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I lean over to catch a glimpse, since the bottle isn’t one I’m familiar with. “Tullamore Dew?”
Malix nods and tosses back a chug straight from the glass rim. He smacks his lips, then lets out a satisfied noise. “Damn. That’s the good kind of burn.”
Frost—who’s taken the cushion beside me on the couch—holds his hand out for the bottle. “Tullamore Dew is a top-shelf Irish whiskey. First introduced in eighteen twenty-nine. Forty percent alcohol.”
Kian intercepts the bottle before it reaches Frost, then throws back a shot.
“Thank you, Rainman,” Malix says, swiping the bottle back from Kian. He hands it off to the original intended recipient as he adds, “A hundred fifty a pop for this guy.”
“I doubt the little asshole paid for that,” Kian says. He’s brooding. More so than usual.
Frost toasts him with the bottle. “Maybe instead, he received the bottle as payment.”
“Oh, like I was payment,” I say wryly, reaching into the chip bag on the coffee table. Frost hands the bottle back to Malix with an agreeable tilt of his head. The action brushes his soft, silken white-blond hair over his shoulders, and my fingers twitch to run through the locks.
Stop. No.
Malix grins, brandishing the bottle in my direction. “Come on, kitty cat. Take another shot. Grow some balls.”
I swipe the bottle from his fingers with a snarl. “I’ve got bigger balls than you, puppy dog.”
Kian and Frost laugh, and Malix sucks in a breath in over-exaggerated mock surprise, falling backward against the couch cushions as he claps a hand to his chest.
I take a tentative sip, and the liquor burns so good. It’s smooth. A little spicy, a little lemony, a little buttery, with that sweet smoky undertone that makes me think of Kian. I haven’t touched whiskey since I met him—it’s funny that I’m popping my Never Again cherry sitting on a couch across from him.
Funny, or absolutely devastating.
Malix leans back against the cushions and tosses his arm around the headrest behind Kian. “Guess we aren’t going back to the hotel.”
I laugh. “Not unless we want to pay for damages.”
Kian takes the bottle from Frost and motions toward the door. “We drew a lot of attention out there. Our best bet is to lie low tonight, then head out at first light.”
I hold out my hand for the bottle. “We don’t even know where we’re going.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Kian says, a low growl in his voice. He pointedly hands the bottle to Malix, even as my hand keeps hanging in the air over the coffee table.
Gritting my teeth before I leap across the table and throttle him, I shove my hand in the pretzel bag and grab a few.
“There’s another witch just across the border,” Frost says. “We could be there by early afternoon tomorrow.”
“No,” Kian barks. “No more witches. And definitely no border crossing. We don’t need the government knowing our location because we went through border patrol.”
I take the bottle from Frost for my third drink, raising my eyebrow at Kian. “In trouble with the FBI or something?” I accuse, then toss back a long, long slug of liquor.
As I gasp and pass off the bottle yet again, Kian glares at me. “No. Invisible to the government, and I’d prefer to remain so.”
A steady, delightful burn has settled into my chest. I pop another pretzel in my mouth, the hard, salty bite crunching between my teeth as Malix suggests we ask around town about the Tree of Life. Kian shoots that down too, but I’m not really listening.
This feeling—this heat fanning out from my diaphragm and into my limbs, making my face hot and my toes tingle—it reminds me of the night I met Kian. I’m a casual drinker, with the metabolism of a wolf shifter, so alcohol doesn’t affect me as much as the average human. Not usually. But that night, I had a few, and I got drunk on gin and Kian. It was such a pleasant burn. The kind of feeling that makes a girl feel invincible. A little bit tipsy, a little bit daring.
A little bit about to ruin your life.
Frost tries to hand the bottle back to me, but I wave him away. The last time I got drunk, I gave myself heart and soul to the one man I never should have. Maybe it’s the poison racing through my veins as we speak, but the alcohol is hitting me way too hard.
I can’t relax. I can’t let go.
Bad things happen when I let go.
