Page 41 of Marked
I watch her sway a little in her seat as the alcohol makes her cheeks rosy. “Yeah?”
She nods. “I snuck out when I turned eighteen to go to a club near Baton Rouge.” Another shot. “This is really good,” she says, pointing to the empty glass. “Anyway, it so wasn’t worth it. This asshole decided to spike my drink. Only instead of it knocking me out, I stayed up for like two days. I was so productive Vic said he was gonna give me a raise.”
Her brows narrow. “He never did though.”
The fuck?
It’s so casual the way she says it. Like it’s normal in her life. My insides knot and self-loathing scorches through me.
Guilty until proven otherwise, I chide, but it doesn’t help.
I raise my shooter and down it. Then another. Drowning the anger in expensive liquor. Four shots in, the liquid smolders in my gut and I offer her my hand. “Come on.”
Her fingers are warm in mine, small and smooth. She peers up at me and I haul her into my arms.
She wobbles a little. And it’s the only excuse I need to wrap her in my arms. My heart slams into my sternum, beating so hard I swear it’s going to explode. I lean down. “You okay?” The curve of her ear is like silk against my lip.
Her head bobs and her heart is loud in my ears.
Pulling back, I lead her out of VIP to the dance floor, and spin her around until her back is tight to my chest. She gasps.
My fingers clench into her hips, fitting them against mine as we sway to the beat. It takes her a second and she seems to melt. Her rear grinds into me. Every dip and push back with her hips is torture over my length. My body stirs to life, lust roaring through my veins until my fangs drop against my lip.
Her arm winds up behind my neck, holding me. Those little fingers dip into my hair. A rumble spills from my lips and chest.
As she dances before me, I can’t help but take in the curve of her throat. The way her tank top molds to the upper half of her body. Or the way her back bends and arches.
She’s hot against me. And that damn little skirt is doing all kinds of things to my sex drive. I glide my fingers over the smooth skin between her top and the waistband of the shockingly soft material. She shivers.
Could she want this?
Her rejection that first night at Carnage roars back to me. Her flinching. Turning away.
I step back. My breathing is labored, and I can’t stop my grimace.
Of course she doesn’t.
And I shouldn’t.
She spins in place, eyes heavy-lidded. “Ruin?”
“Want another drink?”
She nods, but the motion is stilted now. There is a wealth of confusion on her face, and I can’t sort it. Can’t decide if it’s real or not.
I turn on my heel and lead the way back to the booth. I’ve downed two shots before it dawns that Lilah isn’t with me. I look around.
She hovers just outside VIP, two lean males speaking animatedly to her. One can’t keep his eyes away from her breasts. The other reaches for her. Lilah frowns up at them, and she shakes her head. When she tries to walk around them, they move, blocking her path with wide, fang-filled leers and too grabby hands. She swats at them.
Prisma starts forward.
I flit past him and step between Lilah and the two twerps as rage darkens my vision. There is a fine undercurrent of pepper in my nose, and I know it’s Lilah’s fear.
The two younger vamps stare up at me, and I catch the momentary lapse in their fucking sanity that they think they are a match for me.
Gold light bounces off their tan faces, and my fangs bare as I hiss. “Scram.”
They hightail it without further prompting.
