Under a Winter Sky - Jeffe Kennedy Page 0,85

inside. No blood on the soil. No dead summoned to me. That was a victory.

Machete loosely in my hand, I leaned against the building while Eli rolled up the steel doors that protected the building. Mostly it was for thieves, but sometimes the newly-dead were apt to crawl into a person’s home. No one liked that. Finding out that a biter was watching you was creepy. Hell, dead or not, it was creepy. I like some weird, but stalkers are another thing entirely.

My eyes were drifting closed with all these thoughts of sleep.

“Plum pudding?” Eli’s voice was falsely cheery.

So, I made a rude gesture.

“I’d prefer you be awake when we consummate our love,” he said.

I opened my eyes. “Our what?”

Rather than answer, he opened the door and ushered me inside the bar. We were, obviously, late enough that the bar was closed, and for that I was grateful. Eli’s bar staff was alternately tense and mothering with me. No one was outright unpleasant, but I think they worried that I was about to get their boss killed.

That was how I’d first ended up cozying up to him. No human was strong enough to fight again-walkers. Eli was. I was . . . and that was how I ended up here. Again. Tonight was to be a simple dinner, but somehow, I was bleeding.

“My pretty dress,” I said.

Eli set the locks and rolled the steel. “You look gorgeous, buttercream, even with the blood. A warrior goddess.”

I grabbed a bar towel. They were clean, bleached, and absorbent. It wasn’t the worst bandage ever.

“Let me get the kit so I can st—”

“Absolutely not.” I dropped the new blade on a table. Now that we were secure, I could be unarmed.

I wound the bar towel around my arm. I wouldn’t wake anything here, but I’d still rather contain my blood.

We were alone in the bar. Just me, Eli, and my weapons. I glanced at my dagger. It needed wiped down, and with one arm holding my cotton bar towel on the other, I was in no shape to do it.

“My stitching is excellent,” Eli said, as if he was insulted. For all I knew, he was.

“Did I say otherwise?” I walked behind the bar, putting the long expanse between us.

Eli stared at me, as if his fae bullshit was going to work. It wouldn’t, although that smile of his was a sort of magic. “Geneviève Crowe, you are being unreasonable. Sit down and let me stitch—”

“Using my full name would only work if I was a faerie.” I poured a drink for each of us. Shaky, but mostly in the glasses.

“Are we calling out species, delectable witch of mine?” His tone was falsely light—which meant I’d probably violated one of the eight hundred and thirty-seven rules of dealing with faeries.

Okay, admittedly, I didn’t know how many rules there really were. I gave up counting somewhere around eighty. I tried, legitimately tried to have peace with Eli, but we had a complicated relationship.

“I’m not really yours,” I muttered, stepped closer with both drinks in my working hand.

“You’re dripping on the wood.” He gestured to the floor.

When I looked down, he moved closer. It was the sort of speed neither of us usually used in front of the other. He hid his; I hid mine. We’re complicated.

The blue-tint from humming bar lights that were still on even though the bar was closed cast an ethereal glow over him, highlighting his inhuman beauty. No human was as striking as even the least of the fae, and after our brief trip to Elphame, I discovered that no faery was as beautiful as Eli.

Not because he was fae.

Not because witches were susceptible to them or anything so convenient.

It was just Eli.

Or maybe I still had a lot of pent-up feelings in his general direction. Our one encounter that led to orgasms wasn’t enough. Maybe we just had too much unresolved lust and it made him somehow more attractive—which, incidentally, was fucking horrifying because he was already stunning.

He took his drink, tossed it back, and waited for me to do the same.

“Just give it a minute,” I said, peering at the gash on my arm.

“Why are you being difficult, Geneviève? Do I stitch you poorly? Have I caused undue pain?” His hand was alongside my cheek, hovering in that sliver of space where if I sighed, he’d be touching me. “You are seeping blood.”

“’s not you. I want to know how fas’ I’ll heal now. This is an oppur. .

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