Page 12 of A Sip of Sin

That first meeting of Munro when Hollen had tossed intimidation aside with sheer stubbornness had apparently only given him a small peek at how overpowering Munro could be.People parted for him, making a space where there had been no escape before. The murmurs were plucked from the air, all eyes on him.

Hollen couldn’t look away as Munro came near, stopping just short of the edge of the table. His lips were set in a line, the ice in his eyes morphed into pure fire. His presence smothered everything but the scent of tea and the brutal cold that seeped deeper into his bones with each heartbeat.

“Hollen, come here,” said Munro, offering his hand. A few strands of hair escaped from his hair tie, slipping over his shoulder.

Hollen shivered, his teeth chattering. There was nothing but cold—not even a whisper from George to reassure him. It was worse than sitting on cement in the depth of winter or diving into water filled with ice. The obsidian waswrongto the very lines etched across the surface.

He edged toward Munro, gasping when his warm, outstretched hand touched him. He could lose himself in that touch, goosebumps bursting over his skin as relief flooded him. When he slipped from the edge, his heart stuttered, flickering into its normal rhythm almost instantly.

Munro’s grip was loose as he slowly tugged Hollen closer, barely a few inches between them and a spice of heat. Munro’s broad shoulders and chest filled his vision, his neck pale beneath his dress shirt. There was a small stain on the collar—something brown that had probably been of the deepest red.

“Now tell me,” said Munro, sliding his fingers over Hollen’s chin and tilting his head. “Who told you a silly tale about vampires? Who told you the fable was not as much of a myth as you thought. Was it my son?”

Hollen tried to look away, but Munro held his gaze. His breath caught, draining from his lungs in a long sigh. There was more than blue in his gaze, the flecks of his iris standing out. If helooked close enough, he could imagine seeing himself, his lips tinted blue but his cheeks flushed pink. One blink and he could fall into a sleep that there would be no reason to wake up from.

I was wrong.Munro wasn’t intimidating in the least, his eyes a warm thought that lingered in his own. He wasn’t sure why he’d ever feared him when there was a heat spreading from where they were touching, his lips tingling as he licked them. It wouldn’t be hard to push his hands into Munro’s hair, freeing it all from the tie to let it roam free. Some would fall across his shoulders with Hollen’s fingers still tangled in the strands.It looks so soft.

Munro narrowed his eyes, the displeasure seeping straight into Hollen’s chest with the thud of a whip. “Answer the question, Hollen.”

“George.” Hollen’s voice was barely above a whisper. “George told me.” It was true, but then why did it feel like a betrayal? Munro probably wanted more from him than a simple name that could have belonged to thousands of people in the country.

“Hmm, I don’t believe I know him.” Munro smoothed his thumb over Hollen’s cheek, and his eyes fluttered shut on their own. He licked his lips again, hoping to feel the scratch of that thumb against his tongue. Bergamot and chamomile soaked into his senses, warming him with a tranquil peace. He could lay back on the stone and justsleep.

“He’s my friend,” said Hollen. It took every ounce of effort to get the words out, his stomach twisting with guilt at the same time his chest filled with something sweet.

“Eyes open, sweetheart,” said Munro.

Hollen tried to resist opening his eyes to the stark light and audience, but Munro was so persuasive—so pretty. There was so much more to see, like the lashes that brushed against his cheeks that were two shades darker than his hair, and the small scar on his chin that hid so well.

Munro was still smiling when Hollen opened his eyes, a hesitant reluctance in his gaze. He hadn’t stopped moving his thumb, teasing Hollen’s senses.

“Tell me about George,” said Munro, his words dripping with warm syrup that slithered straight into Hollen’s lungs. There was something else beneath the spices, rich and deep with tones that were almost like leather.

George stirred in his mind, snapping his trance. “Don’t tell him anything.”

His voice was so sharp that Hollen flinched away, breaking Munro’s gaze and leaving his skin bare. The warmth disappeared in a wisp of smoke, the sodden cling of his clothes and the cold of the table so near that it ached.

But George’s words were worse than all of it, carving straight through his brain until his vision blinked. It almost sent him to his knees as his vision dimmed, the bright lights of the room lost in shadow.

“Sorry,” said Hollen, covering his eyes with one hand.Fuck, that stings.George was usually so quiet, but in the few times he’d yelled, it had never hurt so bad. It had never made him want to hurl his dinner in front of strangers, shivering while they showed off their fangs.

“I should go,” said Hollen. He peeked through his fingers, spotting the door and stumbling toward it. No one moved to stop him, not even Munro, who still had his hand outstretched. “Sorry. I can’t stay.” He staggered, wiping at his nose when he felt something drip. His hand came away smeared with blood.

This is not good.

The blood seemed to end the stillness and the shock in a single heartbeat. Rhys lunged for him, leaping over the table with his lips curled over his teeth. He hissed when he touched the surface with his hand, but it didn’t stop his momentum.

Corby reacted a moment later, grabbing Rhys and throwing him back, only to rush ahead himself, closing the distance too quickly to be natural. Rhys hit the far wall, so close to the throne that the edge of his robe caught on one of the wicked curved antlers, the delicate fabric tearing to pieces.

Munro was the only barrier left, and he struck like a serpent, grabbing Corby around the neck as he tried to pass. There was a scream as Munro drew him close, whispering something into Corby’s ear that Hollen couldn’t hear.

Hollen turned away, running for the door and slipping through it before Corby had the chance to break free. His footsteps echoed as he ran out into the darkness and under the blinking lights.

His breathing came in harsh pants, his lungs filling with the copper scent as more blood dripped down his face. Each step was an effort as his legs went leaden.

The white of his uniform soaked red as he ran through the kitchen and straight out the door, hardly noticing that every seat in the place was still empty. Someone called out for him with a voice he vaguely recalled as the chef’s, but he didn’t look back.

He didn’t stop until he was a block from home, his throat sore and his breathing a ragged mess. Tears and snot had dried on his face, leaving itchy tracks behind. There was no one on the street in the darkness with the sun faded into fog.

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