So fucking dramatic. And for what?
“It is truly your choice. I’m just happy to speak with you again,” I say while internally rolling my eyes.
Aurora’s gaze burns through my back. I imagine her jaw must be on the floor in utter shock at my kowtowing. There was no time to explain the fanfare that must go into dealing with vampires, especially Renato and Vesna.
“I prefer Ezra. The Gaelic language does not suit my tongue,” Renato says, studying his nails instead of meeting my gaze.
The arrogance would be impressive if it weren’t so performative.
“Will the lovely Vesna grace us with her presence today?” I almost choke on the words as they rumble from my throat. Vesna may be beautiful and play the part of the dutiful wife perfectly, but her heart is ugly and cruel.
“Alas, Vesna could not make it. She was called out of town last week, and my trip here was quite unexpected.”
The vampire moves like he’s expecting applause. I’d bet good money he spent an hour perfecting that look in front of a mirror.
He exudes arrogance, but not the desperate kind that needs to be proven. This is the arrogance of a man who has never needed to run. Who has never needed to fight. Because money, power, and other people’s fear have always done it for him.
He doesn’t ask to enter. He just stands there, waiting, like my silence is an oversight, not a decision.
I smirk, leaning against the doorframe.
Let him fucking wait.
Renato may pretend he’s the most powerful creature on Earth.
But we both know the truth.
While we engage in our silent dick-measuring contest, I finally take in the ancient fucker standing in front of me. He’s handsome in a way that shouldn’t work, somewhere between brooding gothic prince and pretentious art student.
Renato’s skin is sickly pale, almost luminous, against the reds and golds of October, as if the world around him forgot to desaturate. His eyes are a deep navy, as rich as royal velvet. And his silver hair, which is streaked with indigo, is pulled into a perfectly messy bun that’s clearly been curated to look like he didn’t try at all.
He’s dressed in, what I must admit, is a beautiful black suit with a matching black shirt and tie that highlights his muscled physique.
Renato absolutely screams darkness and danger, with a dash of douchebag thrown in for good measure.
The tattoo on his neck is like a piece of night stitched into his throat.
If you ask him, it’s a wolf.
If you look closely, you’ll realize the ears are just a tad too big, the legs a little short, and the tail is slightly curled.
You see, vampires drew the short end of the stick when Lucifer created them.
Sure, they’re strong. Beautiful. Powerful. All that nonsense.
But their shifts are a goddamn riot.
What animal does their fearless leader, the one who commands armies of the alive and barely beating alike, shift into?
A fucking chihuahua.
I’ll let that sit with you a moment.
The great and terrible overlord of the minimally functional couture corpses, doomed to shiver in the cold and gnaw on ankles for eternity.
And the rest? Just as pathetic.
Fainting goats, sloths, capybaras, and one poor bastard who turns into a pigeon.
