by Chloe Neill
I inwardly cringed, opted for defense. “You’re so handsome.”
“Merit.”
“And really tall.” I cocked my head at him. “Has anyone ever told you that you resemble David Beckham?”
“Merit.”
There was no avoiding it now. “We made up the name before we got to know you. In fairness, we only did it because we really, really didn’t like you.” I grinned. “But we really like you now.”
“A lot,” Mallory confirmed. But Ethan wasn’t ready to let go of the bone.
Darth Sullivan?
You didn’t like me, either, I reminded him. I bet you had a crabby nickname for me, too. When he didn’t immediately answer, I looked at him sharply. Ethan Sullivan. You had a nickname for me.
In fairness, he said, mimicking me, we really, really didn’t like you.
Are you going to tell me what it is?
No. Because I’ve no wish to sleep on the floor. His grin was wicked, but I was immortal. I’d get it out of him sooner or later.
“Do you ever get the feeling we’re only getting fifty percent of the conversation in here?” Mallory asked.
“As long as they’re keeping the sex talk to themselves, it’s fine by me.”
This isn’t over, I told him, then turned back to Mallory. “It’s not sex talk. And technically, yes, I could have disavowed Ethan. But I hadn’t known about it then, and he’d have been really pissed, considering he saved my life.”
“Hey, at least she concedes that now,” Catcher said. “She was pretty pissed about it at first.”
“Well aware,” Ethan said. “So, to get back to the point, I could disavow Balthasar. In my so doing, he wouldn’t be able to rely on his relationship with me for any material or political purposes.”
“And risking the possibility of setting him off,” Catcher said.
Ethan nodded. “That would be the concern. But it’s an idea on the list.”
Mallory yawned, and Catcher glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late—or early. We should get home before they lock the place down. Don’t want to be stuck with a bunch of bloodsuckers when the sun comes up.”
Ethan regarded them thoughtfully. “Actually, that’s another interesting idea.”
“Getting stuck with bloodsuckers?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He looked down, seemed to choose his words before lifting his gaze again. “Balthasar presents an unusual problem for us—a magical problem. And the two of you are obviously experts. How would you feel about staying at the House in the interim? You’d be an extra precaution, of a type.”
The offer was met with stunned silence. The last time Mallory had spent an evening at Cadogan House, she had been so far in the depths of a black magic obsession that she’d stolen Ethan’s ashes in order to make him her familiar. It hadn’t worked that way, but it had brought him back to life, a result for which I’d be eternally grateful.
That had been months ago, and before she’d come through the other side of her addiction. But still, that he’d trust her enough to let her stay in the House was a very big step for both of them.
“I don’t know,” Catcher said, glancing at Mallory.
“You can discuss it,” Ethan said.
“And I’ll offer this—a basket of bedtime snacks, every night.” I smiled at them. “That’s a key for me.”
“I know Chuck would appreciate it, given the circumstances,” Catcher said. “And we actually would be closer to his office.”
“That is true,” Mallory said. “But—well, the other vampires may not like it.”
“I am their Master,” Ethan said simply. “Not the other way around. But I think you don’t give them enough credit. You’ve helped this House considerably.” He smiled. “And they’re vampires. By their nature, they believe in second chances. For what it’s worth, I’d consider it a personal favor.”
He looked at me, and I suddenly understood. Ethan wasn’t afraid Balthasar would attack the House . . . but that Balthasar would attack me, and Ethan wouldn’t be able to get to me quickly enough.
Ethan held up his hands. “This is a big request, and it’s completely up to you, and I understand if you’d like some time to think about it. And, of course, we’d prepare appropriate remuneration for your services.” He smiled at Mallory. “Perhaps a donation to Sorcerers Without Borders?”
SWOB was a group Mallory had created to help fledgling sorcerers navigate their new magicks. It was a mission close to her heart, since she’d come out of the magical gate swinging some very bad mojo.
Mallory and Catcher looked at each other. She shrugged, and he nodded. “Fine by us,” he said. “I could stand to be pampered at Hotel Cadogan a bit. Assuming Merit’s right about the bedtime snack basket.”
“If she’s ever right about anything, it’s food.”
I gave him the arm punch that he deserved.
Ethan must have made his request psychically. Barely three seconds later, Helen, the House’s den mother, appeared in the doorway in her typical ensemble—a tidy tweed skirt and jacket in her usual pale pink, her short bob of silver hair styled with Photoshop-worthy perfection. (It had only gotten more perfect since Ethan’s transition to the AAM, as Helen was now his official social secretary.)
“Sire?” she crisply said.
“Prepare the guest suite, if you would. Mallory and Catcher will be staying with us for a few days.”
Helen kept her gaze on Ethan, but she pressed her lips together in obvious disagreement with his choice. “They will.”
“They will,” Ethan said, in a tone that clarified the issue wasn’t up for debate. Realizing that, she nodded, moved into the hallway again to make preparations.
“I don’t want to cause trouble,” Mallory said.
“Actually, I don’t mind causing it,” Catcher said. “Vampires have caused plenty of their own. What are the chances of getting an off-street parking space?”
