Page 53 of A Sip of Sin

That was different.He looked at his hands, but they still looked and felt like his, his fingers curling without delay. George was simmering beneath his skin, stuck to every part of him.

“Oh.” Adair’s eye went wide, his cheeks flushing red. “Hi, Gorgo.”

“Hello, Adair.” Hollen’s hand moved seemingly on its own, grasping Adair’s and bringing it to his lips. He hesitated before placing a kiss on his knuckles. When he let go, the warmth of Adair’s hand lingered.

Adair was tinted red when he turned away, clutching his hand to his chest. “Have a great day, you two.”

“Yeah,” said Hollen, his own voice weak as he clutched the sink. His knees seemed ready to buckle with how much they were wobbling, the muscles aching and strained.

He waited for Adair to disappear and the sound of the front door opening and closing. “What the hell was that? You guys better not have fucked last night. That is not okay, George.”

“We didn’t,” said George, Hollen’s skin prickling and his fingers tingling. He wasn’t sure if it was out loud or in his head. “I simply introduced myself.”

“You’re an asshole.” Hollen quirked his lips. The porcelain was freezing, sucking the last of Adair’s warmth from his skin. Even when he started the shower, the water still seemed chilled. Unsteadily, he washed himself, pulling his uniform on after he was dry before heading out the door.

He hadn’t gotten Munro’s number. He doubted he even had one, so he wasn’t able to give him a warning that it was long after opening by the time he made it to the street. A few lights were on, the sidewalk damp from a recent rain that he couldn’t recall.

The walk to work was a blur, most of the buses having delayed routes since most of rush-hour traffic was over. His stomach rumbled along the way, and he realized he hadn’t eaten anything in a long time. When he mentioned it to George, a soothing warmth filled his belly, his hunger fading away to nothing.

“It’s a beautiful night,” said Hollen, grasping the door to the teahouse and leaning against the handle. The sun was gone, but the warmth of it remained, adding to the dampness that hovered over the sidewalks. There were four cars parked in front of the teahouse. The red lettering on the foreign plates caught his eye.

He shrugged, running his hands through his hair before he stepped inside. Pure heat and spices washed over his skin, settling deep into his weary bones. The air inside was even thicker than the approaching fog at his back, countless murmurs filling the air.

Every table was filled, each chair occupied with other vampires looming at the edges of the room. Some he recognized from the regulars who had been there the few nights he’d worked, and others had been part of that terrifying night in the throne room.

The tables themselves had nothing on them but a few scattered bits of paper and pens. One woman dressed in red velvet had a silver dagger before her, the blade glinting in the light.

Am I early or late?Sean must’ve been putting the last of the menu together or changing it to suit Munro’s critiques. But that didn’t explain the packed room or why the conversation was dimming as he was noticed, eyes flitting his way and not wavering.

A thread of pure terror cut through him, his every sense on high alert. The last time vampires had looked at him like that, he’d been on the antipasto menu.

“Is that him?” a man seated near the middle of the room asked, curling his lip as he looked Hollen up and down. He scrunched his nose in obvious disgust as he flicked his tongue over his teeth. The sharp points were unmistakable as anything but vampire.

“What’s going on, George?” Hollen whispered, backing against the closed door. It was thick and firm against his back, as if it were solid steel and not wood. His clothes were flimsy against his sweaty skin. “Where’s Munro?” His voice was muted, barely making it past his own lips. There was bright hostility in so many gazes, but there was no Munro or the comforting iciness of his eyes.

All those nights ago Hollen had almost lost his life to them, with Rhys at the lead. Even with Rhys gone, their gazes were no less hungry. He clenched his hands into fists.

“I don’t know,” said George, his voice loud in Hollen’s ear and sending a shiver of nerves over the back of his neck. “We should leave, Hollen.”

“Not without Munro.” This washisteahouse. If he was hurt somewhere or if his followers had rebelled and bound him to that icy table, he couldn’t leave him behind.

His breath caught as Munro stepped into the dining room, the vampires parting around him without a word. Instead of his usual suit, he wore red tonight, the fabric shimmering in the low light of the teahouse. If there was blood dripping into the collarof his neck, Hollen wouldn’t have been able to spot it against the dark vermillion.

He still smelled of the same spices as he paused in front of Hollen, the air practically saturated in it. That soothing scent called to a base part of him that had no worries about money or hungry stares. It was the same part that made him want to pull Munro in for a kiss, despite the audience.

“What’s going on?” asked Hollen, clutching the door as his knees went weak, the shaky adrenaline hitting him hard. It was easy to forget about the others as Munro stepped closer, touching his chin with cool fingertips.

“How could I be so blind?” asked Munro, his gaze almost sad. “You’re right there—on the edge, and I never even saw it.”

“Munro—” Hollen started, but Munro cut him off as his grip went tight on his chin.

“Tell me about George.”

Hollen swallowed, his eyes watering as he held Munro’s gaze. Munro’s fingers dug into his chin, too strong to tear away from. Those icy eyes were colder than he’d ever seen—colder than the day they’d met.

This wasn’t the same man who had made love to him or the one who tugged at Hollen’s heart strings. Behind those lips was someone who could kill Hollen with a single bite.

“I can’t,” said Hollen. George’s presence flared beneath his skin, a shadow slipping over his flesh. He was so close to the surface right now and barely hidden beneath his knitted consciousness.

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