10

Casimir

Biting Ophelia was a mistake.

A massive, life-altering mistake, as her blood flows freely from the wound I've made.

She's sharp spice and rich, dark wine. She's sin and salvation. Temptation and torture.

As good as I may have thought she would be, the reality of sinking my fangs deep and drawing from her, of tasting her, of feeling her body go loose and trusting in my arms and hearing the breathless sigh of pleasure she can't hold back is nearly enough to obliterate me.

Another draw of heat, a pulse of mind-numbing pleasure more delicious than I've experienced in my four hundred years, and Ophelia's arms wrap around me. Grasping at my shoulders, tangling in my hair, I almost think it's her silently telling me to stop, when she pulls me closer.

Closer . Gods save me.

Because it's not just me affected by this bite. It's not just my control hanging by a thread.

Ophelia is wild and wanting beneath my hands, against my lips, where my fangs pierce her skin. I taste it in the vivid notes of pleasure in her blood, feel it in the racing of her heart, and hear it in her soft gasps and moans as she tries to adjust to all the sensation of accepting a vampire's bite.

Her first.

I'm a seven-times-damned creature for it, and it shouldn't please me as much as it does to know she's never experienced this with another. Knowing I'm the first to taste her this way draws on some deep, deranged instinct that whispers darkness in the back of my mind, little bursts of insanity like claim her and keep her and mine .

Stop. I have to stop.

This is nothing more than a ruse. A piece of physical disguise meant to make it easier for us to complete the work we've been tasked with.

And a gift. Always a gift.

I meant what I told Ophelia. I just never imagined the magnitude of the gift she was giving me.

If I had, I might never have accepted it at all. For her sake. For mine. For the certainty that something has shifted between us, something irrevocable and too large to comprehend while her blood still fills my mouth, my veins, my soul.

I pull away.

My knees buckle.

The sight of my mark on Ophelia, the glaze of pleasure over her brown eyes when her heavy lids flick open, the hitch in her breath as she tries to control whatever it is she's feeling, all of it threatens to unravel me completely.

"What," she says, voice hoarse and raspy, "the fuck was that?"

Ah, there's the Ophelia I know.

She places both her hands on my shoulders, pressing firmly like she's going to shove me away, and the pleasure in her eyes starts to melt into something that looks much more like horror.

"A moment," I murmur. "Give me just one more moment, Ophelia."

Her breath catches again, but she doesn't say or do anything to stop me as I draw on venom from my fangs that's meant to help stop the bleeding, and lean in to run my tongue over the wounds I've made.

Gods, it's another mistake.

They're clean marks, only leaking a trickle of blood as I tend to them, but it's enough to bring a haze back over me. A haze commanding more . To consume, to savor, to devour.

With the very last scraps of sanity I possess, I pull back. I tip her chin up and, finding her healed to my satisfaction, collect enough of myself to step away.

Ophelia's hand flies to her throat, and she blinks rapidly, eyes darting over me.

"Again," she rasps. "What the fuck was that?"

I shrug, acting for all the world like what just happened was of no great consequence. Like it was to be expected . Her reaction, my reaction, how very close to some unimaginable edge we both were.

I doubt the truth would be very helpful in this situation. If she knew what just passed between us surpasses anything I've felt in my centuries of this existence, I can't imagine it would calm her in the slightest.

"Like I said, each bite is different. What did it feel like to you?"

Her eyes widen, a hundred silent thoughts flickering through them before she closes down again. Arms crossed over her chest, chin tucked like she'd shield the evidence of my bite from me, she shakes her head.

"It was… fine. Not as bad as I expected."

A pulse of sharp dissatisfaction settles itself into my gut, and I frown at her. "You were expecting it to be unpleasant? Then why did you agree?"

It's her turn to shrug, feigning a nonchalance she can't quite pull off—not when her cheeks are still flushed and her pulse is still racing and her hair is mussed from the grasp I had on her.

"I didn't expect anything. And now that we've got that out of the way, we should probably head into the—"

"Ophelia," I interrupt gently.

Cupping a hand around her jaw and tilting her head back, I study my mark one more time.

Just to be sure it's fully healed over.

Certainly not because I want to admire it, to reassure myself it's still there.

"Are you alright?" I ask.

"I'm fine."

We pause in our silent standoff for a few tense moments. Ophelia, chin set high in defiance, some of her earlier bravado returning. And me, drawing my hand regretfully away, straightening my jacket where it still sits askew from Ophelia's desperate, grasping hands, clearing my throat and nodding toward the end of the alley.

"Good. And yes, we should head inside."

It's for the best, ignoring the truth of what just happened. And if Ophelia wants to do so as well, all the better.

