Love of Enemies

Not From Vegas

I press my tongue to the back of my fangs, willing them to stay in place. It's so annoying we can't control them. I'd love to just open my mouth like a cobra and have them pop down like little switchblades whenever I wanted to, but no. Arousal, hunger, and anger activated suck-sticks, for the win.

I grumble to myself as another waft of the scent hits me. My eyes widen. Home. It reminds me of home. Of the dumb black currant and vanilla creme tart I used to make with my mom before I...

"Two of your strongest, Tuck."

Shit on a fucking shingle, that voice. Deep and heavy, slow like molasses. God, I haven't had molasses in—

This absolute asshole. How dare he make me miss human food?

Tucker appears in front of the huge shifter, setting two of the largest frosted mugs I've ever seen down with a thud.

Three other wolves—all shirtless with some sort of athletic shorts—settle in around him. I do my best not to stare at them. I do. I mean, not my best, but I at least give it a solid four on the try scale.

But damn, they are all seriously hot. Ugh, I've gone too long without sex, clearly, if I'm even considering something with a wolf.

Vamps and shifters don't get along for a bunch of reasons, but wolf shifters in particular fucking suck. Less to do with how horrible their animal forms stink to our supercharged sense of smell, and more to do with how they're mostly alpha dicks who pick useless fights. We can at least be civilized in groups. Get a crowd of wolves together and it's a howling, drinking, dick measuring party from one end to the other.

And they're always in packs. Small packs, big packs, doesn't matter. There's never just one bloody fucking wolf. Also! Far too much co-habitation going on, if you ask me. Give me a moody hermit any day. Ah, well, except for Brekfort. That guy is a tornado of suck in the worst way. But did The Monarch ask my opinion when he brought him on board as another regulator? Nope. My sire vouched for him, and that was good enough.

I smirk at the wall of bottles behind the bar. Good old Soran. Can't imagine the mega cow he'd have if he ever caught me with wolves. Might be worth it just to see him flop over. Payback for shackling me with eternal boredom.

Whatever. It's not like any of this matters, anyway. I'm drinking alone, like always, and I'll go back to the nest alone, like always, and sit in my fucking corner—alone—like always. Could I go to the orgy room? Yes. But what's the damn point?

No one wants to hang around "Candy the Caustic" and I can't blame them. If I met another me, I'd probably rip her head off and spit down her neck. I also can't help it. The turn made me this way, and that's just that. Some vamps are lucky and have their good traits magnified. Me? The bitch dial spun around to ninety and then broke clean off.

I fluff out the ends of my hair in frustration, letting loose a sigh.

The air changes. Turns heavy. My gaze snaps back to the wolves, and they're all staring at me. The big guy gives a quick shiver and squeezes his empty mug so hard it cracks, corralling all of their attention.

"Shit. Sorry, Tuck," he mumbles, setting the glass down and picking a small shard out of his palm. There's a momentary twang of coppery blood in the air, but it's gone the next second as he heals. Tucker is there in an instant, swapping it out and wiping up residual drips.

"No worries," he says with a small smile, holding out his hand.

The big wolf pulls a strand of hair out of his head with a frown and hands it over, while Tucker's smile grows at his prize. He phases out and reappears farther down the bar to deal with a different customer.

Hmm. Interesting. Wonder if I could special order whatever potion Tucker's going to make with that... Wait, what the fu—No. Bad brain.

"You okay, boss?" The tallest wolf with tight black curls and an attractively skinny body leans in, checking his hand.

"Of course, he's fine," another one says from the opposite side. He sits down, coming out of a shadow and revealing his startling silver hair and nearly glowing green eyes.

I'm the one staring now, like a total creepazoid, but I can't help it.

"Looks like we have an audience," the third one mutters under his breath. Clearly, he doesn't realize I'm a supernatural with fabulously enhanced hearing. Or maybe he does. He glances back over his leanly muscular shoulder, a lock of his shaggy brown hair draping over his eye.

I refocus on my empty glass, spinning it back and forth between my fingers as my awareness goes on full alert. At least I'm not queasy anymore.

The huge guy stands slowly and makes his way toward me, the others in tow. It's a pack stalk if ever I've felt one. Welp, this isn't going to end well.

I could run, but I'm not a coward. That gene was obliterated after my transition, along with my give-any-fucks gene. So, that leaves sitting and waiting.

I'm not helpless, not by any means. Vamps may not be stronger than wolf shifters, but we're faster than most other supes, even without shadowstepping, and we're sure as hell more ruthless. The Monarch favors his lightspeed heart-removing chest punch, and I love a good spine liberation.

Soran's favorite kill method is a bit dark, that whole groin removal thing, but I think he carries a fair hunk of human trauma around in his back pocket.

The pack finally reaches me, that annoying sweet smell clogging my nose while making my chest flutter. What the hell does that mean? They flank me like thick, muscled shadows, and I swallow, a weird thread of excitement spinning in my chest.

"Tucker, it's a bit ripe in here all of a sudden. You should crack a—"

There's a deep inhale along the back of my neck, strangling my words into submission. My nerves prick, fingernails scraping for purchase on the bar surface. Maybe he'll bite me, maybe I'll feel something—anything. The thought shocks me so hard I nearly gasp, but instead, I freeze.

The massive hands I've been ogling land heavy on the bar, one on each side of me, caging me in. They're broad and rough, with thick fingers, thicker knuckles, and veins for days. I almost groan. Such big, thumping veins. I wouldn't even have to work for a snack, just plink, slide right on in.

Scalding heat worms its way through my jacket and sticks to my skin from his proximity.

"You're not from Vegas," he rumbles over my shoulder, sniffing at my ear and sending goosebumps across my neck. "Smell too good to be one of our weaselly bloodsuckers."

NP: 👀👀 Bet you can guess what's coming soon!
Next episode coming: 6-5-23
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