Page 58 of Fangbanger

“Do we own a cat now?”

He blinks and looks down. The cat meows up at him. “You own a cat,” he says.

“I need coffee,” I mutter.

“Ah.” He clears his throat. “I made you some. It is…vile.”

I look at the mangled remains of my Brewlover 4000 and whimper. It cost me five hundred human dollars. I loved that machine.

“Leah.” His voice is alarmed.

“You bent it in half.” The handle sits at an unnatural angle, like someone jerked it upward.

He looks appropriately chagrined. “But I am prepared to buy you another. A better one.”

My eyes narrow. “What do you mean?” I glance at his outfit. More gray sweatpants. A t-shirt. A ball cap for a vampire baseball team I’m sure the box invented. “Did you go to the store?”

He grimaces. “Ah. No. Well, technically, yes, but there were so many options. The shelves were too tall, and I certainly wasn’t about to vault one in front of all the humans. The employees were nowhere to be found. It was a warehouse the size of my baths. I don’t know how you find anything—why is your face making that expression?”

“I’m trying not to laugh.” The words come out strangled and helpless. “You went to Costco?”

He growls. “I do not regret my choices to avoid human things after that experience.”

I moan into my hands. He went to Costco, looking like that…I crack an eye. Edible. On a Thursday night. “Were you mobbed?”

“By whom?”

I shake my head and pour myself some coffee. It looks thick enough to chew, and I sigh. “Where did the cat come from?”

He picks up his paperback again, looking every inch the arrogant predator. A hint of fang shows. “Payment,” he says smugly.

The little black cat twines around my ankles. I want to pet her, but I’m certain she belongs to someone else, because she’s far too friendly for a stray. “Payment?”

His smile broadens, but there’s no humor. “The siren’s family wasn’t paying you. I took their car. The cat came too.” His eyes go dangerously silver. “I asked my brother the price of the car. He says it might not be sufficient.”

My thoughts are scattered and slow. “You stole a car.”

His lips purse. “That’s an unfair characterization, but—” He shrugs. “It was theirs. Now it’s yours.”

“That seems unnecessary,” I say faintly.

His face is implacable.

“I’m not one of your legions, Imperator.”

“Marcus,” he croons.

“Marcus.”

Silver flashes over his irises. “Say my name again.” He straightens, pushes out of the chair in one long stretch of muscle. “Actually, no. Don’t. I want to get it out of you.”

He stalks toward me with predatory grace. Every muscle under his t-shirt flexes in concert. He cages me against the counter. His unfairly handsome face is inches from mine, and I want to scowl, but my heart is fluttering madly.

“Keep looking at me like that, mate, and I’ll do far more than make you say my name.”

I poke him in the cheek. “You’re buying me the most expensive coffee maker they have, and then we’re returning the car.”

38