Giving her shoulders a little shake, she brushes her long curls back and I catch sight of my mark again.

What was I just thinking about?

Letting it go? Leaving it be? Ignoring it?

If I had any semblance of sanity left in me, I might scoff at my own pathetic reaction to something as simple as a bite mark.

But the sight of it there, so shockingly crimson against her skin, is just one more spark of insanity to join the low burning embers of all the rest.

Hold your head high and let them see , I want to tell her. Wear it proudly, sweet Ophelia, because I've never seen anything so wickedly beautiful as my mark on you.

"Come on," she huffs, already stalking away from me. "We're going to be late."

I follow, mind still somewhere outside my body, the taste of her still lingering in my throat.

Getting past the bouncer takes all of five seconds after Ophelia and I give him our names. As soon as we step through the doors into the dim red light of the club, the heavy beat of music makes talking at a normal distance all but impossible.

"Can I buy you a drink?" I ask her, leaning in close and murmuring the question into the shell of her ear.

Her spine goes ramrod straight for half a heartbeat until she remembers herself and the game we're playing. She leans back, a languid half-smile on her face as she murmurs back.

"I don't drink while I'm working."

"Nor do I, at least not under normal circumstances."

I offer the remark earnestly. Blood isn't the only fare agreeable to a vampire's constitution, but Ophelia mistakes my meaning as she sucks in a sharp breath. Her hand twitches, like she caught herself just before raising it to touch the mark at her throat. A pulse of something that's equal parts desire, and regret for the unintentional innuendo, has me quickly trying to correct the error.

"That's not what I—"

"You're right," Ophelia says. "We're supposed to be acting like any other patrons. A club soda sounds great."

As much as I like her agreement, I'd also like to go more than five minutes without putting my foot in my mouth with her. But knowing we need to continue our ruse, I take her by the elbow and steer her gently toward the bar. I stay close to her, acting for all the world like the doting lover I'm supposed to be.

It doesn't go without notice.

Though I don't recognize every face in the Raven this evening, there are more than a few familiar sets of eyes on Ophelia and me as we make our way across the room.

If Ophelia notices the attention, she doesn't show it.

She settles herself onto a barstool and doesn't flinch or miss a beat when I stand behind her. With no spare seats available, I lean over her shoulder and order her a club soda and myself a whiskey, neat. She quirks a brow, but doesn't comment.

Compared to the low, intoxicating hum of her blood still running through my veins, the alcohol will do next to nothing to me. However, as our drinks arrive and I take my first swallow, I savor the burn. I savor the momentary relief of not having her taste lingering on my lips, at the back of my throat, coating my palate and making it hard to concentrate on anything else.

As delicious as she is, and as much as some base part of me protests losing that impossibly delicious flavor, I know it's not doing a damn thing to keep my focus where it should be.

"See anyone we know?" Ophelia asks softly, turning her head and resting her chin on her shoulder.

"Not yet." I rest one hand on her hip, and reach up with the other to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Perhaps we'd have a better vantage point from the dance floor."

She huffs a hollow laugh. "I think I'll take my chances here."

"If you're worried I'll step on your toes, I invite you to remember the last dance we shared. I can assure you your feet are safe."

"Oh, believe me, that's not what I'm worried about."

"Then what are you—"

"We should keep our eyes open for Marcus or Philippe."

I barely bite back my growl of frustration.

One of these days, I'm going to have a word with sweet Ophelia about letting me finish a sentence.

But it's not a battle that needs to be fought at this particular moment, and I let my eyes stray from the elegant line of her neck and the two vivid crimson marks there. I scan up and down the bar, through the crowd milling at the side of the room, and to the tightly packed dance floor.

Still, as much as I might try to keep myself in the here and now and the task at hand, the memory of the last time we shared a dance fills my mind.

Ophelia—in the little burgundy dress she'd been wearing, hair a riot of big, wavy curls and mouth painted a deep blood red—had melted into my embrace. She'd danced with me like she could read my every move and touch, and the bloom of desire I'd scented on her hadn't just been in my mind.

It couldn't have been, not when I've just scented it again in all its lush, tantalizing glory.

Whatever else she may have been aiming to get from me, her body hadn't lied in its reaction. Not back then, and not tonight.

Not that it matters. Not for a single second.

Her physical reaction is just that—physical. As is mine to her. Reading anything more into it was a mistake then, as it would be a mistake now.

"Ten o'clock," Ophelia murmurs, shaking me out of the memory.

