Page 210 of Reckless Obsession

He turns to look at me.

I lift a brow. “What?”

“You think that is hot?”

“I think Tyler getting chased through the woods by a tall, broad man in a black cloak and a scream ghost face mask is objectively a little hot.”

Viktor’s stare goes blank.

Then thoughtful.

Oh no.

“There is a Scream mask in the house,” I say, because I have already sold my soul for that Bugatti. “It’s hanging on the wall in the corridor near the kitchen, next to the old wine room. Someone thought it would be funny décor. Unfortunately, there’s no black cloak.”

Viktor rolls his eyes with absolute disdain.

“I am never doing that stupid shit.”

“Aww,” I pucker my lips in mock sympathy, patting his broad shoulder. “Your loss, old man. Guess Tyler will just have to find a six-foot-three psycho who actually knows how to have fun.”

Before Viktor can threaten me with bodily harm, I feel someone stand beside me.

Lucas.

He looks breathtakingly sophisticated as Alucard. His tailored crimson trench coat and immaculate black cravat are ridiculous against his naturally pale skin and sweeping platinum-blonde hair. He looks like an aristocratic vampire prince who accidentally wandered into a mortal frat party.

He smiles politely at Viktor, who looks him over, his earlier confusion evaporating into something playful.

“You look very… elegant,” Viktor says.

“Thank you,” Lucas replies with a grin, then turns to me.

I scan the crowded bar area. “Where’s Tyler? I thought you two were glued at the hip tonight.”

Lucas leans in, closing the distance until his lips brush against the shell of my ear, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“He had to go to the guest wing bathroom to untuck. He said the corset and the tape were murdering his balls.”

A loud, startled snort escapes my nose, followed by a burst of unhinged laughter.

“God bless his dedication to the bit,” I choke out.

I turn toward Viktor, ready to make an extremely helpful comment about being a gentleman and offering Tyler assistance.

But Viktor is gone.

I look down the dark corridor leading toward the kitchen and the garden terrace, then let out a slow, amused breath, shaking my head. Predictable obsessive bastard.

“Come on,” I tell Lucas, grabbing his sleeve. “Let’s go play ping-pong.”

“I’m going to wipe the floor with you, Nightwing,” Lucas warns, falling into step beside me.

Ten minutes later, we’re deep into an aggressively competitive match. The white ball is flying back and forth across the green table in a sharp, rhythmic clack-clack-clack, both of us too stubborn to let a point go.

I smash the ball across the net, scoring the deuce. “And that, my dear vampire, is called athletic superiority.”

Lucas opens his mouth to deliver a scathing insult, but the chime of his phone on the nearby leather bench cuts him off. He lowers his paddle and picks it up, unlocking the screen.