Page 3 of Paramour of Sin

“I don’t think he understood what you meant.”

My eyebrows flew upward. “I said I loved him. He laughed and called me a little girl. Pretty hard not to follow that story.”

“I don’t think he took you seriously,” Gleason rephrased.

I just stared at him.

He stared back. “Okay, maybe he did. But he misinterpreted the cause to be your admiration for him training you.”

“Uh huh.” I took a fortifying sip of my wine and sighed. “It’s fine. It’s in the past. I’m over it.” A fabrication, one Gleason’s expression told me he saw right through, but he didn’t press it. “How was your Dark Provenance meeting?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Informative,” he hummed, swirling the contents of his glass. “Tru is investigating some murder at a nightclub in Nashville. The corpse had demonic vibes all over it, yet it was left for the human authorities to find.”

My brow furrowed. “Really? We’re usually good at cleaning up our messes.”

“You would know,” he drawled.

“Hey, I’ll have you know it’s been five weeks since my last dead date.” I sat up a little straighter. “That’s almost a record.”

“You’re right.” He dipped his chin in acknowledgement. “You are improving.”

His acknowledgement made me smile. “Thank you.” In truth, it felt as though I were a new succubus. I used to have almost daily problems with control. Those daily problems lengthened to weekly. And now I was firmly in the monthly count. Not perfect by any means, but a vast improvement to two decades ago.

Part of it was my frequent feedings from Lord Zebulon. Always just a kiss, but enough to boost my reserves for at least fourteen days.

Zane had helped as well by showing me techniques for feeding without killing, and teaching me the signs of losing control.

Together, they’d empowered me to feel more confident and independent with my activities. I wasn’t perfect yet, but I would be. One day. Hopefully soon.

Gleason and I enjoyed our drinks in companionable silence. Then his hip buzzed with an incoming call that had him sighing. “Gleason,” he said as he left the room with his phone pressed to his ear.

Whatever it was would be work related. He’d retired from his Vanderbilt professor position about a decade ago and had thrown himself fully into Nephilim life for the time being. It was the downside to being immortal—we never aged. So he couldn’t continue working as a professor or others would start to question how he never appeared older than thirty-five.

Technically, he could obtain a new identity and venture to another territory for work.

But he’d chosen to stay here and train under Azrael instead.

I also suspected he didn’t want to mess with another Demonic Lord’s region. Lord Zebulon was notoriously tolerant of the Nephilim’s activities in North America. That wasn’t the case for others throughout the world.

For example, the Demonic Lord of South America—Lord Valentino—had outlawed Nephilim. He had a penchant for killing them on sight.

So yeah, I didn’t blame Gleason for staying here.

I swallowed the final sip of my wine and hopped off the counter to go wash our glasses. When I finished, it was to find my roommate standing in the doorway with a vacant expression.

I arched a brow at him. “Don’t tell me that you’ve forgotten I know how to clean up,” I said. “Because I believe that became apparent shortly after this living arrangement started. You know, with all the tarps?”

He didn’t reply, his green eyes hardening.

“Seriously, why are you looking at me like that?” It was unnerving. We usually enjoyed a bit of healthy banter between us.

“When’s the last time you went to Club Haze?” he asked in a low voice.

I frowned. “Uh, I don’t know. Last week?” It was one of my preferred hunting grounds. The ritzy nightclub practically overflowed with potential bed partners. “Why?”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Not until you tell me why,” I said, folding my arms. “You know I go there at least once a week. It’s prime real estate for lust-drenched men. And sometimes women, which you would know if you ever came with me.”