Vein of Love (Blackest Gold Book 1) (11 page)

Tensley looked down at the ring still on her thin finger, and when he touched her hand, she flinched.

Carefully, he removed it, sliding it over her creamy flesh and stuffing it in his pocket.

“You got it off…” She gawked at her bare finger.

“Anyone in my family can remove it. Plus, it’s worthless now if no warlocks can charm it again.” He sighed and held up the engagement ring. “Put it on.”

“Do I have a choice?” As much as her steely voice startled him, it was more so the faint tremble that froze his limbs.

No. But neither do I.

Her hands shook as she slid the new ring on.

He didn’t know why he felt hurt.
Irritated.
He expected more from her. He expected her to squeal and thank him. It was an honor to wear the Scorpios ring, and she didn’t even show a hint of happiness. He’d imagined someone he
cared
about wearing the ring—Evelyn, maybe. It hurt, and that emotion alone made him furious.

Evelyn; the woman who’d been avoiding his calls.

“Hurry up. We don’t have all night.
Up
.” Tensley gripped Molly’s elbow and lifted her to her feet, marching them through the room.

They were silent as they strolled outside, neither of them touching. He put his hands firmly in his pockets and stared straight ahead, ignoring her. He didn’t understand why he was angry. He just was.

She’d put those damn sunglasses on again. He ground his teeth and pulled her to a halt. “You don't need to wear those all the time.”

She jerked her arm out of his grip. “I feel more comfortable with them on.”

“One night.” He lifted a finger for emphasis.

“Please don’t.” Her voice was soft, but no less impactful. He didn’t need to see her eyes to gauge her mental state—her tone was wobbly and strained.

“One night. That’s it.”

Slowly, her hand reached for the glasses and slipped them off. She tucked them into her coat and turned away.

He battled himself, but then remembered his game plan—
make her trust you
. No using his seduction to win her over, no using his pheromones, just him and her.

Tensley grasped her bicep gently and spun her around. “You don’t hide your weakness. You show it off and pretend it’s nothing. Then one day, you’ll forget it ever
was
a weakness.”

She shakily took a breath. “Do you have a weakness?”

“Everyone does, sweetheart.”

“I think you lied to me,” she mumbled as they turned up another street.

Tensley’s brows wrinkled. “Oh?”

“You’re pretending to be a wolf.”

“And?”

Her eyes finally drilled into his, so steady and soft that the air deflated from his lungs. “But you won’t bite me.” She rose to her tiptoes and pressed a feather-light kiss against his scruffy jawbone, and the touch of power pulsed smoothly through his veins.

She had no idea.

I am the wolf. And I will fucking bite.

Hard.

He found himself leaning into her touch, but as she escaped his body, she grinned knowingly.

Don’t trust her. Don’t. Trust. Her.

He was beginning to lose confidence in his abilities to do that.

TENSLEY FLEXED HIS
fingers. His nerves had been hot-wired by the blonde vixen in front of him, and once he saw the Italian restaurant, Vincent’s, ahead, he reined in his emotions. The front of Vincent’s had a seating section outside, littered with black iron chairs and white tablecloths thrown over the small tables. Candles flickered on each table intimately.

The maître d’, dressed all in black, nervously exchanged glances with Tensley and Molly at the entrance. “Mr.—Mr. Knight, welcome! Wonderful for you and your beautiful date to join us tonight.”

Tensley pulled Molly’s hand to rest on his forearm—she didn’t resist, and the warmth from her palm shot strength up his bicep. The maître d’ anxiously showed them to their table. The staff knew who he was, and that if they kept him waiting, they were in trouble.

Of course, they were seated in a secluded booth with a dozen red roses in the center.

Before Molly sat down, she rolled off her trench coat, and he groaned when he saw her dress. The black satin hugged her curves, flaring mid-thigh, and the sweetheart neckline plunged dangerously low, exposing her supple breasts; she was a walking threat to his every fucking cell.

