“This boy is a sworn enemy of the House, and that House is watching your every move now, Alivia,” he hisses. “They know exactly where you live. They have eyes everywhere. And you two together puts everyone at risk.”
“I’m…I’m…” and I was about to say I’m sorry, when I remember I’m an adult and Rath is not my father. I don’t have to apologize to him.
“I don’t care what you two do with your hormones and feelings,” he spits, contradicting what he just said. “But you better do it in private where you won’t be seen and get anyone killed.”
“He’s right,” Ian admits quietly. He hoists himself out of the water and holds a hand out for me. “I know better.”
I meet his eyes as I stand, our bodies only inches apart, dripping water everywhere.
“Like I said, you do inexplicable things to me,” he says quietly as his eyes burn into mine.
“Get inside, it’s nearly dark,” Rath growls as he tosses two towels at us.
I wrap my towel around my chest, Ian around his waist, and we slip past Rath like two caught teenagers. And the second we break into the ballroom, we both burst out laughing.
“See, you didn’t even need Henry, you’ve got Rath,” Ian says as we slowly walk across the cold marble floor.
That stings a little more than it should, but still, I offer a small smile.
“I am sorry, though,” Ian says, the mood having already grown more serious. “I should have thought this through some more before just showing up at your house.”
“Are you really an actual enemy of the House?” I ask.
Ian lets out a loud breath. “Yeah. I mean, I’ve hated vampires pretty much my entire life. I’ve killed at least half of the Bitten they’ve created over the last eight or so years. They know me well and everything I do and stand for. It wouldn’t be good for you if they knew about…us.”
“Us, huh?” I tease him as I turn into the kitchen. “I didn’t know that was a thing.”
“I’m not one to adhere to labels and definitions too often,” he says with that smile. “I just let the cards play as they land.”
“You sure know how to win a lady over, Ian Ward,” I say as I open the pantry.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I dig through the bins and shelves. The pantry in this house is bigger than my bedroom back in Colorado. “I’m hungry, and do you know how long it’s been since I baked anything?”
“Right,” Ian says, taking the flour and sugar canisters I hand him. “You’re Martha Stewart.”
I snort at that. “Don’t ever call me that again.”
“Deal. I’d never want to do the things I want to do to you with Martha Stewart.”
“You’re bad,” I chuckle as I cross to the kitchen and grab eggs from the gigantic fridge. Seriously, why do we need so much food and so much room when it’s just me and Rath they’re feeding? “Are you this forward with all the women you come in contact with?”
“Not exactly,” Ian says as he sets the ingredients on the gigantic granite bar. “I haven’t been on a ‘date,’” he air quotes, “in about two years.”
“Too busy slaying vamps?” I tease him as I start digging around for a mixing bowl. I find one and a stash of measuring cups.
“Something like that,” he says as his eyes follow me around the kitchen.
I give him a little side smile. I double-check all my ingredients, sure I’ve got everything.
“There’s just one thing missing,” I realize. “Hang on a sec.”
Except, in this giant house, running to my bedroom doesn’t take just a second. I have to run through the dining room, loop around through the foyer, up the staircase, down the hall of the north wing, and finally burst into my bedroom. I snatch it off of my dresser and dart back down the stairs and skid around back into the kitchen. I have to tuck my towel back in to keep it from falling.
“How old is that thing?” Ian asks with a laugh.
I plug my old school iPod into my portable speakers on the counter. “I’ve had it since I was a sophomore in high school, probably,” I say as I click it on and scroll through playlists. I click on the one that says “RISE THE ROOF.” An old rock song starts blaring through the speakers. “I brought it with me to work every day back home. I’d put my headphones on and just…”
“Get in the zone,” Ian says in a half teasing tone.
“I guess,” I chuckle as I start measuring out my dry ingredients and mixing them in a bowl. “I think it started ‘cause my mom always listened to music when she was cooking in the kitchen.”