I also hate leaving her in the dark.
“Stark made it clear he will not be the reason your friend becomes one of us.”
“What? So… he’s just going to let him die? Just let whatever this is… run its course? Where the fuck is he, I’d like to have a word with him.”
“Out. Getting answers. He’s out of range. I’ve already tried.”
“So you can… talk in your heads? I thought so. Well. How much time does Casey have then? Before he… before he…”
She swallows a sob, angry tears making my every limb ache to comfort her, but she lets go of my hand and steps away, leaving my fingers still curled around the shape of her.
I step forward, wanting and needing to do something, anything to make the sadness go away, but she puts up a hand, shaking her head and wiping at her eyes.
“No, please. No. I need a minute. Alone,” and I stand there, helpless again, watching her beautiful body as she walks back into the bedroom, disappearing in the bathroom and shutting the door.
She’s only a room away, but the closed door is a chasm that has opened between us.
The door opens again. Her voice is flat, final. “Don’t let him die before Stark’s back.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
STEWED LIKE A TOMATILLO
Anger fuels me, the city blurring into a smear of concrete and light as I push my speed past its limits. It’s good for me. It will be very, very bad for the greasy, balding worm who is about to learn what my wrath feels like.
I only slow down when I get to the same place as before the attack at Kallista’s apartment.
The nickname—Kallie—settles on my tongue, a sound too soft for a creature like me. It feels like a key turning in a lock I didn’t know existed, a claim staked without a single word.
Mine.
The possessive thought is immediate. Instinctive.
Dangerous.
Except Alek already used that name. And so did the hunter. The sound of it on their lips is a trespass, a theft of an intimacy that should have been mine to claim first.
We are going to have to settle this when I get back.
Later.
For now I have pesky leeches to take care of.
I stick to the shadows, my form melting into them as fangs descend and claws unsheathe. The man recedes; the predator takes over.
I peek through one window, then another, listening, watching, but something isn’t right. There’s no movement, no telltale feral hissing, no surprise attacks.
There’s not even a human in sight.
My fingers brush the antique pocket watch tucked inside my jacket.
Wrong.
Everything about this feels wrong.
Angelo is not subtle. He’s a creature of crude spectacle, one who would want his victory announced with trumpets and screams. This quiet, this vacancy… it’s the wrong shape for him. It’s a design, not a mess.
And it’s not his.
