Chapter 15

Chapter 15

ALASTAIR

S he had left.

The fucking Witch had left him high and dry, and now she was back, acting like she hadn't given him the worst case of blue balls in his life. Acting like she hadn't been grinding against his fucking hand the last time she'd seen him.

He'd practically raced through his work with Ferus that night—he'd been itching to get back to his office, itching to get back to her. And when he'd returned, what had he found? An empty fucking office.

Well… empty, save for a pair of black panties conspicuously left in the middle of his desk. Panties soaked with her scent, with her proof that she'd enjoyed what he had done to her.

At first, he couldn't believe it. She'd been putty in his hands, even without the persuasion, and he knew she'd been enjoying herself. Hell, she'd been close to coming for him, so fucking close, before Ferus had interrupted them. It would have been the first of many he was willing to give her that night.

Alastair had been in a rage when he'd found her gone. Even more wrathful when he'd noticed the gift she'd left behind to mock him. He wasn't proud of the surge of arousal he'd felt at finding her soaked panties. Wasn't proud of how hard he'd come that night with them wrapped around his throbbing cock.

Shaking those thoughts from his head, Alastair tried to focus as he headed back to his office, back to the Witch waiting for him there. Years of running seedy bars and clubs had given him a sixth sense for trouble, and this Witch was trouble.

He'd hear her out and be done with her. The last thing he needed was more trouble. No, scratch that, the second last thing he needed was trouble. The absolute last thing he needed was a Witch who had somehow wrapped him around her little pinky in the few minutes they'd spent together. A Witch he hadn't been able to stop fantasizing about.

She was sitting on his desk when he finally got to his office, her long, elegant legs crossed, feet dangling in the air.

Alastair stopped on the threshold, frowning at the open and unlocked door, at the Witch perched nonchalantly on his desk. She looked up at him with wide, innocent green eyes.

"You really shouldn't leave your door unlocked," she said, voice dripping with sincerity. "Who knows what sort of criminals could get in?"

Alastair snorted. It had been locked. And, just like before, it hadn't presented any sort of barrier to her. "Clever trick, Witchling," he said. He didn't close the door behind him, but he made a sound of appreciation as he looked at her on the desk. "This certainly brings back memories," he purred.

She had the decency to blush before hopping off his desk. Her sweater shifted up as she did so, and he caught a glimpse of her ass in those skintight pants.

He couldn't help the mental image that jumped into his head. The image of him on his knees, peeling those pants from her long legs. He imagined propping her back up on that desk and worshiping her with his mouth until she screamed...

Alastair cleared his throat.

Yeah, those were exactly the sort of thoughts he didn't need right now .

"Sit," he said, and she did, slipping into the chair before his desk and settling against the backrest.

She looked different like this. More comfortable. He'd loved the look of that tight dress on her, but this looked more… her . Relaxed.

"So," Alastair started. He stood over her, and she had to crane her neck up to look at him. It was petty, Alastair knew, but today he was feeling pretty fucking petty, and he sure as fuck was going to lean into it. "You have two minutes, Witchling."

Her eyes flashed with a spark of anger. "My name isn't Witchling . You don't hear me calling you leech, do you?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Cute. So, what should I call you? Thief? Cock tease?"

"Fey," she snapped. "My name is Fey."

" Fey ." He liked the way it sounded. Liked the way her breath hitched when he said it. "You have two minutes, Fey ."

"Are you always like this?" she snapped.

"Like what?"

"Like a fucking ass."

Oh, he liked this. He liked playing with her.

"Let me be very clear, Fey . You came here to my club, and you broke into my office. Now you're here again, uninvited and demanding my help. So, I think I'll act however the fuck I want."

He reached out, running a finger down the crook of her neck, delighting in the way her pulse leaped in response. "You should be thankful. There are women here every night who would beg for two minutes of my undivided attention. And I think you remember what I can do in such a short period, don't you?"

She swallowed.

And someone from the doorway cleared their throat, loudly.

Alastair pulled his hand back, all sexual tension vanishing from the room as though it was never there. "Come in," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets, the pinnacle of professionalism.

Right .

Jasper entered the office, two drinks in hand. He set a whiskey neat in front of Alastair, and something deliciously red and full of crushed ice and cherries in front of the Witch before nodding at them both and leaving. If he'd noticed the pulse of desire in the room, he gave no indication, but to his credit, Jasper made sure to close the door behind him as he left.

And then it was just the two of them.

Alone.

Again.

Alastair took his drink and moved around the desk to his chair. He needed some space, needed some distance from this little Witch and her intoxicating scent. She was riling him up again, and fuck, he wanted to play with her.

Seemingly uninterested in him or why he'd moved away, Fey frowned at the drink in front of her.

"Go on," Alastair urged, nodding toward the drink. He took a sip from his glass, feeling the whiskey burn away a little more of his willpower.

"What is it?" she asked suspiciously. She plucked an obscenely red cherry from the glass, spinning the stem between her fingers, before dropping it back onto the ice.

"Jasper made it especially for you. It's called a Shirley Temple," Alastair answered with a condescending smirk.

When she raised an eyebrow at him, he laughed. "You might be fooling other people into thinking you were drinking earlier, but not me. And not Jasper. He was very offended you didn't have any of the drink he gave you down at the bar."

"How did—" she started, but Alastair held up a hand to stop her.

"You don't have a drop of alcohol in your system, Fey, and you didn't the other night either."

