He waved my question away. “I only ever learn the names of the interesting ones, and Harry has already given me his number.”
“You move fast.”
Acheron hit me with a cool gaze. His eyes were silver and mercurial, brightening whenever he drew on his magic. “Only when I know what I want.”
I took a quick glance at the bartender. He was bulky beneath his pressed white shirt, black waistcoat and bow tie, with wide shoulders and a dark shadow along his jawline. His dark brown hair was neatly slicked back, and I could see why Acheron found him attractive. The wizard liked men who could manhandle him into submission. “Does Harry know what he’s getting himself into?”
Acheron’s smile turned wicked. “I fucking hope so.”
I shook my head and spun around in my seat, looking out at the sea of faces in front of me. Maybe that’s what I needed. Some light-hearted fun. Except I preferred someone I could chase. Someone smaller and more fragile than me. Someone I could break.
Someone likehim.
Wilder Rowan.
Acheron followed my line of sight and let out a throaty chuckle. “You know you have to stay away from the little witch. Damyr will have your head if you touch him.”
And didn’t I know it. I had to play nice with the witch, even if everything within me urged me to chase him down. “I know.”
“Does he even like men? I’m sure he’s straight.”
“No idea,” I gritted out.
Which would make me the fucking idiot. Potentially lusting after a man I couldn’t have. I had a strong sense of loyalty to Damyr. He gave me a place when I needed one, and I’d do anything he asked of me. Even if that meant leaving the little witch alone. “Besides, Damyr said not to touch him. He didn’t say I couldn’twatchhim.”
“You’re crazy,” Acheron mumbled as he sipped his bright pink drink.
I cocked my eyebrow at him, but the fucker didn’t even wilt. “You know the term ‘crazy’ could be considered offensive.”
Acheron snorted into his cocktail. “Yeah, like you give a shit.”
The wizard was right. I didn’t give a shit. I wasn’t mentally wired with the capacitytogive a shit. So, I sat there, drinking my bourbon and watching Wilder barely interact with the other guests.
He was really pretty and every time I looked at him, he held my attention completely—which was never a good thing. His hair was the colour of chestnuts caught in the sun and fell around his jawline in choppy waves. Normally, he decked himself out in a band tee and the baggiest jeans on the planet, but today… I hissed in a sharp breath. Today he was in a wine-coloured three-piece suit, and it hugged him in all the right places. It nipped in at his waist, was tight across his shoulders, and I bet if he turned around it would be hugging his ass like a second skin.
“You’re drooling,” Acheron sniggered as he swiped his thumb across my chin.
I batted his hand away and threw him a cold stare. “Touch me like that again and I’ll cut your finger off.”
“Sounds fun,” he replied with a waggle of his eyebrows.
“Dismembering is always fun with me.”
“Weirdo,” he chuckled as he spun around next to me, crossing one long, elegant leg over the other and leaning back against the bar. “But Wilder is pretty.”
I hummed in agreement as Wilder finally looked my way, as if he could sense my gaze from across the room. His eyes were mesmerising. Two pools of violet haunted by pain and suffering. It made him look vulnerable, fragile, and it called to the darkest part of me. The predator that wanted to hunt him as prey.
A soft blush flushed across the apples of his cheeks, and Wilder turned away from me, a scowl pulling at his dark brow.
“I don’t think he likes you,” Acheron taunted in that sugary-sweet sing-song voice of his.
“Fuck off.”
“Nope. I’m having way too much fun winding you up.”
I chose to ignore him and took another sip of my bourbon, all the while watching Wilder chat away with Vlad and the other vampires. He was actively avoiding looking back at me, and I found it amusing.
“Poor, poor Wilder,” Acheron mused aloud, echoing my own thoughts. “The boy won’t know what’s hit him.”