Page 24

No. Not why, because that’s not in my need-to-know bucket. But the need to verify that it’s not indicative of something sinister is almost overwhelming. There’s been enough weird stuff happening around the estate, so many changes in the family and leadership, that the methods have dipped into madness. And that is just niggling in the background of my mind.

Could I chalk this up as just one more change? Sure, without a doubt.

Does it feel like the right answer? Not a single solitary bit.

So, I suit up again, this time as a landscaper, and drive to the estate to find Teague.

Cars are safely tucked into the massive garage, multiple for Christophe, a handful for the staff, and Teague’s Range Rover. And of course, it doesn’t escape my notice that Eddie’s car is not here. I’m sad about it. No, more so disappointed.

Fine, I’m ridiculously bummed that he’s not here.

I tool around in the gardens for a bit, checking the beds, pulling a few weeds, pinching buds to encourage growth. Then I wander around the patio paying special attention to each of the planters.

Vines spill over the edges, trailing artistically. It makes me stupidly happy to see the symmetry and chaos. I stop at the last planter on the left, poised to nip the vine just a smidge to match the others, and freeze. Leaves rustle and the flash of a dark scaly tail sends my stomach into a free-fall.

The demon twists and twines his way down the concrete, slithering across the pavers. I watch, motionless, until it fully disappears into the grass. Terror flashes through me, hot and freezing at the same time, pulling an almost silent whimper.

I try to be brave—really, I do—but there is something about those legless bastards that is just not natural.

“What’s wrong?”

There’s something wildly jarring about being terrified to the point of almost peeing my pants when the voice from my dirtiest fantasies rumbles in my ear. My body has no idea whether to turn tail and run or arch my back and present my ass to the man behind me like a cat in heat.

I release my panicked breath on a rush. “Fuck me running.”

“That’s one way to get your cardio in.” It’s rare when Eddie makes a joke, let alone a snarky one.

Maybe I’m rubbing off on him.

I would absolutely love to rub myself all over him.

But honestly, I’m so off my game from seeing those damn scales, my brain isn’t functioning at a high enough level for a good comeback. Even a bad one evades me in this moment.

“What are you doing here?” Eddie asks at the same time I demand, “When did you get here?”

I check the ground around my feet and take two careful steps away from the planter that has somehow betrayed me.

Warmth spreads through my arm as Eddie’s hand cups my elbow, steadying me.

“Just got here. I need to follow up on the shit storm Christophe threw my way.” His phone buzzes from his pocket, and he pauses to swipe at the screen. “Looks like he wants to talk to you too. You having any trouble with the, uh…” He goes quiet. And a little green, if I’m honest. “With your work?”

“No, no. Actually, yeah.” I check the ground again and shift closer to the house, putting Eddie between me and the planter. I could feel bad about being a wuss, but he’s big and strong and a dude and not nearly as scared of that thing as I am.

His brows draw together. “So, things are bad? Bad, how? What happened?” Each question spills from his lips slightly faster than the last, his voice going higher in tone, more strained.

He looks kind of how I feel.

“I mean, not bad. Different. Bloodier, but even that is not quite right. Like the consistency is wrong.” I take another step back, but Eddie looks like he needs space. “Are you okay, big guy? You look like you’re going to blow.”

Even my subconscious knows now is not the time to go full Jess-brained on that little entendre, because Eddie looks like he’s going to hurl.

His eyes are closed, head slowly shaking back and forth ever so slightly like he’s willing away whatever is about to go down with his breakfast. He swallows before doing it again, all the color draining from his face.

I open my mouth to ask again if he’s okay and he puts his hand out, stopping me. He pins me with his eyes, the pleading glare enough to make the words stick to my tongue.

“No details,” he says with a shake of his head. “No fucking details. Please.”

“Are you…? Is it the blood?”