I follow her gaze to the side of the club, just in time to get a glimpse of broad, bullish shoulders in a suit jacket cut at least half an inch too small. A moment later, two crimson eyes fix first on Ophelia before turning to me. A sharp smile follows, one that looks more like a threat than any sort of welcome on Marcus's arrogant face.

He works his way across the club, and I lean toward Ophelia to get in one last quiet word.

"Are you alright? You're ready?"

She stiffens again, and I realize it's another mistake. No doubt she thinks I'm questioning her abilities, undercutting her capability, when in reality I'm not even sure why I asked.

Perhaps it's the memory of how stricken she was after the cruelty Marcus hurled at her that night on the roof, but I feel the unreasonable urge to put myself between the two of them, though I know she's more than capable of handling herself.

But there's no time to explain or elaborate or take the words back as she squares her shoulders and whispers her reply.

"I'm fine."

"Casimir. Ophelia."

Marcus's curt greeting draws our attention. I turn to find that oily smile of his still in place, chest puffed out and arms crossed as he looks imperiously at us both.

"Marcus," I say, inclining my head in the barest shadow of a nod. "It's been too long. So good to see you again."

He jerks his head toward a side exit, one marked for staff only. "Let's take this little reunion somewhere more private."

I nod, and offer a hand to Ophelia to help her off her barstool. Marcus's narrowed eyes track the movement, but he makes no further comment as he turns and cuts another wide path through the crowd. I follow, Ophelia's hand clasped in mine, as he opens the door and gestures us both through.

It lets out into a hallway leading to the club's back of house. We're plunged immediately into gray walls and scuffed beige tiles on the floor, cold fluorescents casting all of us in stark clarity. I blink a few times to get my eyes to adjust. Other than a couple of staff members at the opposite end of the hall, we're alone.

Marcus props a shoulder against the wall and recrosses his arms. "Cassandra mentioned the two of you might be stopping by. What do you want?"

Apparently we're forgoing the pleasantries.

"Do we need a reason to stop by and say hello to old friends?"

"Cut the shit, Cas," Marcus says then turns to Ophelia, raking his gaze along the length of her, pausing for a moment at my mark on her neck. "Looking good, Ophelia. What's it been? Six years? Seven?"

She pastes a thin smile on her face. "Something like that."

Again, the undeniable urge to put myself between them wars with the better sense that keeps me where I am.

"We had the good fortune of running into Cassandra yesterday, and had hoped we might speak with you about—"

"Ran into?" Marcus scoffs. "From what I hear, this one has been stalking her for weeks, at least when she's not inserting herself into coven business."

He gives only a brief nod to Ophelia, a bare acknowledgment of her presence as he addresses me directly, like she's not even there.

I bristle, both at the interruption and the disrespect, but Ophelia speaks before I can.

"So let's clear it all up," she says evenly. "Let's sit down and discuss what's been happening with the—"

"Not here."

With no further explanation, he turns and continues down the staff hallway. Ophelia and I share a brief glance, a silent conversation that passes with a shrug, a raised brow, an unspoken consensus that the danger doesn't seem too great to go wherever it is he's leading us.

If it were anyone but Marcus, or any coven but Philippe's we were dealing with tonight, perhaps I'd be a little more concerned about following him to some unknown second location.

But despite the disrespect he's shown, I'm hardly concerned he's about to do us some violence.

The last few centuries have proven both Marcus and Philippe know better than to test the bounds of the tentative truce we've forged, though it doesn't entirely erase my discomfort with Ophelia being mixed up in all of this.

Ophelia, however, is unphased as she leads the way after him, settled back into the mantle of confidence and capability she wears so well. It's enough for me to set that discomfort aside and follow, keeping my guard up and my eyes open as we pass a few side doors.

Marcus stops at the end of the hall, yanking open yet another door to reveal a service staircase. Without looking back, he ducks his tall, bulky frame through and lets it swing shut behind him.

Ophelia opens the door slowly, looking right, then left, then turning her gaze to where Marcus is already a half-flight up.

"Come on," he calls over his shoulder. "Keep up."

Again, the look Ophelia and I share communicates an agreement, a shared willingness to press on, and I feel the pulse of a smile tug at the corners of my lips as she starts up the stairs after Marcus. It's been years since I did field work with a partner other than Serra, and the unexpected ease of this unlikely partnership is bemusing, to say the least.

We climb one flight, then another, back to street level as Marcus stops at another landing and throws open another door.

This hall is much like the first we walked into, somewhere in the areas of the building meant to be traversed by staff, and he looks briefly over his shoulder to make sure we're still following.

"What did Cassandra promise you, exactly?"

"No promises," Ophelia says lightly, "just an invitation to stop by the club and her reassurance that both you and Philippe would be willing to meet with us."

