“…so many opportunities here,” Devon crowed, waving his bottle in the air. Every once in a while, between his sales pitches and his gulps of synth, he’d absently reach back as if he expectedher to be there, ready to be grabbed, but she was always just half a step out of his reach.
Vampires were handsy with their companions. They liked to keep them as close as possible — preferably in their laps — and Devon was drunk enough to no longer care how many bottles she could sell if she reeked of him. It wasn’t unusual for him, but every time it happened, she had to remind herself that it wasn’t right to sentence a man to death. Even if he was a gross prick.
“The elves don’t look down from their towers. There’s nothing but money to be made out here if you— if you have the right…” Devon reached back mindlessly again, pawing the air like an animal.“…connections.”
Dahlia tried to hide her grimace, but she suspected she failed when she accidentally caught Mr. Bowan’s eye.
The old man was handsome in a sharp, old money kind of way. His skin was a deep gold, his silver hair artfully styled around his ears and nape. He wore a pinstripe suit that probably cost more than every penny she’d ever earned.
And he looked completely fed up.
“Girl,” he snapped, striking the floor with his cane, “come here.”
Happy to have an excuse to no longer be in Devon’s range, she stood beside his chair and asked, “Can I get you something, sir?”
“No. Stay there,” he grunted. He pulled out a cigar from a silver case that wasalsoprobably worth more than her entire life. Clipping the end with his claws, he muttered, “I just couldn’t watch that whelp grab at you any longer. If my anchor were here, he’d tell me to shoot him.”
Dahlia had to work very hard to keep her expression neutral. Devon was busy with his drink, but she could never be too careful. Only the gods knew what he’d do if he thought she was gossiping about him. Or worse: laughing at his expense.
Mustering a perfectly inoffensive compliment, she replied, “Your anchor sounds very interesting, sir.”
Mr. Bowan shot her a look from under his heavy brows as one of his men leaned over to light his cigar. She was pretty sure it was an insult that he didn’t offer one to Devon, his host, but the man was too drunk to pick up on it.
Blowing out a cloud of fragrant smoke, he said, “Interesting is a word for it. Pain in my ass is what I’d call it.” He leaned back in his chair. “What’s your name?”
“Dahlia, sir.”
“Like the flower?”
“Yes,” she replied, surprised.
“Don’t look so shocked.” He didn’t smile, exactly, but something in his hard eyes softened. “My anchor keeps fresh flowers in our house. He says it makes it feel less like a tomb. Dahlias—” Mr. Bowan tipped his head in her direction. “—are his favorites.”
She had no idea why he was talking to her. Most of the VIPs ignored the servers or treated them like meat. Mr. Bowan wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy, but he spoke to her like she was a person, which was more than she could say for Devon.
Casting a cautious glance at her boss, who seemed to only just realize that his guest wasn’t paying any attention to him, she asked, “Have you been to the flower market here, sir?”
Mr. Bowan took a long draw from his cigar before he shook his head. “No. Should I?”
“If your anchor likes flowers so much, I’d recommend it. There’s a morning and night market. It’s where all the florists in the city get their flowers every day and it’s just stunning to walk through. Your anchor might have fun?—”
Devon’s grating voice rose above the music piped in through the speakers hidden in the awning. “Dahlia, unless you’re offering Mr. Bowan a drink, shut the fuck up.”
Her jaw clenched. Anger was a tiny burning coal in her belly, hot and useless.
Averting her gaze, she couldn’t quite get her shoulders to slump in the way they probably should’ve.Head down, tray up.That was the rule. It helped to look meek and cowed. Normally she could fake it better, but something about tonight made it more difficult.
“Miss…” Mr. Bowan cast her an expectant look.
She tried not to move her lips too much. “McKnight, sir.”
Turning his flinty gaze on his host, the old vampire sneered, “Miss McKnight was giving me some useful advice — unlike yourself. You haven’t stopped spewing bullshit since I walked in here.”
Devon slammed his mostly empty bottle onto the table. “What? It’s not bullshit! San Francisco is the new?—”
In a blatantly dismissive gesture, Mr. Bowan angled his body toward her. “What do you think, Miss McKnight? You seem smart. Do you think there’s room for new commerce in the Elvish Protectorate?”
Cold sweat covered the back of her neck.Fuck.
