Page 42 of Great Service from Top to Bottom

“He hurt Zodiac,” Reynard said, his voice more like rough gravel than its typical smooth chocolate.

“Yeah, but Zee’s alright, and if you kill Kris, it gets messy. And we already have a lot of messy happening, and a whole lot of murders, so maybe don’t break his neck?”

Reynard sneered. His grip tightened, and Kris’s struggles began to taper off. Kris twitched.

“Victor.” I stepped closer, putting myself into his line of sight, where it quickly became obvious Reynard was a second away from snapping Kris’s spinal column. “It’s alright. Zee is going to be okay.”

“It’s not alright. The feelings I have are not alright. What this fae does is not alright. Nothing is alright, Adam.”

I laid my hand on his arm and leaned in, bringing it down. “Victor, look at me.”

He blinked, still wild and focused on killing. But the moment his gaze skipped from Kris to me, the animal instinct faded, and the crazed silver swirl dissipated, leaving his eyes no less beautiful, just a little less murdery.

“Let’s go home.”

He dropped Kris, breathed in, adjusted his cuffs, and marched from the living room, long dark hair swishing down his back.

“The fuck was that?!” Kris wheezed on his hands and knees. “He nearly killed me!”

I knelt, tilted my head, and eyed the fae who sold body parts on the black market and who was silly enough to shoot Zodiac in front of me. “Be thankful I’m in no mood for murder. But if you come near us again, or threaten us in any way, I will not be as kind as he was going to be and make your end quick. No. I will ensure you suffer a long, agonizing demise during which you will beg for mercy.”

Kris’s face paled. “What the fuck are you people?”

“SOS Hotel management.” I straightened, sucked in a deep, centering breath, and smiled. “Sorry about the mess.”

CHAPTER 11

The ride back to the hotel was as tense as ever, with Reynard stewing in his fury, and Zee scrunched in a ball, teeth gritted at every bump and pothole the car jolted over.

Back home, Zee asked me to help him with his wing, so we headed to his room, leaving Victor marching toward the closed bar.

Muttering expletives, Zee flung off his top, and went straight to his dressing table with its bank of mirrors.

An obvious hole gaped in his left wing, as though someone had taken a giant hole punch to it.

“If I kneel, can you get to it?” he asked, digging out a medkit from among a bewildering array of hair and body products.

“Of course.”

He knelt, folded his arms on the dresser top, propped his chin on them, and spread his wings for me to get to work. I stepped up to his back, in between his legs, and with his wings drooped, I could just reach the bullet hole with wound spray, and I gave it a blast.

“Ow, fuck!”

“Sorry.”

“That fucking fae fuck shot me, Kitten.”

“Will it scar?”

“Maybe.” He grumbled. “Do you think Chef Étrange will whip up some mac and cheese after you’ve patched me up?”

“I’ll ask him. I’m sure he will.”

He stayed quiet for a bit, shifting now and then to bring the wing down whenever it tried to pop back up again. Eventually, after a lot of fussing and fumbling, I managed to get some bandages stuck on both sides.

It didn’t look the best, but it was clean and patched up, and he’d be alright—that was the important thing. “Okay, you’re all good.” I placed the medkit on the dresser beside him, but Zee stayed kneeling, chin on his arms, blinking at his reflection.

“Am I nuts, or was Fancy Fangs more growly than usual?” he asked.