Page 21 of Bite Back

ASHER

Stakeouts are boring. I learned that years ago, back when I first started hunting. There’s a monotony to it. You watch, and you wait, until something happens. If it happens. I’ve learned patience over the years. It’s a necessary skill for a hunter. But that doesn’t mean I like it.

This stakeout, though, feels different. Three hours have dragged by since Delilah and I creeped our way onto a rooftop across the street from Rebecca Winters’ brownstone. Nothing’s happened. No sign of Luka.

All that nothing allows my mind, and my eyes, to wander.

Black leggings and a tight turtleneck suit Delilah’s curves beautifully, highlighting the violin shape of her figure.

She squirms a little, adjusting her position on the rooftop, and my breath catches.

She cants her ass into the air, stretching out her hips.

I tear my gaze away. I rotate my arms and legs as well, trying to stave off the pins and needles.

Nothing’s happened yet, but I need to be ready.

We’re lying flat against the shingles, pressed down as much as possible to minimize our profiles, heads just peeking over the crest of the roof to monitor Rebecca’s door.

Partygoers trample up and down the brown steps—framed by a wrought iron railing—leading up to the blue painted door.

The hustle and bustle of the city, the constant onslaught of sounds and smells helps mask our presence, and my reconnaissance this afternoon found the backdoor only leads to a walled-in courtyard, which leaves us only one entrance to monitor.

I peer down at the door, spotting two more heads converging on the sandstone steps. A quick glance tells me all I need to know. One’s much too tall and the other’s far too short. Not Luka. Again.

A small sigh leaves Delilah. She was hoping this would work out. It still might, but it’s looking less and less likely by the minute. I glance at my watch, reading the neon lime digital numbers. You never know. Vampire parties do tend to run late.

Delilah perks up every time a new guest arrives only to slump down when, yet again, it’s not Luka. I bite back the urge to joke, to say something, to do something to break the tension. I can’t. Jokes and laughter aren’t exactly stakeout appropriate, seeing as we have to stay unobserved.

Her eyes trail towards me. I have to offer her something.

And if I can’t offer her reassurance, at least I can provide a distraction, inject some humor into the situation.

I pull a face as she glances my way. I’m sure I look like a clown, tongue extended, eyebrows raised.

For a second, she holds out on me, face stony.

But then a smile breaks across her face, spreading from cheek to cheek, and silent laughter rocks her. Bingo.

The tension’s broken. A smile spreads over my face to match hers when I spot her clowning back at me. She’s stuffed a long strand of her wine colored hair between her upper lip and scrunched nose, creating a makeshift mustache which she twirls with her fingertip.

I can’t help myself. I lean over so my lips brush her ear. “I’ve still got better facial hair than you.”

She raises her eyebrows at me, arching them comically. She twirls the “mustache” in a wide circle and the ends brush my face, sending shivers down my spine. The rose scent of her shampoo washes over me, and, suddenly, I’m hyperaware of how close we are.

Her gaze locks with mine and the strand falls limp, so that it floats into her face.

On instinct, I reach up and push the strand back, tucking it behind her ear.

Her hair glides, silky and soft, against my fingers and goosebumps break out across my arms. The urge fills me to fist her hair and draw her to me.

Taken aback by the force of the impulse, I withdraw my hand, arm shaking.

Sparks dance in her eyes. Does she feel the same electric energy I do? Or am I the only one who’s out of my depth? Normally, I feel competent, confident, and controlled.

But Delilah sends me into free fall. I glance up at the moon, peeking out early from under the cloud cover above.

As a child, my older brother, already an adult, took me to see an eclipse.

The sun and the moon converging. Maybe Delilah’s the moon to my sun, drawn to me inexorably despite our differences.

Maybe even things that normally stay apart can come together.

I shake my head. I need to clear my thoughts, to refocus.

I have a job to do. I peer down and spot another guest heading inside.

Blond hair, the right height…I crane my head forward to get a better look.

Delilah scoots forward, neck muscles tight as she cranes her head.

For a beat, she looks down. Is this it? Is this him? Then she slumps back, shaking her head.

Another false alarm.

She collapses back on the roof, turning belly up.

Her head drops against my forearm. With one more glance down at the door, I follow suit, flipping onto my back.

The sun’s dropping below the horizon, and the stars are starting to wink up.

The deep blues and purples of early twilight spill over her face, painting it like a watercolor.

The pain creeps in, slight and quiet at first. A subtle pressure pushes on my sinus. My finger probes the area under my right eye, massaging.

Not again.

Delilah lies sprawled on the rooftop, a small smile dancing along her lips as she gazes upwards. I wish I could bottle this moment, her silhouetted there, eyelashes curling towards the sky and stars sparkling in her eyes.

The night breeze kisses my cheeks, tickling the bare skin on my face and neck. It’s an unseasonably warm evening for September, but the breeze still carries the first hint of an autumn chill.

I stretch my neck, rolling it from side to side. My tight muscles scream in protest. I push the pain aside. It can’t ruin the moment.

Delilah shifts beside me, turning onto her side. My gaze drifts over the landscape of her body, swooping from the dip of her waist to the arch of her hip. I picture my palm traversing the peaks and valleys of her body. Delilah smirks. “Shall we head out?”

I strain my ears. The party has fallen silent below, the last reveler either stumbling home or settled in for the night.

I nod. “Should be safe.”

We creep to the edge of the roof and climb onto the fire escape. I wince as the rusty metal squeaks and creaks as we shimmy down. We’re making way too much noise. But we make it to the alleyway below without incident.

I don’t exhale until we’re two blocks away from the townhouse.

“You okay?” Delilah looks up at me, brow furrowed.

Am I okay?

Every footstep I take sounds like thunder. Lurching nausea roils my gut. The streetlights attack my eyes. My neck feels as tight as a bowstring about to snap. My head pounds, each drumbeat a reminder: This is my fault. I did this. I deserve this. I let down Claude.

Am I okay?

No. I’m not.

I shake my head. There’s a park bench up ahead, and I stumble towards it. I sink down, burying my head in my palms.

Fuck.

Delilah joins me, her hand curling around my forearm. “Hey, hey, hey, what’s up?”

“Migraine.” I pat down my pockets, searching. Empty.

“What are you looking for?”

“Meds. I’m supposed to have some on me for times like this, but this is all so new.” My voice breaks on the last word.

Her gaze snags on me, but she doesn’t push for a further explanation.

“Okay, okay. Where are your meds? At home?”

I nod. A half hour subway ride away.

“We’re gonna get you home. You ready to get up?” Her voice takes on the determined pep of a kindergarten teacher.

“Yes.”

“Good.” She locks her arm under mine and hauls me up with ease. I try to move away, and she clucks under her breath.

“It’s okay. Lean on me.” I’m in no position to argue or turn down help, so I comply. She guides me to the nearest subway stop, my arm slung over her shoulder.

I grit my teeth as we wait on the platform. The squeal of the brakes screams in my ears. When we board, the relative quiet is a relief. The car’s empty apart from us.

I choose a seat one away from Delilah, but she slides closer, her arm brushing against mine.

As the subway shakes and rumbles, my eyes drift shut.

The moments of sleep welcome me, blocking out the pain.

I wake with a start, my head resting on Delilah’s shoulder.

I bolt upright, but Delilah cups my head and draws it back down.

My cheek rests against the soft cotton of her turtleneck.

Her fingers thread through my hair. My eyes flutter shut.

This feels good.

Comfortable.

And, disturbingly, safe.