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Summary
Velvette sticks around only long enough to laugh at Vox’s face. After she goes the way of Val, all he’s got left is a killer fucking headache, the smell of vodka permeating his suit…
And Alastor, grinning like a smug fucking cat meme in one of Valentino’s salon chairs, legs crossed as primly as any princess’s. Apparently whatever camaraderie he and Vox’s so-called goons have been developing, it doesn’t extend far enough to stop them from ditching his ass to Vox’s temper.
And, fuck, is Vox in a temper.
Series
- Part 2 of s2: between the lines