"There's no way you could have known that."

"Oh?" Alastair smiled. "I tasted you, remember?" His voice was dark, and he couldn't help the surge of desire racing through his veins at the memory. "And you want to know what I tasted in your blood? Power. Power, and fire."

From the way her pupils dilated, from the way her breathing hitched, Alastair knew the memory was affecting her as well.

"But you know what I didn't taste? I didn't taste any alcohol. Not one drop," he finished. He motioned to the drink again. "Try it. You'll offend Jasper if you don't. It's nonalcoholic… and I think the color suits you." He raised his glass to his lips again to hide his smile.

She considered the bright red drink before her but still hesitated.

"It's not poisoned," he insisted. "And … wouldn't you be able to tell, anyway? I thought Witches could sense poison."

"Only Earth Witches," she admitted, "Which I'm not." For a moment he thought she would refuse the drink. He couldn't blame her. He was just some male she didn't even know, even worse some Vamp she didn't even know. But there was a challenge in his voice, a tacit dare hanging in the air between them, and he wanted to know if she'd rise to it.

Finally, eyes locked on his, she plucked the drink off the table and took a sip.

Her eyes widened, ever so slightly, as she tasted it, and he swallowed a laugh.

"It's… sweet. Like candy," Fey said, sounding almost amazed. She took another drink, more of a gulp, and Alastair found it very hard to pry his eyes away from the way she licked her lips, chasing the taste.

He smiled at her. "See? Jasper knows his shit."

She smiled back at him, just slightly, but it was enough.

"So," Alastair prompted. "You said you needed my help?"

Fey nodded, setting her glass down carefully. "My sister. She, uh, she was murdered. Almost two months ago."

Alastair leaned back in his chair, watching Fey closely. She was hard to read, this Witch, but he saw the pain flash in her eyes for just a moment before she shut it down. Her face hadn't changed, hadn't shown any real emotion, but it had been there, even for a fraction of a second.

"I'm sorry," he told her. And he meant it.

"This was the last place she was that night. Before she was killed," Fey finished.

"And you think someone here had something to do with it?" Alastair asked.

She shrugged a single well-muscled shoulder. Her sweater slid a little further down her arm, and Alastair found his eyes drawn to the skin there. "I don't know," she told him honestly, toying with her glass. She plucked a cherry from it by the stem and popped it in her mouth, chewing it thoughtfully. "But I'm out of leads. I'm at a dead end, and I feel… I feel—" She sighed, clenching the cherry stem in her hand. "I can't let it end, not like this. Not without knowing what happened. Why it happened."

Alastair didn't say anything. He just watched her, face impassive.

Finally, he shifted, leaning forward across the table to grab a pen and pad of paper.

"What was your sister's name?" he asked.

"Alice," Fey told him. "Alice Kelly."

"Age?"

"35. Dark skin, and short hair. As in ‘cut above her ears' short."

He jotted it down. "Do you know what she was doing here that night?"

Fey shook her head. "Not really. I think she was meeting someone, maybe. She was—" The Witch stumbled, like it wasn't easy to explain. "She was investigating something. Something big. She had some sort of lead, we think, someone she was meeting about it, but…" A shrug. "That's all we know."

"We?" Alastair asked, glancing up from his notes and raising an eyebrow.

"Me and my other sisters," Fey clarified. He nodded, still writing.

"Do you have any idea what she was investigating?"

Fey nibbled on her lip, as though deciding whether to answer. "Yeah… we think she was following the trail of a drug dealer. Devil dust, probably."

Alastair's pen skipped, but he kept writing.

More fucking drugs in his club.

"Do you know the date and time she was here?"

She did, and she told him. She didn't tell him how she knew. Didn't tell him that her sister had spent hours combing through security footage of the city, finally finding footage of her entering the club at a quarter to 11 that night and leaving almost an hour later.

The entire time, Alastair kept writing. Finally, he set his pen down and gave her a heavy stare.

"How was she killed?" he asked, voice soft .

Fey didn't answer. She just looked at him blankly.

"You won't tell me how she was killed?" Alastair asked, incredulously.

"No," she answered, face betraying nothing.

Interesting.

"So, you don't know what she was investigating, you don't know who might be involved or why she was here, and you won't tell me how she was killed… For someone who needs my help, you're not very generous with the details," Alastair told her, tapping the pen against his notes.

Sometimes the easiest way to get someone to talk was just to give them space and wait. So, Alastair watched her. Watched and waited.

And, finally, it worked.

"This is why I was in your office," Fey admitted. "I was hoping I could find anything at all that would help us find out what she was doing here."

It wasn't a lie, though it might not have been the full truth. Still, it was enough for him to get started.

"I'll do what I can," Alastair told her. "I'll make some inquiries, check our video feeds, and see what I can find out."

She nodded. She even looked like she might thank him.

Or she did until he bared his fangs and said, "If that's all? I think we're done here… Unless, of course, you want to stay a little longer." He set his notes aside and stood, slowly circling the desk to stand in front of her. With her seated, her eyes right at waist level, she didn't need to guess at how her presence was affecting him. "I told you the last time you were here that I'd enjoy making you beg, Witchling."

"Fuck you," she spat at him, but her eyes lingered on his lap.

Alastair reached out, taking her face in his hand. Her pulse was quick against his fingers, and as he traced the curve of her bottom lip with his thumb, her breath hitched.

"Your two minutes are up, Witchling," he purred. "Time to get the fuck out of my office."