Free Mists of Velvet by Sophie Renwick Page A

didn’t want to know them or to connect on anything other than a physical plane.
    Keir glanced at him over his shoulder, his look conveying that he felt the same thing.
    “You’re alive, and I’m alive. It’s as good as it’s going to get.”
    Keir left the room, and the woman, who was just finishing pulling on her skirt, gazed up at him. “Ah, I think you ripped this.”
    Rhys went to the wardrobe and pulled out a pair of jeans. “It’s all I’ve got.”
    She grabbed them and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “So, uh, I have some friends to meet downstairs.”
    “Sure.”
    “I’ll see you around?”
    “Yeah.”
    He watched her pull on his jeans, which were, of course, too big, and followed her out the door. When she was walking down the stairs, Keir came out of the shadows.
    “I’ll lock up tonight.”
    Rhys glanced at the wraith. “Is it enough for you?”
    “It has to be. She enjoyed it. She’s downstairs now telling her friends what a stud you are.”
    Rhys reached for Keir. “You thought of Rowan. When you came.”
    The wraith nodded, then looked away. “I couldn’t help it. You saw what she looked like in my thoughts.”
    “I tried not to, but it was damned hard. You have a vivid imagination.”
    Keir winced. “I know. It drives me fucking mad at night.”
    “You should go to her.”
    “No.” Keir brushed his hands through his hair. “She’s too good for me. You saw me in there. I’m a beast, and Rowan needs someone gentle. No reminders of her past. I would . . . want to claim her when I was with her. Hard, fast. I’d be possessive and dominant, and I’d only terrify her.”
    Rhys knew it was a losing battle. Keir wouldn’t go to her, especially not now, when the memories of them with the woman were so fresh in his mind. If Keir hadn’t needed to feed, Rhys knew he would not have come to him and the woman tonight. Tonight had been purely about survival for Keir. And maybe it had been that for him, too.

CHAPTER FIVE

    Sunlight filtered in through the stained glass window of the breakfast room. It was nine, and Rhys was alone—again. The wraith had left before dawn, but Rhys had seen him change form, creep across the floor as a shadow, and filter beneath the door. He still hadn’t returned. Rhys wasn’t going to worry about him. The wraith had been well fed, his magical abilities replenished. He could take care of himself, just as Rhys could.
    Frowning, Rhys picked up the box of cereal. It had been two days since the confrontation in Rhys’ office with Suriel and Keir, and still, the memory stung. Rhys hated being kept at arm’s length, but what he despised more was the ignored request he had sent via Keir for Bran, the Sidhe king, to come to Velvet Haven and talk with him. Rhys wanted answers about what was being done to discover this murderer and the kind of protection he was going to have for the club’s guests. As the owner of the club where inhabitants from Annwyn mixed with mortals, Rhys felt he was entitled to a little information. The psycho killer was sacrificing both mortals and immortals, so no one was safe.
    Of course, Bran had ignored the request, which pissed Rhys off. Bran thought him either incompetent or insignificant. Either way, the Sidhe was wrong, because Rhys had no intention of being kept in the dark or brushed aside.
    Maybe Bran had reasoned out that Rhys was going to ask to be allowed to join the group of nine who were hunting for the Dark Mage. After all, he was involved, and he owed it to his own kind—mortals—and to the patrons of his club to make it as safe as possible. But instead of telling Rhys to his face that he wasn’t wanted, his uncle chose to ignore him like a child, really ramping up his pissed-off state.
    Sitting around during the day while his club was closed allowed Rhys too much damned time to stew and brood over the injustice of it all. He was an action kind of guy, and inaction made him irritable and snappy. His nerves were