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I freeze, but Lara moves past me, tottering down the steps to throw her arms around him like she didn’t see him merely hours ago. His mouth moves, speaking into her ear, but his eyes find me over her shoulder. They slide to Séverin standing awkwardly beside me.

I feel a pulse of something alien to me, my magic roiling beneath my skin against it. I’ve felt it a couple times the last few days, and I can’t work it out. It’s pissing me off. Could it be Séverin that I’m sensing?

I suppress a shiver when Sunday releases Lara and starts prowling toward me. His outfit is simple, and unfortunately for me, effortlessly sexy. The black fabric of his vest stretches across his pecs, displaying the ink all over his upper body.

The combat boots add another inch, making me feel impossibly smaller when he reaches the final step. He throws Séverin a withering glance and jerks his head toward the seats.

Séverin scampers away, leaving me alone with Sunday. His mouth moves, but I can’t hear a thing over the noise.

“What?” I shout over the music, twisting my head and gesturing to my ear.

He steps into my personal space, ducking his mouth to my cheek. His scent slams into me, eliciting a dizzying sense of nostalgia. His breath ghosts across my skin as he raises his voice just enough for me to hear him.

“Can I get you a drink?”

No. No, you cannot.

“Vodka cranberry?” he prompts, and I fold like a cheap lawn chair, nodding my head.

“Coming right up,” he says, turning away.

But he doesn’t leave, his expression so painfully familiar—it’s the face he used to make when he was debating whether to say something he knew would get him in trouble. He leans forward, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, and whispers, “You look great, by the way.”

I hate my body’s reaction to the compliment—hate the surge of blood flooding to places it has no business going. Hate the tremble that works its way down my legs.

I shake myself out of it and hop down the steps, sliding into the bench seat next to Séverin. His leg bounces under the table as his hungry gaze flits around the room. Feeding okay, my ass. I keep half an eye on him while twisting my fingers around a frayed piece of denim on my jeans.

Fifteen minutes later, Sunday appears with two trays balanced in his hands—one laden with shot glasses holding vibrant and acidic-looking liquids, the other with the rest of the drinks. He hands them out, earning some shouts of endearment and back-slapping.

“Here. You gonna have a shot?” He slides in next to me, placing my vodka cranberry on a little paper napkin in front of me. He settles into the seat, his bare arm brushing against mine.

My god, how much cologne did he put on? It’s invading my nostrils, curling around the part of my brain responsible for decision-making and strangling it like a boa.

I nod, not trusting myself to lean too far into him in case my face somehow magnetizes into the crook of his neck for old times’ sake.

I’m aware that drinking alcohol right now is an incredibly bad idea, given my body’s reaction, but I’m beyond caring. I’ve been an angel for years, taking far more shit than I should have, so it’s time I tossed my halo and let myself live.

And what was it the cards said? Embrace the chaos.

That’s how I find myself clinking shot glasses with Sunday and throwing it back, the sour fruit taste making me salivate. It goes down far too easily so I chase it with another, before taking a generous sip of my vodka cranberry.

I startle when a blistering-hot hand lands on the bare part of my thigh. Electricity zings through me, crackling along my veins as Sunday leans into me once again.

“Easy…as I remember, you aren’t much of a drinker,” he says, and I bristle.

Against my better judgment, I twist to face him, leaning in at the same time he tips his head, my lips brushing his ear as I speak. “When in Rome.”

It comes out more flirtatious than I intend it to, the alcohol clearly addling my brain already.

I don’t miss the way the corner of his mouth lifts up, or the way he shuffles in his seat as he side-eyes me. He opens his mouth to speak, but there’s a sudden burst of excitement from the rest of the group as a song comes on. I make my excuses and stay with Séverin, who’s sipping slowly on his drink.

“So, you can drink alcohol, then?” I shout over to him. He nods, looking morosely into his whiskey tumbler. We sit quietly and watch the crowd.

Of course, there’s one person I can’t stop staring at, his hip movements hypnotic under the blue and pink strobe lighting. Sunday raises his hand to his face, the half-skull tattoo there making a devilish mask. The people around him fall into him like dominoes. A well-defined man at his back, pressing into him. A woman running her manicured hands over his chest. He’s living his best bisexual life right now.

I sling the rest of my drink down and grab Séverin’s hand, tugging him out of his seat.

“Dance with me.” It’s not a question, but the little vampire protests.