Chapter 37 Throat and Whiskey
Nyxara
Midnight tasted like bad decisions and cheaper whiskey.
I needed air that didn’t smell like my own frustration, so I slipped out—leaving Lira asleep on the couch—and found a dive bar on the edge of pack territory. Dim red lights, sticky tables, wolves who knew my reputation and kept their distance.
Four drinks in, the burn was finally dulling the edges.
Then a rough hand landed on my shoulder—heavy, deliberate.
I turned, tail flicking irritably.
Eryx.
He looked like he’d followed me—black fatigues, sleeves rolled up to show corded forearms, hair slightly mussed like he’d been running his hands through it. His eyes were dark storm clouds, jaw shadowed, scent sharp with pine, steel, and something hotter.
I smiled slow, sharp. “I told you we’d see each other again.”
His jaw flexed. “Have you got your evidence yet?”
“No.” I shrugged his hand off my shoulder—slowly, deliberately, letting my fingers brush his wrist on the way down. “I will. Just… give me a few more days.”
He didn’t step back.
Instead, he moved closer—crowding me against the bar stool, one hand bracing on the counter beside me, caging me in without touching. His heat rolled over me, mixing with the lingering phantom taste of him from the dream.
“You think you can crawl into my head,” he said, voice low and rough, barely audible over the music, “suck my cock, ride me until I beg, and then walk away like nothing happened?”
My pulse kicked. I tilted my chin up, meeting his glare. “You seemed to enjoy it, beta. Came pretty hard for a dream.”
His eyes flashed gold. “That wasn’t the point.”
“Then what was?” I leaned in, close enough that my breath brushed his jaw. “You mad I made you lose control? Or mad you liked it?”
He growled—deep, warning—and for a second I thought he’d walk away.
Instead, his hand shot up, fingers wrapping around my throat—not squeezing, just holding, thumb pressing against my pulse. His mouth crashed down on mine.
No warning. No gentleness.
Just raw, angry hunger.
His fangs grazed my lower lip, tongue thrusting deep, claiming every inch of my mouth like he was punishing me for the dream. I kissed him back just as hard—nails digging into his chest through his shirt, tail curling around his calf possessively.
He tasted like whiskey and restraint finally snapping.
One hand slid to the back of my neck, angling me deeper; the other gripped my hip, pulling me flush against him so I felt every thick inch of how hard he still was.
I moaned into his mouth—couldn’t help it—and he swallowed the sound, growling in response.
For a moment, the bar disappeared. Just his mouth devouring mine, his body pinning me, the dream bleeding into reality.
Then a glass shattered somewhere nearby—loud, jarring.
He broke the kiss first, breathing hard, forehead pressed to mine, eyes glowing.
“This doesn’t change anything,” he rasped. “Get me proof, Nyxara. Real proof. Or stay the fuck out of my head.”
He let go—abrupt, like it burned—and turned, disappearing into the crowd before I could find my voice.
I stood there, lips swollen, heart hammering, tasting him on my tongue.
He was right.
It didn’t change anything.
But gods, I wanted it to.
Back home, the apartment was quiet—too quiet. Lira still asleep, curled small under the blanket like the world couldn’t touch her there.
I was hungry.
Actually hungry.
Not for energy, not for lust. For food.
That was new. And annoying.
I stood in the kitchen, staring at the empty fridge, then at Lira’s sleeping form. Hours passed like that—me watching her breathe, tail wrapped around my leg, mind turning over the same thought.
I wasn’t doing this for justice. Not really.
I was doing it for her.
One kid. One girl who’d parked her freezing ass outside my door and refused to die.
It wouldn’t kill me to fight for her. Just her.
I wasn’t turning into some selfless savior like Maureen—all soft eyes and noble sacrifices. Fuck that.
“Ah!”
I jumped, tail lashing.
“Are you okay? And who is that?”
I spun.
Azrael.
Leaning against my bedroom doorframe like he owned the place—dark hair tousled, leather jacket open, smirk sharp enough to cut.
First question: “How the hell did you get in?”
He shrugged, stepping closer, slow and deliberate. “Window. You really should ward them better, love.”
I narrowed my eyes, arms crossing. “Care to explain why you’re breaking into my apartment at three in the morning?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just closed the distance until he was right in front of me—close enough that his scent flooded my senses: smoke, leather, and that dark, addictive incubus edge that used to make me stupid.
His hands came up, cupping my cheeks—firm, possessive, thumbs stroking my jaw like he had the right. His eyes were darker than I remembered, pupils blown wide, almost black.
“Who is it?” he murmured, voice low and velvet-rough. “New boyfriend? Someone making you ignore my calls?”
I snorted, but didn’t pull away yet. “I never knew I was yours to begin with.”
His grip tightened—just a fraction, not painful, but enough to remind me how strong he was. “You’ve always been mine, Nyx. You just like pretending otherwise.”
The words sent a shiver down my spine—half warning, half promise.
“I did something stupid,” I said, trying to redirect.
He tilted his head, smirk deepening, eyes never leaving mine. “You’ve never done anything stupid before.”
I pulled away then, pacing the small living room to put space between us. The words spilled out before I could stop them.
“I lied. Framed an innocent man. The real culprit—the director—he’s hurting kids. Trafficking them. Elders protecting him. And now I’m trying to fix it, but I can’t get proof without risking everything.”
He laughed—low, dark, almost amused. “Is that all, my love?”
I stopped pacing, glaring at him. “Yes. That’s my problem right now.”
In a blink, he had me—arms banding around my waist, lifting me like I weighed nothing. The room spun, and suddenly we were in my bedroom, door shut with a soft click.
He dropped me on the bed—not rough, but deliberate—then crawled over me, knees bracketing my hips, hands planted on either side of my head.
This wasn’t the Az I knew.
The lazy, detached incubus who fucked and left before dawn, who never stayed, never asked for more.
This one looked hungry. Possessive. Dangerous.
His smirk was back, sharper than ever, eyes tracing my face like he was memorizing it.
“What’s going on with you?” I asked, voice steadier than I felt. “What’s with the smirk? The breaking and entering? The sudden… intensity?”
“I miss you,” he said simply, lowering himself until his body hovered just above mine—close enough to feel his heat, not close enough to touch. His hand slid up my thigh, slow and deliberate, stopping just short of where I suddenly, traitorously, wanted it.
“You miss your favorite hole,” I shot back, trying to keep the edge in my voice.
“No.” His voice dropped, serious now, eyes locking on mine. He took my hand, lacing our fingers, pressing it beside my head. “Stop. I miss you. All of you. The way you laugh when you think no one’s listening. The way you fight even when you’re scared. The way you look at me like I’m worth something.”
I stared at him, throat tight.
“I don’t want this to be a fling anymore,” he said quietly, thumb stroking my knuckles. “I want more. I want you.”
The words hung between us—heavy, real.
“Az.” I pulled my hand free, pushing at his chest until he rolled off me. I sat up, ruffling my hair in frustration. “Stop right now. I don’t like that.”
He bit his jaw—hard—eyes flashing something dark and wounded before he masked it.
“Okay,” he said finally, voice flat. “I respect that.”
He rolled onto his back beside me, staring at the ceiling, hands clasped over his stomach like he was holding himself still.
The silence stretched—thick, uncomfortable.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted.
And not in a good way.
Because the Azrael I knew didn’t do feelings.
He didn’t break into apartments at 3 a.m. to confess.
He didn’t look at me like losing me would break him.
So who the fuck was this?
And what did he really want?