Page 11

Chapter Eleven

MALACHI

T he metallic scent of blood mixes with the scents of the shifter’s fear and anger. When Ambrose had called me to the underground basements of Noir in the middle of the night, it was a fucking relief.

I’d fucked Blake on her couch last night, and even now I swear I can still taste her on my lips. I’d gotten the hell out of there, leaving without so much as a look backward. I’d headed right to the penthouse I rent in Topside—necessary for appearances—and showered under scalding water. I scrubbed my skin raw, deserving the pain for what had happened.

I was so fucking stupid. I told her—told myself—that one time would be enough to get this craving out of my system. I knew the moment I tasted her that one time wouldn’t be enough. One night wouldn’t be enough.

I hadn’t spent more than an evening with a partner for centuries. I’d learned my lesson with letting someone get close.

Especially if that person was a human.

I wouldn’t make that mistake again. Ambrose is right. Time and technology may change, but humanity never does.

But Ambrose found his mate in a human. So did Kasar and Landon, of all males.

No. A mate was the last thing I wanted.

So when I got the order to interrogate a bear shifter some of my street soldiers picked up, it’s what I needed to remind myself of who I really am. What I really am.

A goddamned monster.

The concrete floors of the basement are cold. The steel beams above and the block walls in the secret room under Noir are even colder. My blood is an inferno, though.

The bear shifter hangs in the center of the room from his bound wrists, his ankles secured by another rope to the steel grate below him.

So far, he’s refused to answer any of the questions my soldiers have asked. They’ve beaten him but haven’t come close to breaking him. They know it isn’t their place. It’s mine.

Kasar is Ambrose’s right hand, the Lion of the Barrows. Landon stalks the city, collecting all the dirty secrets that Ambrose uses with the precision of a surgeon. Ashe is the runner, in charge of transporting everything and anything.

Rhys is a roving piece, sometimes diplomat, sometimes spy. The fucker has hardly been around since Ezra’s exile, and now he’s gone and fucked off with the half-demon again. I wouldn’t be surprised if they never show their faces here again.

As for me?

I’m Ambrose’s goddamned general. The Nightshades consist of hundreds of vampires, an army that I’m responsible for. It’s a power that has always been enough for me.

The constant in my life that I can always rely on. When nothing else makes sense, this right here always will.

I stand in front of the bear shifter and make a point of taking him in. Like most bear shifters, he’s a brute of a man in human form. He’s likely got some Scandinavian or Northeastern European ancestry, like most bear shifters I’ve encountered do. My men have stripped him of his shirt, revealing a tattooed barrel chest, and his shoes but have left his jeans on. The man’s toes are barely touching the steel grate, his body tense as he tries to keep his full weight off his wrists.

“Davin Dwyane Helson,” I state his full name. His brown eyes, one blackened, show his surprise before hiding it behind a mask of stoicism. I nod once to acknowledge the question he must be thinking. “There is little in the Barrows that we don’t know. And when that’s the case, we can discover it. You should know that, considering you and your family have been here for the last ten years.”

Davin thrashes against his bindings, sending his body off balance. Spittle flies out of his mouth as he roars. “Leave them out of this. They ain’t got nothing to do with this.”

I purse my lips, cocking my head. “This, being you trying to run Rapture out of the city to another dealer? Or this, being you stepping out of your marriage to get your kicks with underage kids?”

The bear’s face goes pale at the second accusation, as it rightfully should. The Nightshades may end up on the wrong side of human law, more often than not, but we have lines we will never cross.

It’s part of my duty as Ambrose’s general to make sure no one in our territories crosses those lines either.

Suddenly the image in front of me isn’t the roughed-up bear shifter. It’s Blake’s daughter, Charlie, standing there in her oversized pajama shirt, her strawberry blonde hair tousled from sleep, an innocence that so many have had brutally stolen from them.

By scum like the shifter in front of me.

“Please, I’ll give you whatever you want,” he begins to bargain. “Just let me go, man. My wife needs me. She doesn’t work?—“

I tut, shaking my head, and his words cut off. “Already bargaining, Davin? You played tough and hard with my men, refusing to break, and now you want to talk?” I pause dramatically while holding his gaze. Then I press a hand over my black heart. “Were you just waiting until I arrived? You sure know how to make a man feel appreciated.”

