He angles his eyebrows like I’m trying to deceive him and flips through my identification. “Emme Wird.” he says slowly. “I know you. You’re one of the ones the master told us to watch out for.”
“Ah, yes. Misha is rather protective of us,” I stammer.
“Misha?” he asks.
Oh, and there’s another blush. The bouncer is stunned I didn’t refer to Misha as Master Aleksandr or something equally as formal. And because of it, he grasps just how friendly we are with the most powerful vampire on earth.
Yet, it’s my appearance he fixates on.
“Shit,” he says. “You’re twenty-three? You barely look legal.”
I frown and steel myself for another “little girl” remark.
Like most, he doesn’t exactly tremble in fear at my scowl.
“You’re cute,” he says, flashing some fang. “I get off at two. Wait for me. I’ll take you out and show you a good time.”
Heat pushes its way from my face to my neck, enticing the vampire to latch his attention to my jugular. “Um. No, thank you.”
He leans back on his heels and crosses his arms, appearing amused. “Did you just say no thank you?”
Long dark waves of blue-black hair frame flawless, deep olive skin and gray eyes, that women would pay to ogle at, sparkle back at me. This vampire is not used to hearing no.
“Ah, yes?” I offer.
“I don’t think you understand. With me, you’re guaranteed a good time.”
I start to explain that our last good time with an undead landed us in Vampire Court. His interest drifts from me and toward the direction I arrived from. His gaze narrows as if in a standoff with another predator. When I glance behind me and find nothing, I use the opportunity to slip inside, stopping suddenly when the vampire furrows his brow into a menacing scowl.
Another vampire appears, whispering something that makes the bouncer laugh. He eases back down to his stool, maintaining his focus further down the street.
My pace isn’t as quick as it was, naturally slowing from the unusual encounter. It’s a good thing. I don’t want to appear anxious. Except now that I’m here, it’s an emotion I can’t suppress.
A Chris Young tribute band blasts away, replacing the regular DJ and the equipment she uses. The lead singer is good, belting out Raised on Country and making it his own.
The crowd trickles onto the dance floor and closer to the band, the hoots and hollers growing in numbers as more take to the floor.
The space isn’t cluttered, and I easily snake my way through. I love it. Being petite and thin, it doesn’t take large numbers to trample me. Too many times I’ve relied on my sisters or used my force to avoid being knocked to the ground.
The smile I couldn’t muster before easily appears when I find Bren working the rear bar. He fills a pitcher with beer while pouring whiskey for two men. With a flick of his elbow, he turns off the tap and tops off the glasses filled with ice.
A charcoal gray and navy flannel shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, years of wear threatening to rip the fabric with just one good flex. It’s the one Celia bought him the first Christmas we celebrated together. It lightens those eyes that I swear shed tears when he opened his gift. He loved that we thought enough of him to buy him gifts and include him in our celebration.
Mostly, he just loved us.
I place my purse on the hook beneath the bar and take a seat at the corner. He’s working hard and I don’t want to disrupt his flow. I twist slightly to scan the area. For the moment, there aren’t any girls flirting with Bren. That will change. For now, he’s mine.
Well, I don’t mean mine.
At least, not yet…
Chapter Four
Emme
Thoughts of Bren being mine, for even one night, cues my next blush. The first time I was attracted to Bren was the first time we met and he, well, breathed. He thought of me as a “kid” and laughed when I asked him for a date. It’s a good thing I don’t embarrass easily, says the person who embarrasses very easily.
Bren scratches his light beard. It’s slightly darker than his wavy brown hair, and something he usually does when he’s agitated or thinking matters through. He tilts his head as he reaches for a bottle of scotch. The motion is brief, just enough for me to catch a glimpse at his eyes. They’re deep blue, not the typical werewolf brown or amber.
He must have inherited those pretty eyes from his human mother. I’d ask him, but Bren is very closed-mouthed about his life as a lone and extremely private when it comes to his parents. There’s a lot we don’t know about his past, just enough to see that he’s suffered his lion’s share of pain.
I pass my fingers along the slick wood, realizing how much I’m crushing on Bren. I’ve ignored my feelings for a while, certain his feelings for me had not changed until our latest supernatural debacle. We were hurt. Blood and soil soaked our skin and hair and my clothes clung to me in tatters. I thought I saw him looking at me that way, the way that demonstrated how much I’ve changed and how the challenges we’ve endured these past few years have matured me well beyond my years. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was nothing. Like Taran used to say, “Just cause you’re looking doesn’t mean you want to ride that cowboy bareback till sunrise.”
I wince. Okay, perhaps that wasn’t the greatest Taran quote I could have referenced.
Bren slaps his hand down on a tip and pockets it. “Much appreciated,” he tells the man who left it.
He catches my aroma and whips his head in my direction. “Hey,” he says, surprise marching across his features like an army. “I didn’t see you there.”
His words are staggered, reflecting the shock
