Page 113 of Evil Hearts

I press against the shelf behind me and squeeze my eyes shut tight, angling my body to try to cover and protect Reggie in what feels like the final moments of my thirty-four years of life, but death never comes.

Instead, I feel the beast stop with no more than an inch or two of space between us, the heat radiating from his body overwhelming, and oddly calming. He snorts next to my ear then sniffs my hair, and I swear I hear him hum in approval over the way I smell, so I try to use it to my advantage.

“Please,” I whisper, not above begging to get him to spare our lives. “Please, let us go. I won’t tell anyone what happened here, won’t tell anyone what I saw.” His nose traces the shell of my ear before pushing into my hair, the beast inhaling deeply, and in a way that has butterflies tearing through my belly. “Please… let me leave with the baby and—”

The beast pulls back abruptly, snorts and bellows before something comes down on the side of my head, and I drop to the floor in a heap from the pain that lances through my skull.

And as my mind goes fuzzy, as the world around me fades, the last thoughts I have are of Reggie.

I’m sorry, sweet boy.

I’m so very sorry.

1: We Eat Cheaters ‘Round These Parts

Dorian

Running my tongueover my teeth, I watch closely from behind my glasses as the men across from me fidget with the cards in their hands.

They’re nervous.

Far too nervous for a couple of morons who decided they should try their hand at poker with a gargoyle who has a short fuse, and a temper to match.

Sure, they might be alphas out in their world. Men in positions of power with wealth, and success, and dozens of people following them around, ready to kiss their asses at the drop of a hat, but we aren’t in their world.

Being an alpha in the seedy underbelly of London and it’s much more dangerous labyrinth of secret sects, doesn’t mean shit.

This isour world.

One that very few know about, and even less are granted access to.

A world where men like them are playthings for males like us, and designation doesn’t count for anything unless you’re like my beautiful Jericho.

A gargoyle, an alpha, and a royal dickhead. That makes for a lethal combination, and I love it when I have a front row seat to what no doubt is going to be one hell of a show. Just like I do now.

These men arecheating.

It’s subtle, almost imperceptible. They’ve clearly perfected their skills since the game started gaining popularity here, but my unblinking eyes catch everything, and I saw the signs during the very firsthand.

A sideways glance that could be mistaken for the usual eye contact during conversation, a bored drum of fingers against the worn wood. The incessant, and obviously rhythmic bouncing of a knee under the table. Nearly everything they’ve done has been some sort of signal, so they know when to up their bets or hold steady, and I’m almost sorry that my alpha is going to figure it out if he hasn’t already, then deal with the cheaters the way he usually does.

“I’ll see your two hundred,” the man on the left says, glancing at Jericho before counting out his chips. “And I’ll raise you another two.”

I grin as my mate matches him, then tosses his cards on the table. “Full house.”

Shifting uncomfortably, the man looks at each of us before he lays his hand out with trembling fingers. “Four aces.”

Jericho immediately crushes the mug he was lifting to his lips, shards of metal and foamy beer squeezing between his fingers like grains of sand. He growls, the sound vibrating low in his chest before it works its way out, slipping through the gargoyle’s clenched teeth as the points of his canines scrape along his bottom lip.

Beautiful.

My alpha is absolutely gorgeous when he’s pissed off, and knowing what that means for me is just as lovely. It makes me hard just thinking about it.

Which immediately shifts Jericho’s attention from the man he was going to kill, to me, because he can now smell me.

Those bottomless white eyes flare, and all I can do is shrug. “Don’t act like you’re surprised; you know what happens when you do this.”

“Enough of that, Dorian,” he growls in that deep, gravelly voice, and French accent that is not helping the situation. “Now is not the time.”

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