Some Girls Bite (Chicagoland Vampires #1)(38)
Author: Chloe Neill

"Since you’ve wounded me, I figure you owe me a dance."

There was no room for debate in the pronouncement, no space for error or adjustment. Was it the male vampire mind, I wondered, that precluded the possibility of discussion? That couldn’t comprehend a challenge to authority? Or maybe it was an authority issue. Based on what I’d heard about his sports fixation, I didn’t think this was Scott Grey, the head of the House that bore his name. Whoever he was, he exuded that same sense of purpose as Ethan. He was high on the ladder, whatever House claimed him.

And I, of course, was but a lowly Initiate. But a lowly, single Initiate, so I stood and took his hand.

"Good," he said, eyes twinkling, then linked our fingers together and led me to the dance floor, which gave me another chance to appraise. He was a couple of inches taller than me, maybe right at six feet. His bottom half was as rock-and-roll as his top –  dark, distressed jeans that perfectly encased his long legs, black boots, and a thick leather belt that held the jeans at his hips. And best of all, a divine tush that was perfectly framed by the designer denim. The man was a walking Diesel ad.

When he found a spot for us, he turned back to me and lifted my hands around his neck, put his hands at my hips, and moved in perfect syncopation to the music. He didn’t try complicated dance steps – no twirls, no bends, no demonstrations of his prowess. But he moved his hips against mine in time to the throbbing beat, all the while staring down at me with a quirky half smile. Then he wet his lips and leaned forward. I thought he meant to kiss me, and I flinched, but instead he said, his lips close to my ear, "Thanks for not refusing me. I’d have had to slink out of my own club."

"I’m sure your ego would have withstood it. You’re a big, strong vampire, after all."

He chuckled. "Somehow, you don’t seem all that impressed with vampiredom, so I wasn’t sure I had that to recommend me."

"Fair enough," I gave him. "But you’ve got really nice . . . shoes."

He blinked, then cast a dubious glance at his boots. "They were in my closet."

I snorted and plucked at the sleeve of his jacket. "Please. You’ve been planning this outfit for a week."

He burst out laughing, throwing his head back to revel in the moment. When he settled down again, occasionally wracked by aftershocks of laughter, he smiled keenly down at me. "I admit it. I give a shit what I look like." Then he plucked at the thin cap sleeve of my shirt. "But look what it got me."

There was no response I could give to that other than to beam back at him for the compliment, so that was exactly what I did. He smiled back and put his hands at my hips, and I settled mine to the firm curves of his shoulders, and we danced. We danced until the song changed, jumping immediately to something faster, something stronger, and then we kept dancing – silently, intently, as bodies moved around us.

I realized then that part of the buzz, of the vibration of my limbs, wasn’t from the raucous music. It came from him, from the tangible hum of power that rode beneath that trim, stage-ready form in front of me. He was a vampire, and a powerful one.

The music changed again, and he leaned forward. "What if I asked for your phone number?"

I grinned up at him. "Wouldn’t you like my name first?"

He nodded thoughtfully. "That’s probably important information."

"Merit," I told him. "And you are?"

His response wasn’t what I expected. His cheery grin faded, and he froze in place, even as people moved around us. His hands dropped from my hips, and I self-consciously tugged my hands back from his shoulders.

"Morgan. Navarre, Second. Which House are you?"

That explained the vibe of power. I had a bad feeling about his reaction to my answer, but offered anyway, tentatively, "Cadogan?"

Silence, then: "How did you get in here?"

I blinked at him. "What?"

"How did you get in here? My club. How did you get in here?" His gaze took on a steely glint, and I guessed that flirty, getting-to-know-you time was over. Then I remembered Catcher’s words, his warning that Cadogan was looked down upon for drinking from humans.

I scanned his face, trying to read his expression, trying to gauge if that was where the sudden anger had come from – some irrational bit of House discrimination. "Are you joking?"

He grabbed my hand and yanked me through the dancers off and away from the dance floor. When we were back in the club proper, he forced me to a stop and glared at me. "I asked how you got in here."

"I came in through the front door just like everyone else. Would you just tell me what’s wrong?"

Before he could answer, his troops arrived, a cadre of vampires who clustered around him. Front and center was Celina Desaulniers, Chicago’s most famous vampire. She was as beautiful in person as she was on TV. A pinup-worthy, comic book-curvy vampire – slim build, long legs, tiny waist, voluptuous bosom. She had long, wavy black hair that set off bright blue eyes and porcelain skin. Hiding very little of that skin was a short sheath dress of champagne-colored satin, which was gathered into intricate folds at the bodice. Her heels matched the shade perfectly.

She looked at me with obvious disdain. "And who is this?" Her voice was honey, thick- flowing and effective, even on boy-crazy me. I felt a brief, insistent urge to fall to her feet, to beg her for forgiveness, to move closer just so I could brush a hand against her skin, which I knew would be soft as silk. But I clenched my hands against what I belatedly realized was another Navarre attempt to glamour me, my resistance strengthened by the fact that Mallory and Catcher had joined us, and stood behind me supportively. Celina’s eyes widened, and I guessed she was surprised the trick hadn’t worked.

"Merit," Morgan crisply said, the tattletale. "Cadogan."

"Would someone please explain to me what the problem is?" I got no response to the question. Instead, Celina looked at me, looked me over, arching a delicately shaped eyebrow. She repeated Morgan’s name, an implicit demand.

"You need to leave," Morgan said. "We’ve got humans here, and we don’t allow Cadogan vamps in the club."

I stared at him. What did they think I was going to do? Start munching on dancers? "Look, the guy at the door let my friends and me in here," I said, intent on making them understand, on pushing through blind prejudice. "We weren’t causing any trouble – we were dancing. We certainly weren’t harassing humans."

I looked to Morgan for support, but he only looked away. That small act of rejection, of denial, pricked. Frustration began to give way to anger, and my blood began to fire. I moved to take a step forward, but a hand at my elbow stopped me.