Page 199 of White Wolf
Her heart lurched, but she managed to keep her tone casual. “Oh, there’s gonna be an engagement?”
“Well,yeah. And every Italian motherfucker in Queens is gonna be at the party. Jeeeeesus. I can see it now. Fuck. Maybe we should just elope. I mean, she’d kill us, but we wouldn’t have to do all the showers and brunches and awkward out-of-town relatives bullshit.”
“I’ve always liked the idea of Vegas.”
“WithElvis. Shit, yeah, we gotta find an Elvis to officiate. But original Elvis, not that fat jumpsuit shit.”
“Original, right,” she said, trying, unsuccessfully, to stifle a giggle against his neck.
“No capes at our wedding.”
“One-hundred percent onboard with that.”
“I want seven kids.”
“What?” She laughed. “I’m not giving birth to seven children. Fuck that.”
“Five?”
“Try two.”
“Aw, come on, at least three.”
“Negotiable.”
Doubt crept into his voice. “You want kids, right?”
“I do.” She scratched at his chest in reassurance. “But we’d have to have a bigger place than either of our apartments.”
“Oh yeah. Nice two-story in Queens. You won’t miss the city, will you?”
“Nope. I want a dog.”
“Yeah? What kind?”
“Big fluffy shelter mutt. Good with kids. Too lazy to run away.”
“Minivan?”
She snorted. “Hell no.”
“That’s my girl.” He stroked her back, nothing sexual about it, just a gentle petting, broad sweeps down her spine. She felt his face press into her hair, the flicker of his lashes. “Shit,” he whispered.
She slipped her arm around his strong ribcage. He felt so very warm and alive. “I know,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut against the threat of tears.
They held one another, breathing in the quiet, until their phones rang.
~*~
The booths at the Whistle had high backs and black, padded vinyl seats which absorbed sound decently. They were afforded a reasonable amount of privacy in the one Nikita chose, for which he was grateful because Alexei couldn’t seem to stop crying. His sobs had died down, but tears kept leaking from the corners of his eyes and he sniffled and huffed and buried distressed whines in his hands.
“You’ve got to stop,” Nikita said flatly.
Sasha sent him a look that was halfhave pityand halfyeah, I know.He was sitting next to the distraught vampire on the theory that his presence always helped calm Nikita, but the sight of his best friend so close to another vamp was making Nikita’s skin feel too tight.
Monsieur Philippe had tried to explain, decades ago, that the symbiotic relationship between the three kinds of immortals was an important and persistent one, and Nikita had of course dismissed this out of hand. But he’d never tolerated other vamps sniffing around his wolf. Maybe the old man had been right, and it was an instinctual urge to protect what Philippe would have called his “servant,” but Nikita suspected it had more to do with wanting the last living person he loved to never go near any other blood-drinking, no-self-control bastards like himself.
One thing Philippe hadn’t ever said, but which Nikita had figured out: the vampires were the real monsters. Mages and wolves supported them, sure, but they didn’t require the lifeblood of other people to stay alive. It was the violation that made someone a monster. He’d figured that out before he’d been turned into one himself.
