Page 41 of The Cannibal

“Promoted to head of private security.” He smiled. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

“Couldn’t happen without my recommendation.” I slapped his arm. “Molodets, don’t make me regret it.”

He threw me a small nod before continuing down the hallway.

At the end of the hall were two double doors, solid mahogany that nearly reached the ceiling, the arch higher than the others.

The door handles were cold as I tugged one open, a heavy moan of the hinges giving way to the demand for entry.

The light was so bright it was like my eye was burning. The master bedroom was on a corner, large windows filling two walls.

At the head of the room was a bed far too large, and a fully clothed, completely inebriated blond lying flat in the middle.

“Happy to be home?” I closed the door behind me, leaning back on it. He was temperamental lately, territorial.

An agitated clicking became louder.

“That’s a no?” I teased.

“Leave,” Silas demanded, not even bothering to open his eyes.

“Come now, you know we have work to do.” I stepped farther into the room. Bottles everywhere, specifically bloodwine. I stepped on one of the bottles, rolling it back and forth under my shoe. “You have to feed on something other than bloodwine.”

“Fuck off,” he spat, lying still as a corpse.

“I’m partial to blondes, but no thank you.” I tilted my head at him.

Silas’s chest fell deeply as he exhaled. With a lazy grip, he pulled at his shirt collar, loosening the tie. Like a man raised from the dead, he sat up. When he opened his eyes, he never changed from the drained expression he fell asleep with. His irises were bright against the bloodshot whites of his eyes. He hadn’t been sleeping, so it was some relief he even made it to bed.

“I can get you a Host, get it over with before we get busy?” I stepped closer, holding my hand out to help him up.

“No.” His eyes squeezed shut, as if the suggestion was a bullet in his shoulder.

“You have to eat something.”

He lifted the empty bottle in his hands, shaking it like a dinner bell.

“Silas, let me ask you something,” I began.

His eyes shot my way.

“If Alina wakes up⁠—”

“When,” he corrected.

“When Alina wakes up a Vipera,” I rephrased, “what will you do, now that her blood cannot sustain you? You will need to at least try cold stored before you resort to fermented, if you will not feed on a live Host.”

He got up out of the bed, as if he could outrun the question.

I grabbed the back of his shirt.

He swung around, hitting me square in the face.

I tenderly touched my nose, blood dripping down my shirt from the blow.

“Do not touch me,” he warned, even if it was a bit late. It seemed the alcohol hadn’t worn off completely.

“Come now, we have work⁠—”