Marcus hums. Not approval, nor disapproval, a flat, uninterested sound I can't quite read. "Is that right? How thoughtful of her."

He continues on for a few more yards before abruptly stopping and turning to face us.

"And you think we'd be interested in anything you have to say? When you're working for the Bureau and clearly more invested in their best interest than ours?"

The shift in tone is instantaneous, and this time I can't stop myself from physically intervening. Not to stand in front of Ophelia, but beside her, drawing myself up to my full height and allowing my tone to match his. Low, knife-edged, a veiled threat coating every word.

"It affects us all, Marcus, what's been happening with these rogues. Surely you and Philippe can see the wisdom of discovering who's behind it."

His face remains hard, impassive, and he looks between the two of us before seeming to come to some conclusion.

He props open the door beside us. "After you."

Beyond that door, darkness.

Under the bright fluorescents, my eyes don't adjust before Ophelia steps through. I follow without thinking, and only pause when Marcus speaks again, tone dripping with venom.

"The coven has no interest in these rogues, and no intent to concern ourselves with the affairs of humans or with the Bureau. Stop your questioning and stay out of coven business, or you'll be answering to Philippe next time."

Two large, meaty hands land on my shoulders and give a hard shove. Even my superhuman reflexes don't prevent me from knocking into Ophelia in the dim light of wherever it is Marcus is about to leave us.

Steadying her, I glance back and catch a brief glimpse of his arrogant smirk.

"Have a good evening."

With that, Marcus slams the door in our faces, leaving both me and Ophelia open-mouthed and stunned into silence.

It takes a few more seconds to adjust to the light, but from the crispness of the air and the uneven cobblestones beneath our feet, it's not hard to guess where he's left us.

Ophelia laughs first.

A gasped, inelegant sound, it comes out in a short staccato, followed by a glittering peal as she leans forward and braces her hands on her knees.

"Well that went pretty fucking great, didn't it?"

A bark of genuine, unexpected laughter breaks from my throat, the sound of it rusty and ill-used as I look down at her.

In the dim of the alley, she composes herself, straightening as she turns in a slow circle and then back to face me. Her eyes are gleaming with a new light, something caught between the laser focus she had in the club as we went about our surveillance, and a thread of wry humor, a bit of levity that lightens her whole expression and tugs at the corners of her lips.

It's incredibly appealing on her, that look.

As is the loosening of the tension between us as it sinks in how poorly this attempt at spycraft has gone. A shared failure, though the disappointment of it is lessened immensely by this strange camaraderie that's sprung up between us.

"Exceptionally well," I drawl. "A break in the case if I've ever seen one."

With another soft laugh, Ophelia crosses her arms and props one hip, filled with a cocky sort of determination. "So, where do we go from here?"

I don't want to get hung up on the ‘we' in her sentence, or to consider what it means that she's apparently made peace with working this case together.

"From here…" I say slowly, thinking. "We call it a night. And tomorrow we start working to find out what exactly it is that makes the coven so damned determined to keep us out of their affairs."

"Works for me," she says gamely. "I'll call you tomorrow and we can meet up?"

Another needling thread of something I shouldn't examine, the fact that she can call me. No matter what she was thinking that day at the Bureau, it wasn't enough for her to tear the card I gave her into shreds and leave it in the nearest trash can.

"I'll look forward to your call."

We share a silent moment—long, but comfortable, an unspoken acknowledgment of where we've found ourselves. On the same side. Partnered, for however long this case might last.

An unlikely alliance, but one I'm not about to question.

"Great," Ophelia says. "See you tomorrow, then."

She turns to go, and I call after her.

"Do you need a ride? To wherever it is you're staying here in the city?"

Blair wasn't forthcoming about the details of her accommodations—and probably for good reason—but curiosity gets the better of me. Curiosity, and some strange unwillingness to see her head off into the night alone.

Ophelia arches a brow. "I can call a cab."

"And run up Bureau expenses? Surely Cleo would frown upon such extravagance when a complimentary option has been offered."

Her lip quirks up again as she considers the offer, and when she nods, I try not to let it feel like another victory. I've certainly had enough of those for the evening and don't need to let myself become greedy.

"Sure. Why not? Where are you parked?"

Silently, I gesture to the far end of the alley and we fall into a companionable silence as we walk together over the cobblestones and detritus, past the ivy-covered wall I had her pressed up against just a short half hour ago.

How different the night seems now.

It's a trick of my blood-addled, muddled thoughts, of that I'm certain, but the streetlights glow brighter, the cool night air sparkles with promise, and each step feels lighter as we leave the Raven behind.