He painfully cleared his throat, begging himself for composure, and angrily sat down, fingers restlessly tapping against his thigh. He readjusted himself beneath his pants.

Keep your distance, daemon. You’re dangerous to me.

All he had to do was remember his brother’s vicious face and heavy fist from years ago, all caused by that human seductress, and he collected any softness, any kindness in him and replaced it with an icy detachment.

The male waiter made no qualms about eye-fucking Molly every time he came over, but she was oblivious, or pretended to be. Tensley cracked his neck in irritation.
Idiot must be new.
His fingers curled into his palm.

Molly looked over his shoulder at the street. “I wonder where September and Illya are…”

He had
almost
forgotten they were coming.

They sat across from each other, and Tensley watched her: head bowed, trained on the candle centered on the table. She was bewitched by the flickering swish of the flame, and he was bewitched by her. The smell of wax burning and the clatter of silverware and brassy laughter turned his heightened gifts into sensory overload.

Say something, damn it.

“Illya and I are nothing alike.” His hoarse voice bled into what he’d imagined was peaceful quietness for her, not sensory overload. He leaned back as she looked up.

Her brows lifted. “What?”

He scowled, curling his hands and instantly unrolling them again. “Because his family is low in the hierarchy, unlike the Knight bloodline. Our family comes from Duke Sallos, ruling ove
r 
thirty legions of demons. Illya can live like you, unwatched. Me, I have too many eyes on me at all times.”

Her body stiffened. “Why though? What makes him different?”

“Illya was born from the union of a low-class and high-class demon. His mother believed she
adored
his father and betrayed her family and her bloodline to marry him. His father, however, was a low-class servant, desperate for power and money. He was not recognized in the Court of Babylon, and when there is no recognition, demons are punished with the surname Black. She married into that name. He charmed her, he seduced her meek character, and before Illya was even born, he left them.” Each word dripped with bitterness, and he stared at the flame slowly devouring the candlestick, drops of wax rolling down its spine. “Illya was born as nothing. In court, he does not have a name. Only Black—exiled, forgotten Black.” He transferred his stare to her.

Molly’s nose scrunched adorably. “Why would they do something like that?”

“Because my world’s focus is on hierarchy and power, and how pure your blood is. My father told the story as a caution tale for us as children.” He blew out a harsh breath, the flame disappearing for a second. “And if anything happened to Illya…” Just the thought of someone harming Illya set his blood aflame, much hotter than the candle.

Molly’s hand slid across the table and touched his fingertips. “I know.” His hand stilled, and he couldn’t look away from her big, glossy eyes, a faint tremble in her thick, crimson bottom lip…as if she understood him.

“Mr. Knight.”

Tensley’s hand jerked back, instinctually pulling a knife with it and underneath the table. It was instinctual because he knew that voice—it was the voice of a murderer. He turned to face the red-haired beast. “Duke Abaddon.”

Abaddon flashed his teeth. “I see we both discovered this delicious restaurant.” His beady eyes transferred to Molly’s bowed head.
Shit. Her eyes.
“And looks like you have a delicious date, as well.” The duke reached out his hand to shake hers, but she didn’t move. At the rejection, his hand fell, and he spoke to Tensley lowly, but his eyes didn’t leave her. “I didn’t know you cared for
humans.
”

Tensley’s hand clenched the knife underneath the table. “I
don’t
.”

Abaddon’s focus was entirely on Molly, and the longer he stared, the more his demeanor changed to one of curiosity and suspicion—like he sensed what she was, like he was trying to pinpoint her rare essence in his mind.

Tensley leaned back, flicked his wine glass so it chimed, and cleared his throat. “Excuse us.”

Abaddon nodded absentmindedly. “Of course. Enjoy your dinner.” He gave Molly one last glance and turned to go back to his seat somewhere in the restaurant.

Tensley loosened his grip on the knife, but it tensed when another, much more
annoying
voice called out.

“Sorry we’re late! Mr. I-Know-My-Way-Around-The-Subway got us a bit lost,” September hollered from the road.

