Page 21 of Fangs & Freaks
I don’t need to ask who left it. No one else would be brazen enough to waltz into our home undetected. She’s toying with us, staking her claim in a way that’s both dramatic and infuriating.
I approach the wall, careful to avoid the knife discarded on the floor. The blade still glistening with what I can only assume is her blood, a little calling card left for us to stew over.
“She thinks he’s hers,” I mutter, running a hand over my hair.
Varys is ours. We saved him. Protected him. We are still nursing him back from the brink. He’s part of us now, whether he knows it or not. And Bloody Mary? She can rot in whatever pit she crawled out of. Blackwell and I won’t let her take him.
But how do you fight someone you know nothing about?
I force myself to turn away from the message, pacing. Blackwell’s voice echoes in my head about how sexy she was and his request for her to mark him while riding his cock.
I can’t let his craziness distract me.
Easier said than done.
The description of her from Varys and Blackwell paints her as almost otherworldly–lethal, yes, but sexy as hell. The kind of creature who could make you forget your mission with a single glance. I scoff. How dangerous could she really be?
The door creaks open behind me, and I don’t need to turn to know it’s Blackwell. His heavy footsteps and the weight of his disapproval fill the room like a thundercloud.
“This is what she left for us?” he asks, his voice clipped. “She’s trying to intimidate us.”
“It’s working,” I mutter.
He spins on his heel, crossing the room to close the distance between us. “What exactly is your problem, Warrick? Scared of a little theatrics?”
My jaw clenches, and for a moment I think about ripping his throat out. “My problem is that she walked in here and left that message without a single soul noticing. That’s not just theatrics, Blackwell. That’s a problem.”
Blackwell opens his mouth to retort, but steps closer, his dark eyes locking on mine. “We need a plan then, if you’re that worried about her. And don’t tell me you’ve already thought of one, because I know you haven’t.”
“I’m working on it,” I snap, my hands balling into fists.
Blackwell doesn’t flinch. “Maybe we should be asking Varys. He’s the one with the family history, isn’t he? His grandma apparently told him all about Sexy Little Mary.”
The mention of Varys cuts through my anger, redirecting my focus. Varys. The unicorn. The reason we’re even having this argument in the first place.
“Fine,” I say, pushing past him. “Let’s ask him.”
“What about church?” Damon asks.
“Postponed. Make sure no one gets in or out of the compound without me knowing!” I bark, storming away.
Varys is in his room, the door slightly ajar. I pause, hearing a soft, rhythmic sound. My eyes narrow as I push the door open further, and the sight before me freezes me in place.
Varys is standing in front of the full-length mirror, his muscular frame illuminated by the soft glow of the lamp. One hand is braced against the mirror, the other working the length of his cock with a deliberate rhythm. His head is tipped back, his dark hair damp with sweat, and his lips are parted, releasing soft, breathy moans.
I shouldn’t look. I know I shouldn’t. But I do.
He smells like dessert—something sweet and tart, like cranberry and orange, the scent thick in the air and utterly intoxicating. My mouth goes dry, and I clench my fists to keep from reaching out.
Blackwell’s sharp intake of breath tells me he’s just as affected, though he hides it better.
“Varys,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend.
His head snaps up, eyes wide with surprise. His hand stills, and for a moment, the room is silent except for the sound of our breathing.
“I—” he starts, his voice shaky, but I cut him off.
“Don’t stop,” I say, surprising even myself.
