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“You went out there on your own. You went chasing this, this—” Lilith gestured around her, like couldn’t find the words. “This stupid fucking mystery of yours. And you almost died, Fey. Even after you were found, even after we brought you here, we didn’t know if you’d make it. No one could tell us if you were going to make it!”

Fey opened her mouth to speak, but Lilith cut her off before she could even think of what she would say.

“No, you don’t get to explain, you don’t get to talk. You left us, Fey. You left us and you almost got yourself killed.” Lilith was openly sobbing now, her shoulders shaking from it. “I told you to let it go, but no. You had to keep looking for problems, you had to question our orders, and you did it on your own.”

Lilith rubbed at the tears on her face with her hand in a furious motion. “I told you to let it go. I told you.” She shuddered with the strength of her anger, her pain, before turning her back on them and storming to the bedroom door.

“You’re going to end up just like her if you keep this up,” Lilith said, stopping in the doorway for just long enough to fling the words back into the room like a curse. “You’re going to end up just like Alice. And I can’t handle that, Fey. I can’t live through that again.”

Lilith left them there, and a moment later they heard the front door of their safe house apartment slam behind her.

Joy sighed heavily.

“She’ll be okay,” she insisted—reaching out to rest a comforting hand on Fey’s. “She just needs some time. She was scared. We all were.”

“I’m sorry,” Fey sobbed. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was apologizing for. There was so much. So much she’d done wrong, so much she’d fucked up. Lilith was right—she could have died, could have been torn away from her sisters just like Alice, and her absence would have left another hole in their hearts that nothing could fill.

But Joy just squeezed her hand and smiled that bright smile of hers. That smile that felt like a sunrise after a dark, terrifying night.

“It’s okay. It’ll be okay, Fey. You’re alive, and that’s what matters. You’re alive, and you’re here with us.”

Chapter 29

ALASTAIR

“More,” Alastair ordered, tapping the bar next to his empty glass.

Jasper hadn’t even bothered putting the bottle away after he’d poured Alastair’s last drink. Wordlessly, the Shifter uncorked the bottle again and poured his boss a generous serving of scotch.

Alastair brought the glass to his lips and tipped it back. It was almost impossible for a Vampire to get drunk with their metabolism but tonight he was going to give it his best try.

The pleasurable burn of the liquor sliding down his throat was almost enough to make him moan. But it was short-lived. Heat pooled in his stomach for a fraction of a second and was gone.

Sighing, Alastair put his glass back down, and this time he didn’t even need to ask for more. Jasper was already pouring another before he’d even set the glass fully on the table.

Saturday night was their busiest night, and the club was closed. Closed, for the first time since he had bought the place and turned it into one of the Eternal City’s most successful nightclubs. It would cost him, losing all that income from tonight, but he didn’t give a fuck about the money.

Tonight, all he cared about was trying to get rip-roaring drunk.

The next shot stayed in his stomach even longer, and the warmth from it was a pleasant escape for a few seconds.

“More.”

Alastair wasn’t some love-struck puppy. He wasn’t some pussy-whipped teenager. So, when Fey had left that night—the night they’d fucked on his desk—and hadn’t returned within the next few days, he hadn’t been some heartbroken sniveling mess. He’d given her the space and independence a powerful Witch deserved.

When a week passed, and he still hadn’t seen her, he’d sent her a message. Then called. He wasn’t lovesick. He wasn’t pining for her, or any shit like that, for fuck’s sake. He was worried, alright? The way she’d looked when she’d left, after finding that baggie of devil dust, it worried him.

It’s not like he was fucking obsessed with her, or anything.

It’s not like he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Like she occupied his every waking thought.

Like he couldn’t stop remembering the way her skin felt. The way she moved on him when he fucked her with his fingers. The sounds she made, the perfect fucking sounds she made, when she came. The sweetest sound he’d ever heard.

It’s not like he couldn’t stop thinking about the way she’d said his name, the way she’d whispered it against his hand, her body taut with pleasure as she came on his cock in a way he’d never forget.

It’s not like he’d spent the next day smelling her on his skin, his face, his clothes, and fuck it left him hard just remembering it.

Alastair’s next drink tasted like a lie, but it stayed in his system longer than the last one.