Page 4 of Priest

“I’m just here to?—”

“I’ll let Oliver know you’re here. He’s in the back digging around some antique boxes,” Poe interrupted.

“I just—” Priest tried again, but Poe was gone.

His shoulders sagged, and he hurried toward the counter, determined to just leave the mail and go this time, but before he could turn away, the door opened once more, and Oliver was there. Priest’s heart stuttered in his chest, his throat going tight. He had never and would never understand his reaction to this single human. There was no sense behind it.

Oliver was short and lithe—the body of a kid who had probably once been malnourished. He was gorgeous, with light brown hair that was prone to waves and hazel eyes behind black-rimmed glasses full of happiness and mischief. He was everything Priest wasn’t. He was kind. He was gentle. He wore sweater vests, and his hair was always mussed like he’d just rolled out of bed.

Priest was helplessly and hopelessly charmed by him, and he didn’t understand why or how.

The only thing he knew was that he never wanted to stop being in his presence. Even if it was slowly killing him.

“Your… uh… mail,” he said, gesturing weakly.

Oliver glanced down, and then his mouth spread in a wide grin. He adjusted his glasses, then walked over and picked up the envelopes. His perfect, delicate fingers flicked through all of it, and then—as Priest predicted he would—he tossed it all into the trash.

“Did Azriel send you?”

Priest rolled his eyes. “How’d you guess?”

Oliver laughed, the sound of it almost melodic, and Priest’s heart sped up a bit when he leaned his forearms on the counter, his eyes soft and crinkled in the corners. “He’s such a lazy asshole. You should start charging him for running his errands.”

“That’s whatItold him,” Priest said. He leaned against the counter and stared down. They were inches apart, and the world seemed to narrow down until only the two of them existed. “He just laughed in my face and started flirting with a Siren at the bar.”

Oliver’s smile softened, and he shook his head. “I keep telling you to skip that hole and come hang out with me. Everything in here has ten layers of dust, but I promise the liquor is better. And I won’t charge you. Plus, you know my company’s better.”

Priest grinned. “Can’t argue there. I have way more fun over here.”

“Minus the lack of go-go dancers,” Oliver mused. “I mean, I guess I could wear booty shorts and high boots, but I’m trying to attract customers, not drive them off.”

Priest sucked in a breath. By the gods, was Oliver trying to kill him? He’d never be able to get that mental image out of his head—not that he really wanted to.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Trust me, you’d have a line around the block.”

Oliver’s eyes darkened, and he shook his head. “You don’t have to flatter me, Priest. I already like you.” His hand splayed flat on the glass counter, and he moved it closer—like he was begging to be touched, and gods, Priest wanted to know how warm he was.

Priest’s exhale trembled. He shifted closer, and then their hands were touching. Sparks flared to life under his skin, and the scent of lust was thick between them—both Oliver’s and his own. He stared into the human’s eyes, watching as his pupils dilated. Priest wanted to pull him close—not to feed but to taste.

He licked his lips, and Oliver mirrored him.

Everything in him felt coiled, poised to strike like a goddamn cobra. “Oliver,” he whispered.

Oliver leaned in close. “Yeah?”

They were less than an inch apart now. Priest could smell everything on him—his cologne, the soap he’d used in the shower, the cotton from his bedding, the faint traces of come after stroking himself off. He shivered, and Oliver swayed closer, prepared to take what he was all but begging for.

Bang!

Priest jumped, head twisting and fangs descending on instinct at the loudsound from the back room. Poe’s muffled “Sorry!” brought him back down to reality, and he took a stumbling step back, panic rising in his gut.

Oliver’s head dropped, groaning slightly. “I hate him. I’m going tokillhim.”

Had they almost just…

He looked at Oliver—at the flush in his cheeks and how his eyes were a little red-rimmed. He knew that look, those signs. He was far too close to being under Priest’s thrall, and he could never live with himself if that happened.

“I have to go, sorry.”

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