Page 18 of Bite Back

DELILAH

“You’re sure she’s okay with me being here?” The bitter scent of coffee fills my nostrils, and my canine teeth, still blunted in the daylight, ache—a numb, hollow pain. Another change I’m still not used to.

“I’m sure.” Something about the way Asher says it, with a calm confidence, eases the churning sensation in my stomach. Still, I continue to sketch the tip of my canine with my tongue.

Asher’s eyes track the movement, and a microexpression I can’t discern flashes across his face. “Are you sure you’re okay with being here?” His cinnamon eyes study my expression, before dipping down to my hands, gripping the side of my chair.

Asher recommended a private room in the back of a coffee shop for this.

Apparently the owner’s a former Academy slayer and lets Asher use the room for interviews.

Somewhere more neutral than meeting up at the Academy itself.

The room’s nestled in the back corner, tucked between a concerningly tilted bookcase full of well worn poetry and an ornamental fireplace with a carved wood mantle.

Glass windows look out on the rest of the cafe, but the door affords us some privacy.

I straighten and ease my hands off the side of the chair, placing them limply on the table. Asher takes a sip from his mug. The china clinks as he sets it back on the table.

“I am.” My voice comes out as a whisper. Asher raises an eyebrow, and I gather the unspoken subtext. I don’t sound ready. I repeat, myself, louder, firmer. “I am.”

Asher regards me for a moment, then nods, seemingly satisfied.

Last night’s dream brushes against the corners of my mind, but I shove the images out.

Asher isn’t Luka. Asher doesn’t answer for me.

He places his phone on the small table between us and dials the number.

As the phone rings, he reaches up and brushes his fingers through his hair, gathering it into a messy bun he ties at the nape of his neck.

A knot forms in my throat as the muscles in his forearms flex with the movement.

My brain may want to ignore my attraction to this man, but my body clearly didn’t get the memo.

“Hey, y’all,” Mary Emma’s drawl comes through the phone, bright and warm, despite the topic we’re here to discuss: her sister’s death. I grimace at the slight crackle of static.

“Hi, Mary Emma. It’s Asher and I’m here with the friend I told you about, Delilah.” Friend. The word feels overgenerous for the relationship we have now. But I guess source sounds too sterile, clinical and partner would be admitting to our unsanctioned deal.

“Hi, Delilah.” In her mouth, my name elongates into three distinct syllables.

“Hi.” Asher clears his throat. “I’ve read through the initial report you gave to my colleagues at the Academy.

But, as I mentioned when we spoke earlier, I’d like to go over things with you again, personally.

Ask some questions as we go along. Every detail helps.

” He sucks in a deep breath. “I know from personal experience how hard it can be to get into all of this. Just let me know if you need to take a break, okay?” Something warms in my core at that.

It’s the bare minimum. But how often do men clear the bare minimum?

“Okay.”

“Sutton was your sister, right?”

“Yes, twins.”

My gaze traces the picture from the file Asher brought with him. Two white women posing in front of a white-washed mansion. A sorority house probably. It strikes me how different Mary Emma and Sutton look from me. What did Luka see in her? What did he see in me?

“And when did Sutton meet Luka?”

“After she moved to New York. She wanted a taste of the big city.” A strangled laugh leaves Mary Emma’s mouth.

“And when was that?” Asher prompts.

“Two years ago.” My mind snags on that. I moved to New York around a year before her. A pit forms in my stomach.

Asher brings his mug back to his lips, letting the buzz of the other patrons fill the pause.

Mary Emma continues. “They started dating almost right away. She’d call me up telling me about this guy.

Tall, blond, and handsome. She said he looked like an old movie star.

And that he looked at her like she was the lead.

And I was happy for her at first. Because he made her happy. It was all roses and rooftops and…”

She trails off, a sniffle coming from the phone. I can finish the sentence. Because I’ve lived it. I know the appeal of his side-swept hair and bemused smile, flowers in hand. I know how special he made me feel. How special I thought he was.

“Over time she called less and less. I didn’t think much of it.

When she moved to New York and I stayed in Atlanta, we did it because we wanted our own lives.

I figured this was what that looked like.

She had a new fiancé, a new family. It felt weird when she talked about turning for him.

Thinking about me getting older and her staying the same.

But it was her life. I never thought he’d end it. ”

“How’d you find out what happened?” Asher’s voice comes soft.

“She called me. She wasn’t quite gone when he left her. She couldn’t talk. But I knew. I knew something was wrong. I called 911. They didn’t get there in time.”

“And that was about five months ago, right?” Asher asks. I tense, like I can brace myself from the incoming impact.

“Yes.” The string snaps. I can do basic math. Bile rises in my throat. Knowing Luka killed her and then, more likely than not, came home to kiss me.

It was always fake. When we first sat down, Asher asked me if I was okay with this.

I thought I was.

But the truth is this: I’m not okay with it.

Not okay with what happened to me. Not okay with what happened to Sutton. Not okay with what happened to so many other women.

The conversation with Mary Emma echoes in my head the entire walk back to Sarah’s apartment.

In many ways, the conversation just confirmed what I already knew, what I’d already pieced together from my own experiences and the whispers Sarah heard.

I’d already given up on hoping there was a good explanation for Luka’s behavior.

But it cuts deeper now. Because listening to Mary Emma talk made it sink in just how close I came to dying.

For real. And because I’ve been so focused on how Luka hurt me, it hadn’t fully sunk in how much other hurt he’d caused, how much hurt he’ll continue to cause. Until now.

My feet pound the stairs as I climb up to the apartment, hollow reverberations ringing in my ears.

The door swings open, and I find Sarah and Kirby talking and laughing in the living room. Their heads swivel towards me, eyes wide and expressions frozen as they take me in.

“He killed her and then came home to me.” Like we didn’t even matter. Like she didn’t even matter.

The torrent of emotion I’ve been holding back tumbles out. Hot tears stream down my cheeks. The taste of salt stings my mouth. Sarah grabs the blanket from the couch and wraps it around my shoulders as I sink down onto the couch. Sarah and Kirby crowd in beside me.

It might not have mattered to Luka.

But it matters to me.

That’s why I’ll find him—and kill him.