Page 8 of Mystique of the Fallen
Without a clue how to handle the recent developments in his own life, Roman walked out of the townhouse once everything was settled. He was relieved to find Grant’s car gone as he waited for James and Sebastian to climb into his vehicle. Roman paused before starting the engine.
“James, is Nikolai busy now?”
“He had a meeting, but it should be done by now. Everything okay?”
“I can’t comfortably answer that question. I’d like to explain. Can I take you guys out to dinner?”
James scoffed as he pulled his phone out and his fingers flew over the screen. “Like Nik is going to let you pay for anything.”
“Whatever. Sebastian, pick your favorite place and make it expensive if Nikolai insists on paying,” Roman replied.
“I can get us a private room if you want,” Sebastian said.
“Do that. I’ll invite some friends,” Roman responded, digging out his own phone and texting the five couples he was closest with—all of them undead except for the man who’d given Roman life.
He shuddered as he recalled the revulsion on Grant’s face and the sneer in his voice as he’d called Roman a zombie. That wasn’t the matebond meeting he’d envisioned, but it was what Fate had planned for him. Roman finally remembered his gratefulness and thanked the goddess—not just for Grant, but also for the air he was breathing.
Chapter 4
For once, Grant didn’t think about the consequences of his actions. He raced out of the parking lot of the upscale housing development and drove straight to the liquor store. With a case of beer in one hand, he walked out with a troubled mind and one goal—to forget the entire day.
Since Aunt Florrie didn’t approve of alcohol any more than she did homosexuality, Grant drove to his fancy but dirty condo, which he’d promised to clean. He flipped on the television after stowing the chilled cardboard box of treasures in his fridge, grabbed two beers to numb his mind, and sacked out on the sofa.
In two large gulps, he emptied the first can and tossed it aside. It landed on the hardwood floor with a metallic thunk, and he belched loudly. Grant didn’t want to get up immediately, so he opted to consume the second beer with some restraint as he surfed through the channels.
It didn’t matter which show he landed on; the only thing Grant could see was the popcorn-smelling zombie who’d demanded his phone number. What the hell was he supposed to do if the guy texted or called?
Ignore it.
But was that what he wanted?
Hours passed as Grant failed to keep those few minutes with a stranger named Roman out of his head, despite the number of cans now littering his floor. His phone had beeped and rang often, but it wasn’t the one Roman had the number for. That one was still stashed in his glove box. If Grant brought it into the condo, he was afraid Reginald would find it and his chance to escape would hit an obstacle. That would cost him more months trapped in a life he no longer wanted.
As if he’d summoned the man, Reginald appeared in the living room. Grant rolled his head to side and enjoyed the way the room spun. The beers were pleasantly sloshing through his system. Unfortunately, they weren’t doing shit to calm his nerves or rid him of memories of the handsome zombie with the way-too-attractive face.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Reginald demanded. As usual, he was dressed impeccably in an expensive suit and his brown hair was gelled perfectly into place. He’d been wearing his hair like that since the day he’d graduated from law school, and Grant wanted to muss it. But Reginald didn’t allow that—not even during sex.
“Huh?”
“Are you drunk?” Reginald screeched, glancing around the space Grant had failed to clean. Reginald hated messes. Maybe that was why Grant insisted on making them. That thought made him laugh. Grant hadn’t realized he’d grown so dirty to annoy the irritating man.
“Yep.”
“What the hell is so fucking funny?”
“Nothing,” Grant said, trying to contain his chuckles.
“Why the fuck didn’t you answer your phone?”
“Did it ring?” Grant asked stupidly.
Reginald narrowed his brown eyes, and Grant wished he could remember when they weren’t filled with meanness and arrogance. “I assume you left your assignment early because you have the evidence we need.”
“Nope, some zombie showed up,” Grant replied. Guilt surged through him at mentioning Roman to Reginald, but Grant wasn’t sure why. The fallen knight wasn’t anything to him. But Grant distinctly remembered being called Roman’smate. What the hell did that mean anyway?
“Did you call the police? You were on human land. That goes against the treaty, and you should’ve had the zombie arrested.”
Grant laughed again. “I can’t call the cops. They hate me.”
