Page 63

I’m no stranger to feeding from a human, and even with as intoxicating as Ophelia’s blood is, I was by no means in danger of over-indulging. Still, I took enough from her for the loss to leave her feeling less than her best until her body replenished itself. Rest and fluids and iron-rich food should have been the orderof the day, perhaps a long, hot bath to ease away any lingering tension in her muscles. Not her going for a run, certainly, or traipsing across Boston to get her van fixed.

With a vampire stepfather and a half-vampire sister, I had thought she might know enough about our world to be aware that…

I mentally scold myself, stopping that thought in its tracks. It doesn’t matter what she might have known. It was my responsibility to see to her needs, to at least stay long enough to talk to her and make sure she was alright.

In different circumstances, I could have been the one to tend to her. I could have drawn her that bath and stepped out to get whatever coffee or tea she preferred from some local shop. I could have made sure she had something fresh and homemade to eat rather than leftover pizza.

Well.Chef-made.

But the sentiment still would have counted.

Instead, I left her. Then I had the gall to let my temper show when I realized how badly I fucked up.

And now, for the life of me, I don’t know how to fix it.

Ophelia made it all too clear she wants to go back to the way things were. Working together, keeping things professional, forgetting all about that night in my bedroom and our ruse in the alley and the strange, godsdamn unnerving way our bodies seem divinely made to suit each other perfectly.

“On a different note,” Serra says, again startling me out of my thoughts. “The Valentis.”

“What about them?”

“Did you get anywhere with that cousin of Alexandrina’s?”

Gods, I’d forgotten all about Alexandrina. And the cousin. And the painting. And anything else in my life that doesn’t concern Ophelia and this Bureau case.

“I haven’t. But I did get a tip earlier this week…” I search distractedly through the scattered papers on my desk, unusually untidy for me. “Something about a dealer who might have had it at one point. A Loveless? Lovelace? Yes, Lovelace, Jack Lovelace.”

“Say that name again,” she says, sitting bolt upright in her chair like she’s been struck by lightning.

Startled, I glance over at her, only to find her grinning back at me with a look on her face that’s just this side of maniacal.

“Jack Lovelace.”

“Excellent,” she says, still with that Cheshire-cat smile.

“Care to elaborate?”

Serra shakes her head, bounding out of her chair and heading for the door. “Nah. Not yet. I’ll call you if it pans out.”

“Serra—”

“Take care of whatever other shit has you so grumpy, and I’ll take this one,” she calls over her shoulder. “Hanging out with you when you’re like this is a bummer, anyway.”

With that, the warehouse door swings shut behind her.

Perhaps I should take her suggestion, just like I should heed Ophelia’s request for the two of us to be nothing more than partners in this case.

At any rate, it would certainly be better than continuing to sulk and sully the air around me with my brooding.

Resolving to do just that, I look to the papers in front of me—the pointless leads and all the information we’ve dug up on Haverstad. I go over and over the details, like I might find something there I’ve missed the dozens of times I’ve gone through it, something to inform our next move.

While I do, I pointedly ignore the dry ache in the back of my throat and the unfamiliar pressure in my chest, every instinct that would have me reach for my phone and call Ophelia, or better yet, go after her. Track her down and bicker with her somemore, rile her up just to see the daggers in her eyes, hold her close and—

“Enough,” I mutter, turning my attention back to the case.

Despite my best efforts to distract myself with work, it turns out the next move in the case isn’t one of my own making.

I receive a text message at three on the dot.