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The bartender’s eyes tracked something behind her. “Oh, he’s here alright,” he said, a smile curving up one side of his face. “And I get the impression he’s been looking for you, too.”

He shot Fey a sympathetic look.

“Well, well, well,” a voice snarled from behind Fey as Alastair stalked across the room, radiating fury. A few patrons glanced up, only to quickly look away again, fear in their eyes. He wore a suit again, identical to the one she’d seen him in before. Dark, and expensive. He moved with a slow, deliberate grace and didn’t stop until he was standing directly behind Fey’s stool, towering above her. “This is a pleasant fucking surprise, don’t you think?”

Fey’s heart rate jumped at the sound of his voice, but she kept her face impassive, placing her drink down on the bar with deliberate care and slowly turning around in her seat.

“Hello, Alastair.” She rested her elbows on the bar top and tilted her face up to smile at him.

He looked furious. Though Fey supposed to anyone else he might have looked casual, standing with his hands in the pockets of his slacks. But his eyes flashed with anger, and a muscle in his jaw twitched as he looked down at her, his gaze drinking in every detail of the Witch before him.

A woman’s appearance was just as much a tool as any other weapon in her arsenal, and Fey had spent time perfecting her look before she arrived here tonight. In place of the skintight dress he’d seen her in last time, she wore a pair of dark pants and a white cashmere sweater, baggy enough at the neckline that it fell from her shoulder and displayed the full expanse of her collarbones. She’d wanted to accentuate her neck, so she wore her hair up in a high ponytail, leaving her cream-colored skin on full display.

She hadn’t bothered with a healing elixir after she’d last seen him, and the faintest remnants of a bruise still graced the side of her neck—a reminder to him of what they’d done in those few minutes they were alone. His eyes lingered on it.

But from the way his teeth ground together as he looked her up and down, Fey couldn’t tell if he was mentally undressing her, or skinning her.

“I have to say,” he said, when he finished assessing her, his golden eyes finally settling on hers. “It takes a lot of fucking balls for you to walk back into my club after what you did.”

Mentally skinning me, Fey decided.

“I think you of all people would know whether or not I have balls,” Fey countered. The bartender developed a sudden coughing fit that sounded a lot like laughter.

“Jasper, you have five seconds to fuck off somewhere else,” Alastair snapped, glancing over.

The bartender, Jasper, only shrugged, grinning. “I’ve got nowhere better to be, boss.” And then, as if to emphasize his point, he poured himself a drink and brought the glass to his smile to sip it.

Alastair snarled, then turned his gaze back to Fey. He took a step towards her, and she wondered vaguely if he would kill her in front of all these witnesses.

I should stop pushing him like this, Fey thought. I need to stop pushing him like this.

But he made it oh so fun.

Instead of murdering her in cold blood, though, he leaned in, placing a hand on the bar on either side of her, caging her in place with his body. “So why are you here, Witchling?” he asked, his face barely an inch from hers. “Have you come back to beg for my forgiveness? Or…did you forget something the last time you were here, hmm?”

Fey’s pulse raced as he leaned even closer, whispering directly into her ear. “I found the gift you left on my desk for me.”

He leaned back just far enough to look her in the eyes, and his tongue slid across his bottom lip suggestively. Oh, right. She had forgotten about the pair of panties she’d left behind on his desk.

Oops.

“Actually,” Fey started, fighting to keep her voice calm. “I came back because I need your help.”

Alastair blinked. He stared at her in absolute wonder for a moment, his face mere inches from her own, before barking out a laugh and stepping back.

“You need my help? After you broke into my office?” Alastair ran his hand through his black hair, ruffling it and shaking his head in amazement. “You must be fucking insane, Witchling. Do you even have any idea who the fuck I am?”

Fey shrugged like it didn’t matter, like she didn’t care. And she didn’t. She was a Blade, and there wasn’t a Vamp out there in the realm who would outrank her.

Baffled, Alastair said, “Give me one fucking reason why I should even consider helping you.”

“Because I’m willing to bet that deep down you’re actually a decent guy,” Fey offered, and Alastair threw back his head to laugh.

“You’d lose that fucking bet,” he chuckled.

“I don’t think I would,” Fey answered. Her temper was rising, and she couldn’t help the bite in her voice.

“And why’s that?”