Chapter 29

Chapter 29

ALASTAIR

" M ore," Alastair ordered, tapping the bar next to his empty glass.

Jasper hadn't even bothered putting the bottle away after he'd poured Alastair's last drink. Wordlessly, the Shifter uncorked the bottle again and poured his boss a generous serving of scotch.

Alastair brought the glass to his lips and tipped it back. It was almost impossible for a Vampire to get drunk with their metabolism but tonight he was going to give it his best try.

The pleasurable burn of the liquor sliding down his throat was almost enough to make him moan. But it was short-lived. Heat pooled in his stomach for a fraction of a second and was gone.

Sighing, Alastair put his glass back down, and this time he didn't even need to ask for more. Jasper was already pouring another before he'd even set the glass fully on the table.

Saturday night was their busiest night, and the club was closed. Closed, for the first time since he had bought the place and turned it into one of the Eternal City's most successful nightclubs. It would cost him, losing all that income from tonight, but he didn't give a fuck about the money.

Tonight, all he cared about was trying to get rip-roaring drunk .

The next shot stayed in his stomach even longer, and the warmth from it was a pleasant escape for a few seconds.

"More."

Alastair wasn't some love-struck puppy. He wasn't some pussy-whipped teenager. So, when Fey had left that night—the night they'd fucked on his desk—and hadn't returned within the next few days, he hadn't been some heartbroken sniveling mess. He'd given her the space and independence a powerful Witch deserved.

When a week passed, and he still hadn't seen her, he'd sent her a message. Then called. He wasn't lovesick . He wasn't pining for her, or any shit like that, for fuck's sake. He was worried, alright? The way she'd looked when she'd left, after finding that baggie of devil dust, it worried him.

It's not like he was fucking obsessed with her, or anything.

It's not like he couldn't stop thinking about her. Like she occupied his every waking thought.

Like he couldn't stop remembering the way her skin felt. The way she moved on him when he fucked her with his fingers. The sounds she made, the perfect fucking sounds she made, when she came. The sweetest sound he'd ever heard.

It's not like he couldn't stop thinking about the way she'd said his name, the way she'd whispered it against his hand, her body taut with pleasure as she came on his cock in a way he'd never forget.

It's not like he'd spent the next day smelling her on his skin, his face, his clothes, and fuck it left him hard just remembering it.

Alastair's next drink tasted like a lie, but it stayed in his system longer than the last one.

Ok, so maybe he had been a little fucking obsessed. And a little frantic when she didn't come back. Maybe he'd been worried, too, maybe he was a lot of fucking things. Maybe when she hadn't returned his messages and his calls, when she hadn't come back two weeks later, he'd been worried enough to set his hounds on her scent, worried enough to send out feelers looking for any information about Fey and what trouble she might be in.

Maybe he'd wanted to help.

But now ?

Now he was fucking pissed.

The packet in front of him was thinner than most he received from his hounds. Thinner, even, than the packet of information he'd received about Phillip Danvers. The packet she'd convinced him to get for her.

No. The packet his hounds had delivered, the packet containing every piece of information they could find about Fey, had only been one sheet of paper.

Because as far as his sources could tell, no Witch going by that name even existed.