Page 23 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
“I suggested we move in together.” Rory’s shoulders hunched forward. “After that, he started pulling away. Cancelling plans. Working late. Three weeks later, he told me he ‘needed space.’” His fingers made air quotes around the words. “Classic, right? Couldn’t even come up with an original breakup line.”
…never good enough…of course it would end…so stupid…
The melancholy Rory felt leaked into me, seeping through me like poison.
My fingers itched to reach out to comfort him. I clenched my fist into a tight ball, because knowing Rory, he’d bloody well bite me. “Look, Rory, honestly? Dev sounds like a fucking twat. I’m surprised you even want to spend so much time and energy trying tofind—”
Rory’s eyes suddenly widened, his attention shooting past me toward the bottom of the stairs. “That’s them!” he hissed, practically vibrating with excitement.
I turned to look. Two men had entered the club—both muscular, exuding that distinctive predator energy that marked them as shifters. The taller one had a shaved head and a tattoo crawling up his neck, while his companion sported a man bun and a carefully groomed beard. Both wore expensive-looking shirts that strained against their chests.
They matched the photos Rory had shown me earlier.
Thank god. Finally we could get down to actual police work and away from whatever emotional minefield I’d stumbled into.
“Right, you said you know them, yes?” I asked, straightening my posture.
Rory’s face contorted into something between a grimace and a smirk. “Um… Did I say that? Well, I sort of do. I met them here once, ages ago, before Seb banned us. But I don’tknowthem, know them. Well, you see that one on the right, with the hair? I sort of know his mouth. And… his dick too.”
I gasped so hard I choked. “Bloody hell, Rory!”
…wasn’t a bad dick either…
Brilliant. Just brilliant. Rory had shagged our primary suspect. This case kept getting better and better. I fought desperately to block out both Rory’s wandering thoughts and my own inexplicable irritation at the mental images they conjured.
“And hey, I know his first name, at least! Bradley. I think…” He frowned, swaying slightly in his seat. “Yes, that was it. And his friend, Brody. Or was it Brady…? Anyway, I’ll go flirt with Bradley for a bit. Then I’ll lead into Dev somehow and hopefully get something.”
“Absolutely not,” I said firmly. “How would you even do that? Plus, you’re notselling your bodyfor information. Not to mention that you’re now rather drunk, and this is a sensitive investigation. I’ll approachthem—”
But Rory was already standing, shuffling out of his overshirt, then straightening his black mesh garment that kept drawing various eyes with its glimpses of his bare skin.
I shot to my feet, blocking Rory’s path.
“I’m not drunk, Teddy,” he said. “Honest. Look, I’ll walk one foot in front of the other, all the way.”
Before I could physically stop him, he blew me a kiss and staggered away in a ridiculous zigzag, heading straight for the man possibly called Bradley.
I watched, horrified, as Rory intercepted the man, immediately placing a familiar hand on his chest. Bradley’s face lit up with recognition, and he leaned down to speak directly into Rory’s ear.
The noise of the club seemed to fade around me, leaving only the sound of my own breathing and the distant thump of bass. I just stood there, hovering at our table. My eyes refused to stop following Rory’s animated gestures, the way he tilted his head back to laugh at something Bradley said, how his fingers lingered on the man’s chest.
Bradley’s shaved-headed friend seemed less than impressed. He laughed, shook his head at the pair, and walked past the bar towards the corridor.
I made a decision. We needed information, so splitting up momentarily made tactical sense. Rory was “handling” Bradley—and despite his inebriated state, he was clearly in his element. He might be too drunk for my liking, but he wasn’t helpless. We were in the middle of a crowded supernatural club. If Bradley tried anything Rory didn’t want, Rory would happily make a scene.
I’d follow the friend—Brody slash Brady—get what information I could, and circle back in five minutes.
I caught Rory’s eye across the room and tapped my watch, then pointed toward him. Rory gave me a surprisingly subtle nod before refocusing on Bradley.
Still, as I moved toward the corridor, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I didn’t want to leave him.
The corridor housed private rooms styled as additional “listening booths.” From the sounds emanating through the doors—moans, gasps, and occasional growls—it was clear these spaces served purposes far beyond music appreciation.
The shifter I was following wanted a smoke, not a hookup. I continued to the end of the corridor, where it opened into a brick-walled room, styled as a courtyard, with ventilation that whisked smoke upward. Despite the efficient air circulation, the unmistakable scent of cigarettes hung in the air.
The man stood alone, back against the wall, drawing deeply on his cigarette.Called it.
My fingers twitched toward my pocket. I’d been trying to quit for months, but kept an emergency pack for extreme stress. Apparently, clubbing with Rory qualified.
