Page 42 of Claimed By Blood

Unfortunately, I’ve spent the last few decades limiting contact with Finley. Partly for his own safety, but mostly because he deserves better than to be used as a coping mechanism. Now he’s spending every second of his free time around Evelyn—like the rest of the pack—and with jet lag playing havoc on my routine, my carefully constructed world is starting to fall apart at the seams.

Vane knows. So he’s just doing what he should, trying to remind me of the million and one other things that exist outside of our plan to kill Cain. The easiest way to do that is by forcing me to talk about them. I should really listen to him. Having betas—good betas—is the key to being a good alpha. Even myfatherunderstood that.

“You’re not going to find anyone if you continue like this,” he persists. “Frost and Evie are out searching, so are Draven and Silas. Finn’s alone in the hotel with Imogen. We should go back.”

Oh, he’s good.

Playing the vulnerable omega is alone with the unknown vampire card.

I can’t resist the snarl that breaks free of my throat.

“Fine,” I grumble. “We’ll head back.”

This feels too much like giving up. We’ve only been out for three hours and my scathing inner voice is already on my case, criticising my lack of perseverance. It’s a struggle not to just send Vane to check on Finley and continue on alone. Logically, I know that going lone wolf while Cain’s forces could begin hunting for us at any moment isn’t an option, but damn if it isn’t tempting.

Spinning on my heel—and almost crashing into yetanotherhuman in the progress—I stalk back the way we came.

The resort we’re staying at is a fairly nondescript, old-fashioned building. Definitely nothing like the sleek, greenery-covered glass and steel of Manhattan. The dodgy sand-coloured brickwork and loose shutters concerned me when Evie first insisted on this place—the last thing we need is Draven catching light because the sun-shutters don’t work—but actually, her suggestion makes sense.

This is perhaps the least modern establishment I’ve visited in the last decade. There are no holographic displays, just hand painted signage, and no automatic blinds for vampiric guests. In fact, I’m pretty sure the receptionist hadn’t seen an immortal in his life, given how long he stared at us. The best part—no surveillance in any of the rooms. Even the hallways lack cameras.

It’s as close to invisible as we'll ever be. Fortunately, Mia and Finley are both happily hooked up to an old satellite our pack hijacked a long time ago, so the lack of connectivity isn’t a problem.

I scale the stairs—which are on the outside of the building—until we reach the top-floor rooms we’ve rented for our purposes. They’re small enough that we’ve had to pair up and rent out five, which means we essentially have the whole floor to ourselves. Finley is sharing with Silas at the far end of the corridor, and I frown as my eyes land on the room Evelyn insisted on sharing with Imogen.

I don’t trust the youngest daughter of Cain.

Evelyn seems to have completely forgiven her. They’ve been practically glued together since we landed.

It’s creepy, and if I weren’t so preoccupied with Samuel, I would’ve confronted her about it. Her insistence that Draven is on her side, I can understand—I can practically see the thrall bond between them. Frost—who drew the short straw to become my roommate—promised he’d try to warn Evelyn about her while they were partnered up tonight.

It’s the only reason I considered him being alone with her a good idea.

My co-alpha can’t think logically around her. He’s never been level-headed, but his impulsive tendencies get notably worse when she’s near. He’ll jump to do the slightest thing if he thinks it will endear him to her. I understand it, but still…

Love really does make fools out of the best of men.

I pass Imogen’s closed door without pausing because the strength of her scent confirms she’s still inside.

Without knocking, I barge through Finley’s door, scanning the space for any hint that he’s been distressed in the time we’ve been gone. Nothing. His room is just as messy as I’ve come to expect from him, and the man himself is sitting at his desk. He looks up from his desk as the caustic scent of nail polish assaults my nostrils.

“Can I help you?” he asks, quirking a brow.

“He’s obsessing,” Vane cuts in, before I can say anything. “He needs to rest.”

I roll my eyes at my beta, because I knew what he was doing all along. “Honestly, are you my beta or my nanny?”

We have bigger things to deal with. Samuel needs to be found, and we aren’t going to do that from bed.

Finley cuts off whatever acerbic retort is lingering on the tip of Vane’s tongue as he carefully replaces the brush into the bright yellow he’s been applying to his nails and wafts his hands in the air to dry them.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he admits. “I’ve missed you, Gid.”

Biting the inside of my cheek—because he’s tugging on my instincts in just the right way—I move closer to him. I’m dimly aware of Vane—the meddlesome git—creeping out of the door in the background.

Because I’m an idiot who can’t think of anything better to say, I switch the subject.

“What are you painting this week,” I ask, swallowing.

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