Ethan just looked at him. Off-street parking in Chicago was a very serious matter. “That would require some maneuvering.”
They looked at each other in heavy silence.
“How much?” Catcher asked.
Ethan smiled slyly. “A ward on the House to keep Balthasar out, constructed and managed by you.”
“You’re a sneaky bastard, Sullivan,” Catcher said, and nodded.
Not a bad deal for good parking.
* * *
While Helen prepared their rooms and Luc prepared their security access, Mallory and Catcher returned to their Wicker Park town house to grab clothing and essentials for Vampire Sleepover Camp. They’d return after the sun was up, but the human guards at the gate could get them inside. They’d set the wards, and we’d all enjoy a good night’s sleep.
Vampires were unconscious during the daylight; theoretically, Balthasar would be, too. But he was conniving, and I wouldn’t put a daylight attack past him. Catcher and Mallory being here—setting a ward, and being able to emerge in daylight if the need arose—made me feel a lot better.
I was often relieved at the end of a night to return to our apartments on the third floor, the Master’s suite that Ethan and I shared. But nights like this made the respite even more important. We could be ourselves, for ourselves.
Just like the rest of Cadogan House, our rooms were as lushly appointed. Thick rugs, demure colors, French fabrics, gorgeous antiques. Tonight, it smelled of lilacs, and Margot, the House chef, had placed a horn and silver tray on a side table with cups of hot chocolate, fruit, and the tiniest sandwiches I’d ever seen.
As I’d mentioned to Catcher, Cadogan-style immortality had its benefits. And because silliness in the face of danger was one of them, I ate a small square of brown bread and what looked like smoked salmon while pretending I was a giant. Wearing Cubs pajamas.
“How many academic degrees do you have?
” Ethan asked, walking out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, scrubbing a second through his hair.
“Two and a half,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy comically tiny foods.” I held up a wee croissant. “Odds are good she assembled this tray for the comic appeal.”
Ethan rolled his eyes good-humoredly before tossing the towel in his hand back into the bathroom, dropping the second onto the floor.
That left him naked—all hard planes and ridges of muscle, including a very impressive erection that left little doubt about his current line of thought. The seductive drowsiness in his eyes, part desire and part nearing sunrise, confirmed it . . . and enhanced the allure.
I dropped the pastry back on the tray, my appetite now shifted to something entirely different. “You are a gorgeous specimen of a man.”
“Am I?” he asked, but when I crooked my finger in beckoning, he stalked toward me like a cat, muscles in his thighs and abdomen tightening, shifting as he moved. There was nothing about him that wasn’t perfectly sculpted. Whether caused by the vampire mutation or his Swedish genetics, the result was undeniably tempting.
“You are,” I said, and slid a hand down the flat of his abdomen, the muscle hard as steel beneath my hand. “And since you became Master of the universe, we haven’t really had time to explore your various peaks and valleys.”
“Colorado was a bit of a bust,” Ethan agreed. He put a hand on my waist, leaned forward to nuzzle my neck, teeth just catching my earlobe. “Exploration sounds like a beautiful way to spend the last minutes before sunrise.”
I closed my eyes, smiled, and tilted my head to improve his access . . . until my phone began to ring.
Since Ethan growled, I guessed I wasn’t the only one frustrated. “I’ll pay you not to answer that.”
“It could be about Balthasar. I have to at least see who it is.” I grabbed my phone from the side table, checked the screen, and found an equally unwelcome caller.
It was late for vampires, but early for humans, including my father, Joshua Merit, king of Chicago real estate.
I didn’t especially want to talk to him, but seeing his name appear on my phone also didn’t do much for my libido, so I gave Ethan an apologetic look, lifted it to my ear.
“Hello?” I said awkwardly as Ethan backed away, picked up his towel, and marched toward the bed. So much for the exploration.
My father skipped the introduction. “I’d like you and Ethan to join me tonight at an event.”
The order, framed as a request, was so brusque it took a moment to catch up. “This isn’t really the best time . . .”
“For me, either. I’m involved in the Towerline project, as I’m sure you’ll remember.”
That took a moment of memory searching. Towerline was a large real estate deal my father was trying to close. It would put four brand-new interconnected skyscrapers along the Chicago River.
“I helped you find those account numbers,” he said, reminding me again—as if that was necessary—that to him, everything was a transaction.
Still, while his attitude was regrettable, he was right. He’d helped track down the owner of a Swiss bank account, which led us to a conspiracy to take out the GP’s former head, Darius West.
“What’s the event?” I asked, resigned.
“A party to raise money for some art-based charity or other. The charity isn’t important.” My father, the philanthropist. “The location is—it’s at the home of Adrien Reed.”
My father paused, as if his mere mention of the name would send me into excited apoplexy.
“I don’t know who that is.”
“Yes, you do. He owns Reed Logistics. I’m sure you’ve seen the facility near O’Hare.”
Since I hadn’t really been on the lookout for a logistics partner, or its warehouse, the explanation didn’t do much for me. “Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell.”
I could practically hear the flat stare through the phone. “He sponsors free bat night at Wrigley,” my father added, helpfully this time.
