Think vampire novels, not werewolf. Blood fetishes, sires, and monsters that lurk in the shadows. Not ridiculous, just different than expected. I can handle this; Lord knows I’ve survived much worse.
Three guys bending over backwards to help me? That managed to get me out of my situation where no one else has ever even attempted it? How can I turn my nose up at that, especially when they look at me like they actually care?
Pushing the rising hysteria back down, I toss all of my questions and fears into a box to be unpacked over the coming days. I latch on to their presence, caging me in between the three of them. It doesn’t make me feel trapped like it should, but safe. They don’t try to write me off as seeking attention, merely giving me time to break down and process while ensuring I’m safe enough to do so. They keep the rest of the world at bay simply so I have time to process things in a way I can cope with, and it makes it easier to compose myself.
Swiping a lock of hair out of my face, I straighten up on the couch. “Okay.” Not really knowing what to say, I simply nod to myself. “Okay.” Exhaling a heavy breath, I turn to face Mason. “I think I’ll take that wine now.”
***
Half a bottle later, I’m feeling better, more like my old self. Before Blake, when fear and anxiety were forced to become a part of my personality.
Mason returns with shot glasses and a bottle of clear rum, setting them on the coffee table that the rest of us are gathered around. “Alright, Risa, game time.”
My eyebrow quirks up, and rather than look at me with pity, a dangerous glint appears in his bright blue eyes. “I know you’re drowning your numerous questions in booze; been there, done that. So how about we shove all of the heavy stuff aside for a bit and get to know each other a little better? Might make this whole thing a little easier.”
Taking the glass he slides my way, sitting on the small rug with my legs crossed, I tilt my head in acknowledgment. “Sounds good to me. How do you want to do this?”
He licks his lips, taking a seat to my right, the only free side of the table left. “Go around the table, and if the person would rather avoid answering, they have to take a shot. If they do answer, the person asking has to take a shot.” At my nod, he decides to kick things off easy. “Risa; how old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
He takes a shot and I turn to Bane, following the same train of thought. “You?”
“Twenty-eight,” he answers automatically, “and as a bonus; Mason’s a year younger than me, and Stryker one beneath him.” I slam back my shot, extending the glass for Mason to refill. Bane takes a second to decide on his question before asking, “Favorite thing to do when you have free time?”
I pause. It’s been so long since I was ever able to actually do anything just for me, that I’m not even sure I’d still enjoy the same things I used to. “Running.”
He frowns. “Lie. Drink.”
Grimacing, I take my shot as penance. “Not exactly a lie, but not a full truth either. It was the only real time I was free, and I spent a lot of time fantasizing about not circling back on the trail, running until I couldn’t anymore. Lost myself to the music, and for a little while, I was able to be in my own little world. But you’re right; the actual running part sucked ass.”
“So why’d you do it?” Stryker asks.
Holding his gaze, I take another shot rather than answer. They’re already looking at me with pity; I don’t need to pile onto it by explaining that I was expected to stay in shape. After the sort of comments Blake would make, giving me a complex, I’d rather just run than deal with the snide remarks. I’m well aware how pathetic that would sound, and since opting out is an option, I gladly take it.
“Stryker; how long have you three lived together?”
He wavers a hand from side to side. “Around eight years? Bane and I a couple before that.”
“What brought you three together?”
Stryker pointedly waits for me to take my shot for the other question before answering. And even then, his answer is simply slamming back a shot. “Mason-“ his eyes cut to the side and I follow “- why’d you decide to come slither into our beds, Goldilocks?”
Flipping him off, Mason hesitates, gripping his shot glass so tightly that I’m worried it’ll shatter. Coming to a decision, he dips a finger in the rum, licking it off and holding my gaze as if expecting to see condemnation in it. “I was turned when I was seventeen. My sire was... not a good person, and I ended up killing him so I could be free of the bond. Spent some time drinking myself into oblivion and trying to pretend that nothing had ever happened, but couldn’t cope with being around humans anymore and went feral for a couple of years before running into these two assholes.”
Stryker takes his shot while I casually point out, “So I guess stabbing you all in your sleep and making a break for it is out.”
Bane snorts. “You can give it a shot, but unless you tear our hearts or throats out, you’re shit out of luck, gorgeous. We’ll hunt your ass down and haul you back before you end up getting yourself killed.” Even though he doesn’t have to, he takes a drink and winks at me. “Might even enjoy it, so please, feel free to give it a try if it makes you feel better.”
Frustratingly enough, even the thought of hurting them twists my stomach, like a failsafe their bites coded into my genes to make me inexplicably loyal. The visual of hovering over one of them with a blade pressed to their neck, though? Very different feelings come to mind, and none of the images I conjure are productive to this conversation.
I glance between Stryker and Bane. “So you two have always been like this instead of turned?”
They cut me some slack for not picking one in particular to continue the game, a buzz riding me hard as Stryker grins. “Born and raised. What about you, what do you do for a living?”
Taking a drink simply for the courage, I wait to see how they react. “Cage dancer at a club. Well, used to be, I suppose. Now I’m a jobless bum mooching off of you three.”
There’s no judgment in their eyes, or skeevy looks. Stryker simply takes his shot and waits for me to ask someone a question. Mulling it over, the alcohol acting as liquid courage, I turn to Mason, sensing that he’ll be the least likely to jerk me around and avoid answering, more inclined to give blunt truths.
