Page 37

Damon looks like he wants to giggle, but doesn’t. In fact, I don’t recall ever seeing him smile, much less giggle. “Not surprising.”
I tilt my head. “I’ll set you up on the floor. I’ll just go and get something for you to wear from Nate’s room.” Though Nate is noticeably larger than Damon, I’m pretty sure he can make it work until I take him to get new clothes.
Slipping into my bathroom, I open Nate’s door, the dark room a little creepy. Hitting the light, I walk straight to Nate’s closet.
“The fuck are you doing, sis?”
“Shit!” I scream, spinning around and coming face-to-face with Nate. Damon comes barging through the door, his eyes feral and his stance stiff. “It’s okay!” I tell Damon, noticing how he looks about ready to rip someone’s head off.
He isn’t looking like the Damon I’ve just met and spent a bit of time with.
“And who the fuck are you?” Nate quips, getting out of bed with his Calvin Klein briefs on.
“Nate, get back into bed.”
“No,” he says, narrowing his eyes on Damon. “I know you.”
“No, you don’t,” I brush him off while praying he doesn’t so I can leave this conversation until tomorrow. I’m hungry, tired, and I didn’t get the rest I wanted and needed, so I’m about ready to jump off the cliff of “calm and collected” and dive straight into the ocean of “lost my shit” with five-foot swells of “I’ll kill you all.”
“Yes,” Nate continues, slowly stepping closer and closer to Damon. “You…” Something clicks in his head, and he suddenly launches toward Damon, his fist flying toward his face.
“Nate!” I scream, throwing myself toward the two of them, but latching onto Nate’s back, my arms connecting around his throat. Damon swerves, dodging his punch calmly, his face not showing any distress. He looks almost disinterested—bored.
Nate falls to the ground with me on top of him.
“What the fuck?” I slap Nate on the back. “Dick!”
Nate flips me on my ass and gets to his feet, pointing down at me. “Stay the fuck there.” Then he turns to Damon. “I fucking know you.”
I get to my feet. “Leave him alone.”
Damon looks to Nate. “I know you do.”
“Shut up, Damon!” I snap. He needs to shut his mouth before he says something stupid. Hopefully, he’ll say it in Latin.
Nate tilts his head. “Et tu puer vetustus amissus….”
Well, there goes that theory.
“You speak fucking Latin?” I yell toward Nate, but he throws his hand up, halting me. Getting my phone out of my pocket, I quickly pull up the translate app, so I can type at least one word I catch into the program. I snap my mouth closed, sensing the tense energy in the room. It’s almost like two devils have come head-to-head, and one of them is going down. It’s eerie, creepy, and goose bumps break out over my spine at just how seriously terrifying this is.
Damon’s stance changes. The air shifts as his shoulders square, his eyes break into black marbles, and his lip curls.
I step back, realizing how little I know about him. His entire being just morphed in front of my very eyes. No longer is he the quiet valet boy who speaks hardly any English. Now, I’m seeing him—as he put it—the Alpha Lost boy.
“Pueri et im amissa.”
Lost Boy.
Okay, so Nate knows about them. Or something was said about the Lost Boys. Of fucking course he does.
“Well this is all great and everything, but I’m tired—”
“Madison! Shut up!” Nate snaps at me.
He turns back toward Damon, stepping closer. My fingers twitch, wanting to get between them to stop any other altercation from happening. “Non potes habere eam,” Nate seethes, his lip curled and his steps calculated. Like a hungry tiger, waiting to take its kill on his prey.
Can’t have her.
Okay, what the fuck?
“Have me?” I ask, looking up from my phone. “What are you two actually fuckin—”
The door bangs open, revealing Bishop standing there, his dark hoodie over his head, in his loose, torn jeans, and with his combat boots on his feet. His eyes scan over me first before going to Nate and Damon.
“Are you kidding me?” I yell, quickly making my way toward Damon.
Nate is lethal; he could snap someone’s neck with his bare hands and not blink, but Bishop? Bishop is a different level entirely. He’d not only snap your neck; he’d dissect your body piece-by-piece and send each of your organs to a member of your family.
“Madison,” Bishop growls. It’s so low, it catches my breath. I look toward him, but press my back against Damon. Bishop’s eyes are dark, almost black, his head down slightly, his jaw tense, and his lip curled in disgust. He doesn’t flinch. All his focus is solely on Damon. “Get the fuck out of my way.”
“No!” I snap. “Damon isn’t like the others, whatever they’re like. I wouldn’t know, because I don’t speak motherfucking Latin!” I’m losing my shit a bit, but I’m sick of being the quiet voice in the house.