In my sunlight-tolerating days, I’d loved attending free anything night at Wrigley. And there was probably a box of mini Louisville Sluggers in the basement of my parents’ home.
“Oh, Adrien Reed,” I said. “I thought you said Adrien Mead.” I knew it was lame, but I was committed.
Silence, then: “Given his new national reach, Reed’s expressed interest in meeting Ethan.”
And there was the pitch. Swing and a miss in my opinion, but that was ultimately for Ethan to decide.
“I’ll mention the request and your offer, but I can’t promise anything.”
“Because of Balthasar?”
The question made me shudder with memory and concern. “How do you know about Balthasar?”
“The several ongoing live broadcasts.” His voice was flat, radiating disapproval that we were making a spectacle of ourselves again.
“I have obligations,” I said, in answer to his question. “So I can’t make a commitment right now.”
“Family obligations trump paramours,” my father said. And with that, a four-word missive on loyalty—and apparent evaluation of my relationship with Ethan, and despite the fact that he wanted to use him for his connections—he hung up the phone.
I threw the phone into the bank of pillows on the bed, gave it a single-fingered salute for good measure. Not exactly classy, but sometimes even messy feelings needed expressing.
Ethan emerged from the bedroom in his favorite sleepwear, a pair of green silk pajama bottoms slung low on his hips. “Another quality conversation between father and daughter, I see. Did you know you pace when you talk to him?”
I looked down, realizing I’d traversed the apartment. “I guess I did. He wants us to attend a charity event at the house of the Wrigley ball night guy.”
“Adrien Reed?”
I looked at him. “How do you know that?”
“Reed loves business, and you love baseball. I pay attention. Why does your father want us there?”
“Because you’re ‘national’ now. That makes you a legit business lead—and a very big catch.”
“I’m not sure if I should be flattered or not. I would like to meet Reed but don’t especially like the thought of leaving the House vulnerable.”
“Mallory and Catcher will be here, so that helps. But I’m going to need a dress.”
Ethan smiled lazily. “I haven’t proposed to you yet.”
He firmly believed marriage was in our future, and enjoyed teasing me with hints of his proposal. He knew I wasn’t yet ready to take that leap, but the teasing certainly kept me on my toes.
“Wrong kind of dress. I could wear one of the previous ones”—this wasn’t the first fancy event Ethan and I had attended—“or you can work your sartorial magic and find something new.”
“I’ll do that,” he said, grabbing his phone and sending a message. “Confirm with your father and get the details. We’ll tell Luc at dusk.”
I pulled my phone from the pillow array, muttering a few choice words about “obligation” and “loyalty” while I did it, but sent my father the message: WE’LL ATTEND. SEND DETAILS.
I put the phone on the nightstand, felt the sudden creep of the sun over the horizon as the room’s automatic shutters closed over the windows. “That’s it for me tonight,” I said, and fell face-first into the pillows.
“Demure and elegant as always,” Ethan said, and I felt the bed dip beside me. “Sleep well, my Sentinel. For tomorrow is another day.”
“Inevitably,” I murmured, and fell into sleep.
Chapter Five
YOU MAKE ME FEEL LIKE A NATURAL VAMPIRE
Many hours later, the sun crept below the horizon again, leaving the world dark, quiet, and cool. My eyes flashed open as the automatic shutters retracted, sending the orange glow of stre
etlights into the room.
I glanced beside me. Ethan’s eyes were closed, his body resting atop a tangle of sheets—one leg bent, one arm thrown above the other, brow furrowed. A sheen of sweat covered his body, and there was a stale, lingering magic in the air.
It wasn’t hard to guess the reason for his distress. I touched the back of my hand to his forehead. Clammy, but cool.
“I’m awake,” he said, eyes still closed.
“You’re usually up before me.”
“I slept like the dead—no pun intended.” He opened one eye, cast a glance down the length of his body. “And part of me is up.”
“We haven’t talked about Balthasar,” I said, avoiding the direction of his gaze, lest I become glamoured by the promise of it.
“Not exactly how I’d prefer to get into the mood. Come here, Sentinel,” he said, and waited while I climbed atop his body, hard beneath me.
His eyes as green as glass, Ethan rocked his hips enticingly. “I can make you forget everything that worries you.”
“I worry for you,” I said, but let him slip my shirt over my head, let my head fall back when his hands found my breasts. Tension slipped from my shoulders as his hands worked cleverly to entice and arouse.
“We are immortal,” he said huskily, eyes silver and focused on my breasts. “Let us live like it.” He pulled me down toward him, tangled his hands in my hair as his mouth found mine, attacked with brutal force, willing to give no quarter. His tongue probed and tangled as his teeth nipped at my lips, his body growing impossibly harder beneath me as he deepened the kiss.
“I want you,” he whispered, before trailing kisses along my neck. “Jesus, but I want you. Stand up.”
“What?” I asked, brows lifted.
“Stand up.”
It wasn’t easy to stand on the mattress, but I managed it. I’d been standing only for a second when he bared the rest of me.
And then sat up, and his mouth was at my core, and my muscles went so lax I had to brace a hand against the wall in front of me to stay upright.
