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“Alastair?” Fey said in warning, but before he could respond the desk gave an audible crack as a leg snapped and flung them both to the floor.

Alastair swore as they fell, rolling so he landed on his back, cradling her safely against his chest.

“What the fuck?” he snarled, lifting his head to look around in shock, and she laughed.

“You broke the desk!”

He blinked at her in confusion, then blinked at the desk, now toppled on the ground.

“Fuck,” he said, finally. He let his head fall back against the floor. “Fuck me, that was an antique.”

Fey laughed again, harder than she probably should have, and his arms slipped around her back, holding her tight against him. His fingers traced patterns on her bare skin, pausing at each of her scars. Not in disgust or surprise, but something akin to curiosity. Reverence.

Curled against his chest, Fey let him. Let him trail his fingers over each of her battle scars. She had the strangest feeling that he was memorizing them.

She could have fallen asleep there, draped over him on the floor. Could have, but shouldn’t.

She shifted in his arms to sit up, and his hands tensed around her, grunting a wordless objection.

“I have to go,” Fey said with a smile.

“No, you don’t,” he responded. His eyes were closed.

“I do. And you have to go back to work. You have a club to run.”

“Fuck them,” he said. “They can handle one night without me. And fuck them if they can’t. Let the building burn for all I care.”

“I have to go, and you know it.” She stood, stretching her limbs, and began searching for her clothing.

Alastair propped himself up on his elbow, watching her move around the room, digging through the mess the broken desk had made.

“What?” she asked, finding her panties and pulling them over her hips.

“You’re exquisite, you know that?” Alastair said. He sounded amazed. Fey snorted, reaching for her sweater. He reached out to grab her wrist, holding her.

“Stay here with me tonight,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done this here. There’s a bed upstairs.” He nodded to the ceiling. Good to know, Fey thought to herself. “Sleep here. I’ll make it worth it.” His eyes glittered, and Fey clenched her thighs together involuntarily.

“Maybe next time,” she said, gently peeling his fingers from her wrist.

“Next time?” He asked, grinning. “So, there will be a next time?”

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself,” Fey warned, but it was an effort not to smile back at him. An effort not to take him up on the offer and let him take her upstairs to a bed where he could ravish her all night.

Fey felt good. For the first time in a long time, she felt at peace in her body. Maybe there would be another time. And maybe another after that. It wasn’t common for a Witch to become involved with a Vampire, but it wasn’t forbidden. And that sex? That had been just what she’d needed. It would be hard to say no to that again…

The contents of his desk had spilled over the floor, and she couldn’t seem to find her pants in the mess. She piled things together, organizing the chaos. A small bag caught her eye, and Fey plucked it from the ground, shaking the powder inside.

“What’s this?” she asked.

Alastair grunted from where he lay on the ground. “Devil dust. We pulled it off a dealer a few weeks ago.” He eyed the bag in her hand nervously. “It’s foul stuff. You should put it down, trust me.”

But Fey wasn’t listening. The color had drained from her face as she stared at the bag.

“This?” she asked, breathless. “This is devil dust?”

Alastair nodded, but she wasn’t looking at him. “It is,” he confirmed, suspicion in his voice. “Why?”

“It’s not gold,” Fey whispered.