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“You’re one to talk,” I glare at her.
And just like that, a simple conversation escalates into an argument. “I’m not the one with a phobia of hospitals!”
“It’s a real thing!” I growl. “If you had—”
“Enough,” Fergus snarls. “Or I’ll knock both your heads together.”
“Don’t threaten her!” I snarl. “She’s pregnant.”
“Yeah!” Agatha sounds just as offended.
Fergus rubs his temples and sighs. “Go take a walk, Zayn. I’m so glad we don’t have kids yet.”
Wanting to stretch my legs anyway, I get up and leave the sitting area. Remembering seeing a vending machine on the ground floor, next to the gift shop, I decide to grab a snack. It is two in the afternoon and my stomach is starting to protest.
As I pass some young nurses, I hear them giggle and stare at me, and internally I sigh. My looks are something I inherited from the man who sired me.
My raven black hair is short and the leather jacket that I insist on wearing despite this summer heat reveals the dragon tattoo that curls around my nape. My icy blue eyes are dismissive as I make eye contact with one of the blushing nurses and my lips purse in annoyance.
I am an attractive man. I know that. I often used my looks to my advantage. A woman once told me that it looked like my face was sculpted by the gods themselves.
She was pretty drunk at the time, so I wouldn’t give too much credence to that comment.
Usually, I am quick to pick up a girl.
I am not going to lie to myself.
I enjoy company in bed.
But with all my childhood friends getting married, I am starting to get restless and agitated. Maybe I should look for something more permanent.
As soon as the thought flows into my head, I dismiss it.
I am happy for Philip and Fergus and Ian, but I have no intention of having an heir or a child. And marrying a woman would mean that we start a family.
Maybe a long-term girlfriend, I muse.
I had one or two of them a while back. Not that they were very successful. One was a model that I ran into at one of those stupid fashion shows that Agatha kept dragging me to. The other was, well, we never actually got out of bed enough to talk.
Had she been an accountant? I try to remember as I finally reach the vending machine and look through the available offerings.
Selecting a sandwich that doesn’t look quite stale, I am just feeding the coins into the machine when I hear a voice that I haven’t heard in years.
My hand freezes as my heart skips a beat.
No way in hell.
I lean down to pick the sandwich, all the while telling myself that I am mistaken. However, I hear it again.
“Not red, Mila. You know he hates red.”
The voice is husky and holds an air of faint criticism in it.
I can’t help myself.
I just want to know what she looks like.
Just to see if she has changed.
