Biting Bad_ A Chicagoland Vampires Novel(2)

“Reset,” Jonah repeated, a little more firmly.

“Should I remind him I’m a Master?” Ethan quietly asked beside me, rolling the swords in his hands and bouncing on the balls of his feet as he prepared to spar again.

Jonah’s hearing must have been acute. “You’re Master of Cadogan House,” he said, “not dual swords. Reset.”

The crowd of vampires hooted, spurring us on just as Jonah did.

“Two katanas are trickier than one,” Ethan muttered.

The same applied, I thought, to vampires. Especially vampires of the male persuasion.

—

An hour and a shower later, we returned to the House’s third-floor apartment, the small set of rooms that we called home.

My work night was done, but in a few minutes, I’d be heading into a frosty February evening. And since I was hoping to make a better impression than “sweaty vampire,” I found myself in the closet amid Ethan’s expensive suits and polished shoes, worrying over what to wear.

“Ankle boots or knee-high?” I asked.

Ethan leaned casually against the wall, one foot canted in front of the other and an amused expression on his face. “Does it really matter what you wear?”

I gave him a flat look.

“Sentinel, you are an intelligent woman, with a solid sense of honor, an excellent pedigree, and a master’s degree—”

“Nearly a doctorate.”

“Nearly a doctorate,” he allowed, “in English literature, and yet you’re worried about your choice of footwear. It’s not as if you have a date.”

And a good thing, since Ethan and I had been living together for nearly two months. I had a key to prove it, although I was still getting used to the idea that the Cadogan penthouse was also mine.

Still, date or not, it wasn’t wise to underestimate a Chicagoan’s love of good winter footwear. Frostbite was no one’s friend.

“I know I don’t have a date. This just feels . . . important.”

For the fifth or sixth time, I sat down on a padded ottoman and switched out my shoes, exchanging ankle boots—cute, but not warm—for knee-high leather boots, tugging them over the jeans I’d paired with a shirt and sweater. The boots were dark brown leather and fitted perfectly, ideal for long and dark winter nights.

When I’d pulled them on, I stood up and posed in front of the closet’s full-length mirror.

“It is important,” Ethan agreed, scanning my reflection. “She was your friend for a very long time. You’re both attempting to pick up the pieces of your relationship to see if they still fit together.”

“I know. And it’s still awkward. And it still makes me nervous.”

The “she” in question was Mallory Carmichael. My former best friend and roommate, a relatively new sorceress attempting to redeem herself after an unfortunate period as a real-life wicked witch. She was currently atoning for her sins by living without magic and performing menial labor for the alpha of the North American Central Pack. She seemed to be regaining control of herself, but neither Ethan nor I was entirely sure of her.

“You look nervous,” Ethan agreed.

I sighed. “Not helpful. I was hoping for something a little more complimentary. Like ‘Merit, you don’t look nervous; you look ravishing.’”

“Trap,” he said, shaking his head.

I met his gaze in the mirror. “It’s not a trap.”

“It is a trap,” Ethan assured with a grin, “because there’s no response I can give that you’ll actually believe.”

I gave him a dubious expression. “Try me.”

Ethan, who looked devilishly handsome in his fitted black suit, stepped behind me, brushed the long dark hair from my neck, and planted a kiss at the crux of my shoulder, sending a delicious chill along my spine.

“Sentinel, you are always the most beautiful woman in the room, irrespective of what you’re wearing. And most especially—and preferably—when you’re wearing nothing at all.”

How did men manage to offer a compliment that transitioned from sweet to utterly salacious in the span of a few words? Still, a compliment was a compliment, and Ethan Sullivan was a master complimenter.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He checked his large and undoubtedly expensive watch. “I have a call in a few minutes. You should probably get going.”

I huffed at the doubt in his voice. “My steed is trusty and will get me there on time.” I talked a big talk, but in fact I’d be driving a well-worn Volvo across Chicago in February. The odds were not in my favor.

“And now you’re beginning to sound like Jeff,” Ethan said.