It felt as though the ones Rahil had lost were truly haunting him.
For just a moment, the world had seemed right again, as he’d cuddled against Mercer’s chest, letting his lips be stroked, his fangs caressed and the venom within flow so freely that all signs of Mercer’s migraine had vanished. Some hopeful, traitorous part of him was convinced that things were meant to be like that: the two of them, hiding from the world.
The two of them, together.
But then that desire had slipped free in a term he’d forgotten was part of his vocabulary, as if he was lounging in bed with Shefali on a Saturday afternoon, the sound of the boys playing in the living room echoing up the stairs. This wasn’t his life partner, though—was, in fact, a man who’d declined his affections at every turn. It was incredible that they were even friends. And Rahil worried he’d ruined that too.
His attempts to retreat left Leah’s notebook spread across the floor, a picture starting up at him. Scraggly red curls and pale skin. It couldn’t beher. Surely, there were other redheaded women in the city of San Salud. Other redheaded women who’d died from a vampire bite.
Rahil couldn’t think through the frantic spinning in his head, and he fought just to breathe as he slid off the bed. He couldn’t be here. Not with Mercer looking at him like that—so guarded and serious—and the sudden epiphany Rahil didn’t know yet how to explain. He needed to get away. To figure this out.
Mercer had been right to tell him off.
And he was off now, standing in the center of the room, his gaze darting anywhere but at Mercer. “I’ll um, I’ll bring Lydia back. When I’m home.”
Mercer looked like he was about to stand, but he put a hand to his head instead. “I—Okay.”
“And I’ll bring Leah’s—her project, with me,” Rahil added. Whatever happened, he had to finish that. For Lydia. For Leah. He knelt automatically, piling the pieces atop each other. “I can work on it in my, whatever.”
“Okay,” Mercer repeated.
He’d seemed like an open book since Rahil had sat down on his bed, run his fingers through the man’s gorgeous curls and pressed against his beautiful skin, but now he was unreadable again, stoic and staring. He said nothing as Rahil scooped Leah’s technology into his arms, balancing the notebook awkwardly on top. The picture floated to the floor.
Rahil gave it one final look. Through the earthy, nutty tang of Mercer’s blood, he swore he could still taste a different person’s blood on his lips: sweet and spicy. Whoever she’d been,shehadaskedhim. He’d thought he was doing the right thing.
Wasthere a right thing, where he was concerned?
Mercer kept staring at him solemnly, like the answer was no. Rahil had messed this up, like he’d messed up everything else.
He stepped out, stepped away. And then he ran.
Rahil's phone buzzed as he jogged, shaking and aching, through the front door of his house. He could hear Lydia and Avery, still clearly enjoying themselves somewhere above. He wanted nothing more than to ignore them both. Ignore them, and ignore the notebook he held, and pretend like there wasn’t the tiniest chance that his cancer victim and Mercer’s curly redheaded wife had been the same person.
Setting down the weight in his arms, he struggled for the easiest of his many two disasters. Upon opening his phone, he found the massive string of texts he’d been receiving wasn’t even from Mercer—and his heart sank despite himself. Instead of awkward requests to return to a solely business-related partnership, or worse, to not bother coming back at all, his phone was clogged with adorable pictures of a niece’s new puppy, complete with so many responses that he couldn’t even tell who’d posted the first one. Apparently, they were having an adoption party. Rahil was invited. Amira could pick him up if he needed the ride. They were even shifting the time to be closer to sunset, just in case.
Rahil felt sick.
He swiped through useless updates on the Wesley Smith-Garcia case—the jury was about to go into deliberation, it seemed—until he reached the one unrelated text.
Metal Daddy
Let me know when you’re home safely.
Between his sun-poisoning and whatever else the emotions of the day had stirred in him, Rahil suddenly needed to throw up. He grabbed behind him for the front door, but as his hand slid across the knob a knock came from the other side.
Rahil’s chest caught. His blood ran cold, then hot. Had Mercer…?
Despite all the issues it would create, all the emotions Rahil hadn’t yet worked through, he still wanted to throw the door open and find Merc there. He’d smile, small and crooked, and sayhello, babe, or something just as cheesy, and then they’d—what? Live happily ever after? And what would happen to them then, if it turned out Rahil truly had—that he’d—
He drew a breath, steadying himself, and opened the door.
The woman beyond wore gloves and a scarf despite the warmth of the summer, her hood up against the sun and her braid pulled over one shoulder. He would have known she was a vampire even if he hadn’t noticed the trembling, or the hint of black blood-hunger in her eyes, or the way she flinched at every noise, like a hunter was about to creep around the corner.
“Rahil Babcock?” Her voice was raw.
In his present state of emotions, the surname made him flinch. “No—Zaman. Babcock was my wife.”
“But you’re Matthew Babcock’s father, right?” the vampire insisted.
