Lucky Break by Chloe Neill

“Kitten.” He’d taken to calling me that as a mock insult, and the name had stuck. “You’ve been hurt.”
    â€œJust a flesh wound,” I promised him, thinking, of course, of Monty Python in a time of crisis. “I can barely feel it.”
    Something flashed in his eyes. “Shifter or vampire?”
    â€œShifter. Although I goaded him into it.”
    Gabe made a dubious sound. “This is quite a vacation you’ve planned for your Sentinel, Sullivan.”
    Ethan pulled two bottles of blood from the fridge and popped the caps. “I had other things in mind. But once again, fate has intervened.”
    â€œFate’s a stone-cold bitch,” Gabriel said, moving his foot and patting the stool beside him with a wink. I wasn’t about to turn down that offer.
    â€œI see you’ve made yourself at home,” Ethan said, handing me a bottle.
    â€œIf we’re here to help you, and by extension the Marchands, might as well take advantage of their hospitality.”
    â€œCan I take advantage of some hospitality?” I asked, taking a drink of blood.
    Damien turned, pushed a perfectly folded omelet onto a plate in front of Gabriel, then glanced at me. “You want ham or bacon in your omelet?”
    It was the question of my dreams.
    â€œYes,” I said with a grin.
    I can only hope you answer with the same conviction when I propose to you, Sentinel.
Ethan had made his intentions abundantly clear, even if he hadn’t formally done the deed.
    I reached out and patted his hand, smiled mysteriously.
We won’t know until you stop fake-proposing and get to the point, will we?
    I enjoyed his responsive growl, then turned back to watch Damien move diced ham from cutting board to pan with a dexterous scoop of his knife. He flipped and sautéed with such adeptness that I wondered if Berna—another shifter who worked in Little Red, the Pack’s official watering hole—had trained him, or vice versa.
    â€œYou’ve got impressive skills,” I said.
    He smiled almost bashfully. “I like to cook.”
    â€œI can see that. You should try out the Cadogan kitchens sometime. Margot”—she was the House chef—“has a pretty nice setup.”
    â€œMaybe I will,” he said, but his focus was on the pan in front of him.
    â€œSo,” Gabriel said, drawing the conversation back. “You’ve stepped into the middle of a feud.”
    â€œEvidently,” Ethan said. “You failed to mention it when I told you we were coming here.”
    Gabriel took a drink, shook his head. “Shifters don’t send newsletters when they fight with vampires. The world would be littered with paper. I’m aware of the McKenzies, that trouble likes to find them. I’m now up to speed on the apparent feud. Where’s Nessa?”
    â€œWith the Marchands.”
    â€œIs she trustworthy?”
    â€œI think so,” Ethan said. “What did she have to gain from killing him? To further the feud? She could have simply avoided marrying him in the first place.”
    Damien turned back, put a steaming plate of eggs, meat, and cheese in front of me. I plucked up a forkful, blew to cool it off. “It could be a long con,” I suggested. “She gets close to him, marries him, kills him. Completes the cycle of revenge for the theft and the jilting and everything that’s happened since.”
    Gabriel nodded, crossed his arms. “Sullivan?”
    â€œAs plans go, it has a sense of vampire strategy.”
    â€œImmortals love a long con?” I asked.
    â€œSomething like that. But it’s not especially efficient. And Taran wasn’t immortal.”
    When the eggs were cool enough not to scour away my taste buds, I took a bite, savored the mix of flavors with closed eyes. “Well done, Damien.”
    â€œDon’t get a big head, Garza,” Gabe said. “She says that to all the shifters.”
    I