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“I didn’t see him.”
Severio was on the terrace. If he’s in the vicinity, I’m going to find him first. Must be the wild cat energy, and my self-preservation instinct noticing the biggest predator in the area.
“Gordon’s kind of hard to miss,” Severio says, referencing the man’s large frame.
Oh, now I’m at fault. “He’s easy to miss if you’re around,” I fire back, proud to have come up with such a killer comeback.
The corner of Severio’s lip quirks up, and I wish I could take it back. Now he thinks I’m preoccupied with him. Which is true, I am, but only because of my purpose for being in his company tonight. “I wasn’t expecting another guard inside, is all.”
“Gordon is a recruit. He will perform the ritual,” Severio says, as if that explains Gordon’s presence. And apparently, it does, because Severio walks to the bar and pours himself a glass of wine. “Would you like something to drink?” he asks.
Severio is moving on while I’m stuck onGordon will perform the ritual.
I take stock of the man, who is also watching me. He’s handsome. Brutally so, with full sleeves of tattoos over strong, muscular arms. An all-around terrifying man who looks right at home in the criminal underworld with Severio. Except his dark brown eyes project warmth and kindness, perhaps even pity. Maybe he pities both of us.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say back with a shy smile.
Maybe it’s his first ritual too. Maybe that’s how Severio will initiate him into the Serpentine Order. A man must be “made,” after all, and maybe this is a way to be made for the Order. If that’s so, I wish Gio had mentioned it. Not that it would have made a difference, but I would have appreciated the heads-up.
“Cristina.” Severio’s voice cuts through the tiny bit of intimacy I’m seeking with the man who will claim me.
I blink, not remembering what he asked me. Shit.
“Tequila?” Gordon prompts as he moves behind the bar.
“Great suggestion.” I need tequila for this. Dirty tequila, not top shelf, and in large quantities. I’ll forget the claiming ever happened.
“She’ll have a glass of wine,” Severio says calmly, eyes narrowing on Gordon, who is behind the bar, unfazed that the predator appears annoyed with him.
Severio extends a hand toward me and flicks two fingers.
I think he’s calling me.
If I were in the mood, I’d bark, maybe even flip him off, but I’m rattled and nervous about the claiming, even more than I was before. I approach Severio like a good doggy.
When I reach him, Gordon slides me a tequila shooter.
I pour it down my throat, then push the glass back to the man. It’s dirty tequila and burns right down my esophagus and into my belly.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Severio staring at me. The small rebellion feels good. It’s the bare minimum of what I can do. Petty and childish as it is, it’ll keep me grounded for the night when all my other freedoms have been confiscated by this Order I never asked to be a part of.
“As you wish,” Severio says to my refusing the wine. He nods at Gordon, who pours a bottle from our top-shelf tequila selection. We drink a shooter each, and this one goes downsmoothly. Bummer. I can’t catch a break tonight. Or this month. Or this year, it seems.
“Another?” Severio asks.
I nod.
“Perhaps wine this time?”
I’m trying to decipher his tone. Is he suggesting I drink wine or strongly suggesting I do as he asked and take wine? Probably the latter.
Gordon drops the shot glasses into the sink and puts away the tequila bottle before pulling out a tray full of awkward-looking tools. Weird. He rounds the bar and takes a seat on the other side of me. He taps a bar chair with a backrest. “Come on, little one. This won’t hurt unless you want it to hurt.”
“I don’t want it to hurt.” I accept Severio’s offered glass of wine. I tilt my head and tip the glass when Severio grabs my elbow.
“That’s a 1955 Jolin.”