September’s hair was up in a weird, messy bun with ribbons swirling out, and Tensley saw Illya smiling behind the girl. They continued to exchange genuine smiles at each other, and Tensley got the distinct sense that it had all been a setup on Illya’s part so he could hook up with September. Illya sat down next to him, and September hugged Molly before removing her coat. Once she sat down, she gave Tensley a hard look.

He watched the way Molly ordered: with a soft voice, so the waiter—
damn him
—had to lean in close; how she talked with her hands, as if she was making the goat cheese, tomato sauce, mushrooms, and green peppers pizza herself; how her face genuinely lit up for the first time since he’d been reunited with her; the sheer joy she displayed when it came to discussing her favorite dish.

Note to self on her favorite type of pizza.

As the night went on, the conversation died out. A new violinist who had no idea who Tensley was came to their table, but he slammed money into his hand to leave them the fuck alone. He didn’t want her to get the wrong idea: this was purely civil, to prove even a beast could be civilized.

He could feel eyes on him. He turned, hoping to catch Molly watching him, but it was only September, and she wasn’t happy. Her nostrils flared unattractively, and Tensley wondered what Illya saw in her.

The light-haired demon loosened his collar, sweating buckets. “So…” Illya tapped his finger.

“Your accent—what is it exactly?” Molly leaned forward, cupping her chin with one hand.

Illya patted the side of his mouth with his napkin before responding. “It’s Russian. I grew up there until I was nine. My mother and I moved here together.”

“Where’s your father?” September asked through a mouthful of meatballs. Tensley clenched his fist.

“September,” Molly whispered, her eyes conveying an unspoken message.

Illya’s shoulders tensed, but his face still held that genial smile. “He was never my father. It was only my mother and I.”

September abruptly stopped chewing, staring at Illya’s profile as he continued to cut his steak.

“My mom left me and my dad, too. She’s living somewhere on the west coast. She enjoyed the single life too much to
settle down,
” September added. Illya stared thoughtfully at her. “We don’t need those kinds of people.” September raised her flute of red wine and turned to face Illya. “A toast to us.”

Without a moment’s pause, Illya’s large hand wrapped around his own flute, and he clicked it to hers.

“To us,” Illya murmured as he brought the flute to his lips.

September threw the drink back unceremoniously, her face twisting in disgust afterward. “Blech. I don’t really like wine, but it’s alcohol, so whatever.”

Illya’s gazed over the glass at September as he sipped his wine from the bottle Tensley had chosen.

“Do you miss it?” Molly’s gentle cadence startled Tensley, and he shifted in his seat to face her. She was focused on Illya’s confused expression. “Russia?”

Illya pondered the question, wetting his lips and setting down his drink. “No; I made my own family here in America. The arrogant bastard across from you is sufficient enough.” Illya cocked his head toward Tensley, and they exchanged brotherly grins.

Molly studied them, then honed in on Tensley. When she smiled, dimples appeared, and his mouth grew dry. He wasn’t used to her tender looks.

Too sweet. Not like the looks Evelyn gave him.

Sweeter and deadlier; addictive.

Fuck me.

“We should go dancing,” September suggested, perking up, probably from the booze.

Illya nodded. Tensley groaned, shifting as he rested his cheek on his fisted hand.

Molly eyed him. “Maybe not tonight.”

“Oh c’mon, it’ll be fun,” September said. She took Molly’s hand and stood up, rushing away. “You’ve got the bill, right Tensley?” she yelled over her shoulder as they walked through the patio’s gate.

“Yep. I sure do,” Tensley grumbled, ignoring Illya’s protests. The girls strolled ahead of them, giggling about something stupid, Tensley was sure. He was mesmerized by the way Molly’s hips swung, the way her toned legs looked in those nude pumps, but it wasn’t until she glanced briefly over her shoulder, biting that fucking blood-red lip, those doe eyes fluttering to meet his lustful gaze, that he knew she wanted to play.

He did, too.