”
“Let’s focus on the one pertinent to this job.”
“You know what I’m asking, and why I’m asking it. And I’d like your word on it, Merit.”
I knew why he asked for my promise—not because he doubted me, but because he trusted me. Because he knew if someone threatened him, I’d step in.
“You know what you’re asking me to do,” I said.
“I do. And that’s why I’m asking you, instead of ordering you.”
It was a bitter pill to swallow, but I didn’t see that I had a choice. I batted my eyelashes, tried to Gratefully Condescend, as archaic vampire Canon required of Novitiates. “All right,” I said. “Anything else, my lord and Master?”
“Yes. Try not to use that tone.”
I couldn’t make any promises about that one.
CHAPTER EIGHT
EASY LOVER
There was no bouncer, no line of supernaturals behind a velvet rope. There was only a door, solid and metal.
We walked toward it, Ethan’s magic shifting around us as we moved. I was only a secondary recipient of his glamour—he wasn’t trying to make me do anything—but I could still feel the breadth of its undulating power. A powerful vampire was Ethan Sullivan.
He rapped on the door with the heel of his hand, two hard strikes. Five seconds passed, and a small panel slid open with the grating sound of metal on metal.
A man’s face appeared—pale skin, large eyes, and a flattened nose with a mole at one corner. If he was supernatural, I couldn’t tell. At least, not through the door. Other than Ethan’s, I couldn’t feel any magic at all, and I’d have expected plenty to have seeped from a building full of aroused supernaturals. Maybe the building had been warded.
The man looked at Ethan, then me. “What?”
“Sésame, ouvre-toi,” Ethan said in melodious French.
I bit back a smile. The password was literally “open sesame,” albeit in French. Supernaturals loved a bad joke.
The doorman’s caterpillar-thick unibrow dipped low between his eyes. He bared large teeth. “That’s an old password.”
His tone threatened a violent response, and I had to stop myself from touching my sword. But I’d given Ethan my word, and I kept my composure.