I turn back toward the heavy steel door flanked by two of my Nightshade soldiers. “One of you head up to the bar and get me—” I hum as I contemplate what to drink. My thoughts drift to Blake and her tart arousal, my dick twitching. Squashing the urges down, I decide. “Vodka. The cheaper shit. No point in wasting the good stuff on him.”

Plus, maybe the harsh burn will save me from Blake.

As soon as I’ve finished, one male slips out of the door to fulfill the request while the other continues watching the scene in the room as if bored. He may very well be, considering protecting the interests of the clan is often dirty, bloody business.

Walking toward the side of the room, I snag a wooden chair stored in the corner. The wooden feet drag harshly against the cement floor as I move it so I can sit in front of Davin.

I study him as I wait for my vodka, forcing myself to stay focused on the shifter in front of me and not what waits for me outside of this room. Davin’s fear grows the longer I say nothing, until the sour scent of fear overpowers everything else in the room. It’s a balm to my bruised self, allowing me to center myself. To remember who I am.

The door opens, the hinges so well greased that my heightened hearing almost misses it. It’s impossible to miss the twist of the metal cap, and the glug of liquid that precedes a small splash. I lift my hand, accepting the tumbler half-filled with crystal clear alcohol.

I hold the glass up. “To you, Davin. For giving me just the thing I needed after the day I’ve had. You could have been useful, you know, and avoided all of this. So, really, I should be thanking you.”

“Please,” Davin croaks, his voice hoarse. His brown eyes are wide with fear.

The scent of his terror is a heady thing. It’s not the same as Blake’s arousal or even her pleasure.

I’m not going to think about her.

Lifting the glass, I toast the man once more before tipping the glass back and taking a large swallow. My body doesn’t care that the alcohol isn’t necessary, but the taste is still as unpleasant as ever. It scalds my tongue, tasting like straight isopropyl. I glare at the drink.

“I know I said don’t get the good shit, but what is this? Rubbing alcohol?”

“It’s the house vodka,” comes the even reply.

I frown as I consider the answer and the drink in hand before shaking my head. “We really should serve better shit.” Regardless, I toss the rest of it back before shaking myself, as if that alone could save me from the rough taste. I gesture to Davin. “Go ahead and give him a drink.”

The vampire walks past me, raising the bottle to Davin’s mouth. When Davin tries to resist, the male grips his face with one hand and pries his mouth open. The bear shifter tries to shout his protests but they quickly turn to garbles as the cheap vodka spills into his mouth. Most of it spills over the man’s chin as he sputters and tries to resist swallowing.

“That’s enough,” I say when the bottle is more than a quarter empty. Without response, the vampire steps back into the shadows.

“Now, there’s a few ways the rest of this night can go. I know which way I’d prefer, but it really is all up to you.” I lean back in the wooden chair, as at ease in it as I would be the overstuffed leather chair in my office at The Place.

Davin’s mouth hangs open, spit and cheap vodka running down his chin to his chest. He’s looking at me with resignation. He’s finally understanding that tonight the consequences of his actions have finally caught up to him and there’s no escape.

The only decision he has to make is how much pain he wants to endure before I find out everything Ambrose requires regardless.

Though his arms are strung up above him, I see the moment his entire body slumps with defeat. His eyes stare at the cement floor between us.

I bite back a sigh of disappointment. I’d really hoped Davin wouldn’t capitulate so quickly, not after he’d resisted my soldiers’ fists for so long. I’ll need to find another outlet, something else to take the edge off of this feral need scratching underneath my skin.

I hold up the empty glass in silent command for a refill. After I toss back another shot, my throat and gut burning, I prop my ankle up on the opposite knee. A moment of clarity strikes and a grin that’s more of a snarl stretches my lips.

“Now, Davin. You’ll be answering every question I have. Then, when I’m satisfied, I’ll be personally meting out the punishment for your cruelties.”

A sorrowful groan escapes the barrel-chested man.

My night is looking up again.