Page 15 of Irrevocably

I stare at his fallen-angel face, at the hard, perfect lines of it. He’s impossible to read, yet I’m abruptly certain he knows more than he’s letting on.

“Why do you want to know?” I demand. “Why are you asking me these questions? What do you want with the club?”

He doesn’t reply immediately, merely reaches out and picks up his Cosmo and takes a sip. It should look ridiculous, this man all dressed in black denim and leather, sipping on the pink drink he’s holding in one tattooed hand. Yet he doesn’t. He looks like a tiger, slowly eating a delicate, feathered bird.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” he says after a moment.

“Fine.” I grab my backpack, because I don’t want to sit here another second. “I’ll see you round, then.”

“Stop.”

I’ve half risen to my feet when he says it, and his voice is so cold and hard and authoritative that I instinctively do what he says.

He hasn’t moved a muscle, still lounging back in the booth, toying with his drink, his big, muscled body relaxed. But the expression on his face is stone.

“Sit down, Tinkerbell,” he says. “I haven’t finished.”

Anger pools in my gut, hot and raw. I’ve got an assignment to redo, other assignments to finish, and exams to study for, and the last thing I need is some random stranger’s bullshit. Especially the random stranger who tried to choke me. And no, I’m not letting that go.

“Too bad,” I snap, hauling my backpack onto my shoulder. “Because I have.”

Then before he can say another word, I leave.

Chapter Eight

LUCIEN

Astrid’s out of the booth before I can stop her, threading her way through the other tables, heading to the door.

Fuck.

I underestimated her. I thought that the threat of telling Good Chief Starling about her little cutting habit would be enough to keep her here, but either she forgot about that, or she just doesn’t care. Given the fury that crossed her face when I threatened her with it, I’m thinking she forgot. Which means I need to remind her, because I haven’t gotten what I wanted from her yet.

I put the cocktail down on the table and start after her, not rushing because she won’t be able to get away from me, not if I don’t want her to.

Silly Tinkerbell, thinking I’d simply let her leave.

She’s so spiky and suspicious of me – with good reason, I’ll give her that – but I have to admit I’m quite enjoying her spark. No one gives me lip anymore, not the way she does, not when I can kill a man with my bare hands.

Enzo sometimes calls me The Terminator, after the old Schwarzenegger movie, and it’s a point of pride for him that I’m relentless when it comes to carrying out his orders. It’s a point of pride for me, too. Enzo rescued me, he brought me up – and while he’s not quite the father I never had, he isn’t far from it. In fact, I’m the example he holds up to the rest of the family: of loyalty and unquestioning obedience. And even though I don’t have any particular rank, his will is mine, and I am his right hand.

I push the door of the bar open and step outside. I can’t see her immediately, so I get out my phone and use the spyware I installed on hers to locate her. She hasn’t gone far. She’s hiding in the alley next to the bar, likely hoping that I’ll walk past without seeing her.

It’s dark in the street and the wind that comes from the mountains is cold. I can feel the bite of snow in the air. There’s no one else around, and if I was her, I wouldn’t have chosen a dark alleyway to hide, not from a man like me. Not when the darkness is where I live.

I stroll to the alley entrance and pause, making a show of glancing up and down the street, as if I haven’t seen her in the shadows, pressed to the brick wall as if she’s trying to push her whole body through it.

I don’t normally play with my prey, but there’s something about her fear, something about her defiance and her anger that I’m enjoying in a way I haven’t in a long time. It makes me want to test her, push her to see what she’ll do.

She stays still and very quiet, but it’s too late. The alley only has one entrance and I’m standing in it. She can’t get out.

I stop searching the street and look straight at her. “You chose here to hide? Really? A dark, deserted alley?”

Now she’s been spotted, she shoves herself away from the wall, that stubborn chin of hers lifted, determinedly clutching the strap of her backpack. In her jeans, dark blue BU sweatshirt, a denim jacket thrown over the top, her hair a cloud of silver curls around her shoulders, she looks vulnerable in the darkness. So delicate, so breakable – yet she doesn’t seem to recognise her own vulnerability. She’s staring at me as if she wants to bite my head off, completely ignoring the fact that I’m nearly a foot taller than she is.

It’s almost … sweet.

“I’m not hiding,” she says resolutely. “I was calling my dad.”