Page 24 of Vampire Soldier
I hold the glass up. “To you, Davin. For giving me just the thing I needed after the day I’ve had. You could have been useful, you know, and avoided all of this. So, really, I should be thanking you.”
“Please,” Davin croaks, his voice hoarse. His brown eyes are wide with fear.
The scent of his terror is a heady thing. It’s not the same as Blake’s arousal or even her pleasure.
I’m not going to think about her.
Lifting the glass, I toast the man once more before tipping the glass back and taking a large swallow. My body doesn’t care that the alcohol isn’t necessary, but the taste is still as unpleasant as ever. It scalds my tongue, tasting like straight isopropyl. I glare at the drink.
“I know I said don’t get the good shit, but what is this? Rubbing alcohol?”
“It’s the house vodka,” comes the even reply.
I frown as I consider the answer and the drink in hand before shaking my head. “We really should serve better shit.” Regardless, I toss the rest of it back before shaking myself, as if that alone could save me from the rough taste. I gesture to Davin. “Go ahead and give him a drink.”
The vampire walks past me, raising the bottle to Davin’s mouth. When Davin tries to resist, the male grips his face with one hand and pries his mouth open. The bear shifter tries to shout his protests but they quickly turn to garbles as the cheap vodka spills into his mouth. Most of it spills over the man’s chin as he sputters and tries to resist swallowing.
“That’s enough,” I say when the bottle is more than a quarter empty. Without response, the vampire steps back into the shadows.
“Now, there’s a few ways the rest of this night can go. I know which way I’d prefer, but it really is all up to you.” I lean back in the wooden chair, as at ease in it as I would be the overstuffed leather chair in my office at The Place.
Davin’s mouth hangs open, spit and cheap vodka running down his chin to his chest. He’s looking at me with resignation. He’s finally understanding that tonight the consequences of his actions have finally caught up to him and there’s no escape.
The only decision he has to make is how much pain he wants to endure before I find out everything Ambrose requires regardless.
Though his arms are strung up above him, I see the moment his entire body slumps with defeat. His eyes stare at the cement floor between us.
I bite back a sigh of disappointment. I’d really hoped Davin wouldn’t capitulate so quickly, not after he’d resisted my soldiers’ fists for so long. I’ll need to find another outlet, something else to take the edge off of this feral need scratching underneath my skin.
I hold up the empty glass in silent command for a refill. After I toss back another shot, my throat and gut burning, I prop my ankle up on the opposite knee. A moment of clarity strikes and a grin that’s more of a snarl stretches my lips.
“Now, Davin. You’ll be answering every question I have. Then, when I’m satisfied, I’ll be personally meting out the punishment for your cruelties.”
A sorrowful groan escapes the barrel-chested man.
My night is looking up again.
ChapterTwelve
BLAKE
It’s a full circus backstage.
Costumes I personally tagged as “DO NOT TOUCH” have managed to defy the laws of gravity and common sense, migrating across three dressing stalls like haunted taffeta. The glue gun cart is missing—which is honestly alarming—and someone smuggled coconut oil into the green room, even though the floor crew specifically banned it after a debacle Carla is calling the Slip-and-Fall Duo.
Also, the spotlight tech is still misfiring like it’s possessed by a poltergeist with a diva complex.
And to add icing on the gastrointestinal cake, I just helped mop up the chunked remnants of what Carla swears was a shrimp Caesar wrap—one violently rejected by a dancer who should not have eaten seafood from a gas station that shares real estate with an adult toy dispenser.
All before noon.
I shove the mop bucket aside, stepping around a roll of zebra print duct tape that's been kicked into a forgotten corner and isn’t adhering to anything helpful. “I swear to God, if I find glitter in the coffee machine again, I’m locking this place down like it’s goddamn Area 51,” I mutter to myself.
When I applied to be the stage producer here, this isn't even close to what I was expecting.
The music pulses deep inside my chest—today’s soundtrack is a sultry French horn rendition of “Toxic” that sounds like Mardi Gras and a striptease had a baby raised on dark chocolate and revenge. It thumps from the sound system overhead like a heartbeat with a vendetta.
To my left, two dancers are arguing over mid-routine positioning. To my right, one of the interns is trying to staple a torn bustle instead of sewing it, because life is pain, apparently. Someone I can’t see airdrops a burst of perfume that smells like cherries and despair.
