Page 37
I stare at him.
Nero leans against the table and pulls off his gloves, one finger at a time, like we’re having a normal conversation in a normal place. “Believe it or not, Julian and I go way back. Before I left the city. Before he became a vampire. We had plans together. Real estate deals and other things. And now he’s gone.”
I see our lost boy was talking with a lot of people. Maybe too many.
“Well,” I say. “Two princes getting together. Sweet story.”
His eyes move down my body, or rather, the body the glamour still pretends is mine. “So, what are you doing in the blood witch’s basement wearing this outfit?”
“Why should I trust you?”
“You shouldn’t.” He steps closer. “But I’m not letting you leave until you tell me.”
“What? Are you going to torture me?”
“I’m counting on it.”
The moonshine scratches under my skin again, like a parasite. I crush the feeling down.
“I’ll spare you. I think Julian was part witch. Blood witch.”
Nero’s face stills. “And?”
“You don’t understand? There are no mixed supernaturals. If he had actual witch power, he should have died during transition.”
“Maybe he didn’t have any.”
“Maybe. But if he did, he’d be more powerful than any king or prince in this city. Half vampire, half-blood witch.”
Voices echo from the stairs.
Laughter, a woman’s giggle and a male growl.
Nero grabs me by the waist and pulls me between a tall shelf and the wall. The space barely fits us. My back hits cold bricks, and his body shields mine in the shadow.
A witch enters the archive dragging a wolf behind her, probably one of Nero’s men. She pulls him toward the table, and he lifts her onto it. Her dress slides up. His hands move under it. I see just enough through the narrow gaps between books before Nero shifts, pressing me deeper into the dark.
A shiver crawls over my skin. The glamour starts fading. Tingling moves across my face, my scalp, my body. The brunette melts away. My white hair returns first, then my dress, then the shape of my own face settles back into place. I blink my eyes to feel comfortable again.
Nero notices. Even in the shadow, I see his eyes following the change. He studies my face with unnerving focus, inch by inch. He stands too close. My back stays against the wall, and his hand remains on my hip.
The wolf at the table growls as he pushes into the witch. The girl’s moans reach me, along with the wet slap of their bodies. Through the gaps in the shelving, I see him pushing into her with more and more force. The witch’s nails scratch the wolf’s chest, and he answers with another rough sound that scrapes straight across my nerves.
I’m getting warmer and warmer. Nero’s hand is still resting on my hip, and he’s standing close to me. I try to shift from one foot to the other and turn my head away so I don’t look at him.
The blood moonshine wakes again.
Heat gathers under my skin, spreading low and dangerous. My breathing changes uncontrollably. Nero feels it. He lowers his head slightly, and his gaze drops, shameless, to my chest as it rises and falls against the thin fabric of my dress.
I catch his chin and lift his face so he won’t be staring at my cleavage. But his hand closes around my wrist, pinning it to the wall beside my head. Then his body presses closer, not crushing me, but trapping me enough to make the message clear. My other hand lands on his chest in a useless attempt at distance. Beneath my palm, he feels hot and solid, his heartbeat steady while mine starts misbehaving.
His belt presses against my stomach. His face moves slowly along mine, not to kiss me but to smell me. He scents my cheek, my temple, my hair; it’s the wolf in him that takes control. I shift my hips toward his groin on instinct. I don’t know if it’s the loud sounds at the table, the blood moonshine in me, or Nero pinning me against a cold stone. His smile turns sharp. I swallow and try to lock myself down, but my control slips again. Too much magic blood, not enough stardust. Not enough distance between us.
He thinks this is a game. Fine. Let’s play then.
My hand slides slowly over his chest. I let my fingertips drag over the hard line of muscle beneath his shirt, then brush one thumb deliberately over his nipple through the fabric.
His eyes flare.
