Page 52 of Fang Fatale

"Getting attached to a client."

He grins.

"That might actually be a first."

I consider ordering another drink.

Unfortunately, dignity doesn't come with a happy hour discount.

Instead, I turn on my stool and study the room.

Monsters relaxing.

Conversation humming.

Nothing unusual.

Until...

Movement catches my attention near the end of the bar.

A broad-shouldered man in a weathered canvas jacket, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms like he's about to rebuild an engine with his bare hands.

I don't recognize him.

Not exactly.

He simply lands in that part of my brain reserved for potential threats.

His beard is trimmed with military precision.

Both boots are planted squarely on the floor.

Ready.

Balanced.

Prepared for violence before the room even realizes violence is an option.

Not a vampire.

Not a witch.

A shifter, probably.

Hidden claws.

Military posture.

Professional predator.

He lifts his empty glass.

Vlad immediately pours another.

I catch the exchange.

More importantly...