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“The wound. Let me close it.”
Oh, right. That would probably help. One more swipe of his tongue, and my skin knits itself back together like nothing happened.
“Can you…can you wait with me? For my fangs to recede? I’m worried about…vamping out or something.”
“Sure,” I say, shrugging a shoulder and settling against the opposite wall.
He belatedly remembers that his fangs aren’t the only thing that need to settle down, tugging his shirttails down and shielding himself with his hands.
“Sorry,” he says. I’m sure he would have blushed more if his cheeks didn’t already have a healthy glow. It brings out his freckles, actually. “And thank you. You’re not spicy, by the way.”
“What do I taste like then?” I smile, curiosity piqued.
“Honeyed whiskey.”
Chapter Seventeen
Sunday
The vodka hits the back of my teeth as I slam the glass on the table and slowly spiral into a pit of self-hatred. That anger from earlier gnaws at my belly—not a good mix with alcohol.
It’s been half an hour since I left Bellamy in the alley, but I catch sight of him slinking out of the restroom with an obnoxiously happy-looking Séverin trailing behind him. I suck my teeth, my mood tumbling even further.
A colorful paddle board of shots arrives from a server at the same time Bellamy’s citrusy scent hits me. He ignores me, his slender hand darting out to grab a shot glass. And another. Then a third. I hover my hand over the fourth before he reaches for it. The mixed shots they make here are strong enough to put me halfway on the ground, let alone someone as petite as him.
The sway in his legs as he backs off and up the steps makes me stop drinking entirely. The rage bleeds out of me, protectiveness taking its place. As much as he will tear me a new one for it, the Doberman in me just won’t die. I watch him, relaxing slightly when he sticks around the people from our table.
Doomscrolling feels like the only reasonable thing to do, but even that goes wrong. My phone is pretty new, but the screen keeps flickering and freezing.
It’s nearly one in the morning when Lara saves me from launching it across the room. She clutches onto my arm, leaning down to speak into my ear. “We’re going to take Séverin home, he’s a bit out of it. Have you seen Bellamy?”
I look up, searching the crowd. I find Frenchie draped across a barstool, looking like he’s already half asleep, but no Bellamy. “I thought he was with you?”
She shakes her head, and my ass is already out of the seat. “He went down to the bathroom about twenty minutes ago. I thought he might’ve come back already,” she tells me, lifting a shoulder.
My voice comes out calm when I tell her I’ll take him home, but the urge to find him burns through my veins.
Find him. Find him. Find him.
I squeeze my eyes shut against the voice in my head, weirded out by the floaty sensation. Fresh air will do me good, so I leave Lara to her charge and weave through the crowd, my pulse jumping in my throat.
Voices start filtering out from the half-open bathroom door as I approach.
“…he’s messed up…”
“…do you think we should get security?”
“…he won’t let me…”
“Move!” I bark at the cluster of people standing around him. Helps that I’m taller than literally all of them. They scuttle out of my way immediately, revealing the heap on the floor.
He’s slumped in the corner, one knee tucked up to his chest and the other splayed to the side. The planchette pendant I gave him is stuffed in his mouth like a pacifier, but he spits it out sloppily when he sees me, narrowing his eyes.
“Youuuuu,” he slurs, trying to push himself up from the floor and failing spectacularly, bumping his head against the wall. He whimpers, rubbing his head.
“Yeah, me,” I sigh, crouching down in front of him and helping him sit up. It’s made difficult by the fact that the little weasel keeps slapping my hands away. “Time to go home, mister.”
“Dontuchmeee,” he garbles. His head flops to the side, and I take it in my hands so he doesn’t hit his head again.
