Page 17 of Let Sleeping Vampires Lie

The truth was coming.

And none of us knew what it would look like once it arrived at Club Spice.

CHAPTER 4

The room fell into a heavy, unnatural stillness after the call ended.

Raven sat close to Jana, her hand resting quietly on her daughter’s leg. Con positioned himself near the far wall with his arms folded, watching the hallway with the patience of a soldier waiting for an incoming strike.

Isra didn’t move.

His sequined gown glittered under the soft lights, but he sat completely still in the armchair, gaze fixed on nothing. His usually expressive features had gone blank, his thoughts clearly spinning in places none of us could reach.

Jana tried to break the silence.

“So… are you performing tonight, Dad?” she asked, picking at the edge of one of the couch pillows.

Isra didn’t look up. “Yes.”

His voice sounded distant.

Hollow.

Not like him at all.

Jana offered another try. “Ginger’s on stage right now. She looked amazing. Did you see her⁠—?”

“No,” Isra answered again, barely above a whisper.

Jana’s mouth closed. Her eyes flicked toward Raven, worry written all over her expression. Raven squeezed her hand, but even she didn’t attempt to push further.

The silence stretched.

After several long minutes, footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Confident. Purposeful.

Marcus.

He paused outside the suite for a heartbeat, collecting himself, then opened the door.

Marcus Lindholme stepped inside wearing a fitted charcoal pea coat over a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled casually to his forearms. He carried the effortless style of a man who belonged in upscale lounges and art galleries. His hair was neatly swept back, showing off sharp cheekbones and warm-brown eyes that always seemed to smile before he did.

Tonight, those eyes went straight to Isra.

“Hey,” Marcus said as he crossed the room. His voice held a mix of concern and affection. “You sounded stressed on the phone. What’s wrong?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Marcus reached Isra and immediately crouched beside the chair, resting a hand on Isra’s knee. His thumb brushed lightly over the sequined fabric as he looked up at him with genuine worry.

“You okay, darling?” he asked softly. “You’re shaking.”

Isra didn’t respond. Not right away.

Marcus studied him, then lifted a hand to caress his cheek with slow tenderness, the way someone touches a partner they adore.

“I’m here,” Marcus whispered. “Tell me what’s going on.”