She blows air through her teeth. “You suck.”
“Oh, be quiet.” I fold my arms. “Want some wine?”
She drops her purse on the floor next to my bed. “That's more like it.”
“Red or white?”
“Didn't realize I was in the presence of Dionysus.” She perches on the edge of the mattress. “Red, please.”
I consider skipping the drinks altogether and just taking her right there. So many beautiful things await under those clothes, ready to be explored all over again.
Instead, I turn around and cross the house to the kitchen. A half bottle of Malbec waits in the fridge. I pour a glass, think better of it, and pour one for myself too. Then I return to the bedroom.
She has her shoes off, sitting cross-legged on the bed, but hasn't removed anything else. Thankfully. That's part of the fun.
I knock the door shut with my foot and hand her a glass.
She sips her wine, looking oddly sophisticated for someone with Ozzy Osbourne eye makeup and enough silver in her ears to take down a werewolf.
She peers up at me. “Is it a celebrity?”
I stare at her, dumbly.
“The person you protect, is it a celebrity?” Her eyes light up. “Oh! Is it Stevie Nicks?”
“What? No.”
“Linda Ronstadt?”
“No.”
She bounces a little on the mattress. “Is it Jenna Jameson?”
“Good god, Syd.” I move forward and take her glass, then place it with mine on the nightstand.
She says, “You didn't drink any of your wine. Did you—”
I interrupt the chatter mouth with a kiss. I like kissing. For a moment, I can pretend the person knows everything about me and doesn't mind. It's a nice fantasy. The fact she has been in my bed before makes the lie that much easier to believe.
My hand slides under the back of her intentionally shredded shirt. Her skin is soft, and she tips her head back with a little moan. The familiarity of the sound is tantalizing. I lean in and kiss her neck. Her breathing quickens as I make my way down to her collarbone.
Even knowing what waits for me, I want to take my time. Kiss every part of her from her lips to her knees. Never thought revisiting could be so rousing.
My fingertips follow up the length of her spine until reaching fabric. She's wearing a sports bra. Seriously?
I pull back, lifting her t-shirt over her head and tossing it aside.
My gaze settles over the plump rises. The sports bra isn't that bad. Still, like a liquidation, everything must go.
I reach for her, then halt. Something is wrong. Not with her.
With me.
My vision tunnels. I know this sensation all too well. I start grabbing at the floor, trying to find her shirt.
“You have to leave,” I say, but my voice sounds distant.
Minutes. I have minutes. Goddammit.
My fingers grasp her discarded shirt. I stand upright and struggle to see. All I can make out is her hazy form.
“Dimitri?”
I hook her under one armpit and fumble with the doorknob, her shirt still in my hand.
“Dimitri, what are you doing?”
Her body tenses. I march her down the hallway, my consciousness waning. That's how it feels, anyway. I'm not actually going to pass out.
Much worse.
The doorknob on the front door jingles as I fight with the lock. Syd is yelling at me, struggling from my hold. She says something about me hurting her arm.
I finally tug the door open, then shove her outside. I chuck her shirt in her general direction. She turns to step inside, but I slam the door shut in her face. She yells my name. My back meets the door, and I slide partway down. Waiting.
She kicks at the door. “My purse is still in there! What the hell is wrong with you?”
I open my eyes.
I'm standing in a large chamber with an arched ceiling and elaborate metal chandeliers. The walls are painted arabesque designs in shades of teal. Persian rugs, showing age but not wear, hang like tapestries. Etched lamps, tall hookahs with dozens of hoses, lanterns with colored glass, leather floor cushions, and silver trays propped on wooden legs spread across the floor.
Down the length of the room hang sheer fabrics in jewel tones, barely obscuring the stage at the far end. The stage stands about three feet high, draped in thick rugs. On the stage rests a throne of hammered silver. Intricate designs wrap across the legs and base, up the high back, and down the arms. The cushion is red and gold.
I have been in this room more times than I can count. I'm sure the room has been here for a hundred years, even if the mansion has not, and the decor must be ten times as old. The air smells deep and musky with the scent of argan oil.
“Dimitri.”
I settle my gaze on the man sitting on the throne. He is tall and wiry, with fair skin, hooked nose, and thin hair. He seems pleased with himself. Then again, he has no reason not to be.
His name is Karl Walker, and I have known him my whole life.