Page 40 of Witches and Wine
“How did you know Malia was yours?” I flicked my claw in the groove I’d already made on the counter.
Harkin arched a thick, dark brow. “Thought you said you’re not a shifter?”
An ego was a fragile, petty fucking thing.
“Forget I asked,” I retorted, turning away.
“For moon’s sake, Wine-o, why do you ask? Hm? I’ll humor your ass,” Harkin countered, blowing a spiraling coil of smoke my way.
For several breaths, I remained silent. Thoughts such as would Chelsea reject me too if she was my mate? Had she had her fill after we fucked? That last one seemed absurd and very unlike the Red I knew, but I was at my wit’s end.
Hermes kicked my shin and widened his eyes at me when I glared at him.
“You have a female you suspect to be your mate, do you?” Harkin asked the question for me, putting the puzzle pieces together before I had the balls to ask it myself, which further agitated me.
I gave Harkin a curt nod. “She’s a witch.”
Harkin looked visibly surprised, his ears perking. After blowing several smoke circles, he nodded. “Interesting. I wish I could give you a concrete answer, but it’s different for all species. Most “monsters”—if you want to label us that—know as soon as they lay eyes on them. It’s second nature. But like you said—” He pointed at me with the cigar. “You’re something different.”
A Greek god with a beast who was neither shifter nor monster—a fucking paradox I sorely wished for the first time in my clandestine existence that Ididn’thave.
“Tell himwhyyou feel she is, though, bro,” Hermes urged.
Sighing, I furiously rubbed my face with both hands. “I felt this strange connection to her the first time we met. I assumed it was the attraction. She’s fucking hot, and I’ve always dug redheads. But she was the polar opposite of me, which made zero sense in my head as to why I’d pursue her. Yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I becameconsumedby her.” A daze overtook me, and I stared at the wood grains on the counter, their swirling patterns morphing into Chelsea’s auburn hair when the wind caught it right.
“You felt the urge to protect her? Toclaimher?” Harkin asked, propping a knee on the counter, a knowing smile edging his lips.
I narrowed my eyes at the shifter because I was treading dangerously close to having to tell him he was right. “Yes,” I whispered, the word coming out more like a question.
“She’s yours, wine god. Not a doubt in my mind about that.” Harkin let out a hearty chuckle. “The real question is, doessheknow that? And would she even want you?”
Rage tore at my bones at the very implication, and the beast poked through. “What the fuck did you just say?”
Harkin threw his cigar to the floor, glaring at me, fur starting to sprout over his shoulders and neck.
Hermes sped to the cigar, stomping it quickly with his boot before shoving Harkin away. “Alright, Harkin. I’m going to ask you to leave before you two do more than make me buy a new countertop. I’ll zoom your way if and when a letter arrives from Malia. Sound good?”
Harkin pulled away from Hermes’ grasp, the fur disappearing into his skin. He pointed at me, the yellow in his eyes still brightened. “Don’t think you’re better than me just because you’re a god. You lot are just as monstrous as we are. Maybeworse.”
Hermes and I stood motionless and silent.
Harkin gave a final snarl before yanking open the door, not using the same care as he had when he’d closed it and pounding it against the wall.
Hermes eyed the vertical crack traveling down the door’s center and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What are you going to do now, Dion?”
Cracking my knuckles, I forced the beast down, glamouring the horns and claws away. “I’m going to find Chelsea. And I’m going to tell her.”
“Tell her what exactly?” Hermes asked the unease in his tone doing nothing to sway my decision.
“That’s she’smine.”
When Apollo saidhe wanted to meet at a new dive bar in town, I’d expected it to be your average run-of-the-mill Irish pub or even a sports bar with a dozen screens everywhere. What I wasn’t expecting was The Crimson Crypt. The outside looked like the building couldn’t decide whether it wanted to attract bikers or vampires. Considering Arcane Cove harbored all walks of paranormal and mythical beings, I found myself curling a hand around my neck as if that’d protect it.
There were several motorcycles in the parking lot, but not enough to constitute it a full-blown biker bar. Other vehicles ranged everywhere from Hondas to Porsches. It was still too early in the evening for the neon signs to glow, but something told me they would blaze in vibrant red. The rose logo dripped some form of liquid in cascading drops onto the bar’s name, coating it.
Sucking in a deep breath, I tugged on the hem of my suit jacket, tightened my grip on the briefcase, and headed inside. Itwas just as divided as the outside with its décor. At first glance, it appeared to be your average American bar fare with a jukebox, numerous hanging TVs playing sports, and several high-top tables. Various logos and insignia hung on the walls—Harley Davidson, Triumph, Orlando Magic, Coppertone. There was no discernible theme, which led me to believe it was someone’s metal sign collection or something similar.
The bar, situated at the back, was what drew the eyes—bathed in red and dark purple lighting, a giant blackened candelabra with lit, melting red candles hung over the black leather high-back stools. The bar was circular and deep mahogany, with so many rows of liquor bottles that the ornate Gothic shelves extended to the ceiling. No music was playing currently, only the overlapping sounds of murmured conversations and the different sports announcers on the TVs.
