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Outside the venue, Teague glanced around the parking lot. He quickly spotted Larkin’s car and walked her straight to it. Boyfriends did that sort of stuff, right?
“Where are you parked?” she asked him, using her key fob to unlock her vehicle.
He pointed at his beloved bike. “There.”
She spared it a quick, covetous glance that wasn’t as subtle as she clearly hoped it would be. He’d noticed her eye it appreciatively on a number of occasions.
He would have offered to take her for a ride if his demon wouldn’t balk at it. Just as the beast would never tolerate anyone it didn’t wholeheartedly trust mounting it, it wouldn’t allow someone it didn’t wholeheartedly trust to ride on the back of the bike either—the two acts felt too much like one and the same to the entity.
It was a hellhorse thing. They basically had a no passengers rule that they only broke for very few people. Teague’s demon wouldn’t break it for Larkin. It liked her a whole lot, but it didn’t trust her. It didn’t know her well enough to trust her.
Teague watched her slide into her car. “By the way . . . ” He trailed off, letting a taunting smile curve his mouth. “I’m looking forward to watching you sing while naked. It’ll be a fuck of a sight.”
Her eyes flashed with challenge. “That ain’t how it’s gonna go down, Sullivan. The one who’ll be on stage is you.”
Teague felt his smile widen. “We’ll see.” He let her door swing shut and then stood back so that she couldn’t run over his toes. He really wouldn’t put it past her.
Once she’d driven off, he crossed to his bike and opened up the saddlebag. It was bespelled, allowing him to store an endless number of items inside. First, he took out his leather jacket and slipped it on. Then he pulled on his helmet, despite not really needing it—he only wore it to deter cops from pulling him over.
He grabbed one handle, shifted his weight onto his left leg, and then smoothly tossed his other leg over the bike—mounting it in one quick, practiced movement. He’d been riding for longer than he could remember. Five of the other six stray hellhorses in his unofficial lair—one they referred to as a clan—also rode motorcycles, but Saxon preferred his truck.
Teague switched on the engine, making his bike roar to life. Speeding down the road en route to his home, he thought of how his clan would react to hearing that he was now the pretend boyfriend of Knox Thorne’s female sentinel.
Probably not well.
Not that any of them had anything against her or Knox. It was simply that there were things they’d rather neither demon discovered. And Larkin, well, she was sharp as a tack, not to mention suspicious by nature. Having her around him on a frequent basis was risky.
If she uncovered anything she shouldn’t, she’d for sure share it with her Prime. Knox wouldn’t exactly have warm, fuzzy feelings about the secrets the clan kept. Hence why Teague had resisted acting on his attraction to her—the oaths he’d made to Khloë wouldn’t have been enough to ensure it.
So long as he was careful, he figured he could play the part of Larkin’s boyfriend without her learning things about him that she shouldn’t. It wouldn’t be long before she called it quits anyway. And then he could watch her sing naked. He looked forward to it.
Soon, Teague turned onto the unmarked stretch of land that his clan had claimed, feeling his skin prickle as he bypassed the repellent spell that made humans go no further. Driving deep into the forested area, he wondered what Larkin would say if she knew that—despite having walked the Earth for centuries—she was a baby compared to him.
She wasn’t wrong that a demon who’d lived a too-long lifespan would mentally suffer for it. It had impacted his beast in much the same way. He didn’t see how any person, no matter their species, could exist for such a lengthy period of time and remain sane in the accepted sense of the word.
The sound of dogs barking split the air before he finally reached the clearing where he and his clan lived. Seven traditional horse-drawn wagons were scattered around—minus any steeds, obviously. The exterior of each large, live-in wagon was similar in many ways. All were gilded, lavishly decorated, boasted intricate carvings, and were masterfully crafted. They were used by Romanichal Travelers—also known as gypsies—once upon a time.
A laundry line hung between two of the tall trees that ringed the clearing; the hanging clothes flapped with the breeze. Hammocks also hung here and there, along with nesting boxes.
Near the shed at the rear of the clearing, there was a huge-ass dog house the size of a small barn for the bloodhound-pack to use. But some of the dogs chose to sleep under wagons or out in the open.
