His Eternal Temptation (Bound in Blood #1)

1. Lane

ONE

LANE

Lane Blackburn staggered down the dark city street.

His head throbbed, and the world lurched around him.

A stop sign swam into his blurred vision, swaying from side to side until it finally popped into focus.

His insides twisted, the stabbing pain worse than before.

Lane grabbed the sign and sagged against it.

The metal pole was reassuringly solid beneath his fingers, and he clung to it with all his strength.

Fuck, he wouldn’t make it, would he?

Every one of his muscles ached. Winter wasn’t the time to be wandering around with river water seeping into his shoes and soaking his clothes. This was no way to die. No way to do anything.

It had to be after midnight and Lane feared whatever curse the Hillman Coven had cast on him was progressing exponentially. The relief he’d felt at not dying instantly was long gone. Lane wasn’t sure he’d choose this agony over peace.

An icy shiver crawled down his spine and radiated out through his limbs, leaving numbness in its wake.

Not good. He had to keep moving. There was no time to stand around feeling sorry for himself.

Lane left the supportive signpost behind, taking one step, then another, and pretended his legs weren’t shaking.

The street was vaguely familiar. Even one wrong turn would be a disaster, but Lane was positive—nearly positive—he was headed in the right direction.

Fear he’d misremembered grew with every step. It had been ten years since he’d set foot in Shearwater Landing. What if he’d gotten turned around? The club hadn’t been miles from the river. It was on the cusp of this neighborhood and the next. Why wasn’t he there yet?

He rounded the corner. Ahead, neon lights cast a red-and-purple sheen across the rain-slick street, bathing the world in color. Bright, looping letters plastered on the facade of a faux-historical building announced: Arcadia. Shearwater Landing’s most famous strip club, and Lane’s last hope.

His thundering heart clenched. If he was going to die, at least he wasn’t dying alone.

“Hey.” A large man dressed in black stepped forward, hand out in a halting gesture as Lane approached. “There’s no way we’re letting your drunk ass in here, pal.”

Lane staggered to the side. “Not drunk,” he slurred. “Need to speak to Rowan.”

The big man shot a glance at his companion. Pain throbbed through Lane’s fritzing nerves, and he nearly doubled over.

It was impossible to call on his magic when he was disoriented, but even without the ability to confirm it, he was sure both bouncers were vampires. This was a vampire headquarters after all. Lane hadn’t been here in a decade, but some things didn’t change.

Rowan would be here.

“What’s your name?” the first man asked. He seemed vaguely familiar, even if he didn’t seem to recognize Lane. To be fair, Lane was the only one who’d have aged since he was last here.

He braced his hands on his knees. He had to concentrate. Speak. No matter how much it hurt. “I’m Lane… Need Rowan’s help.” He gritted his teeth. “Please.”

Admitting he needed Rowan Valero’s help was as agonizing as the damned curse destroying his body. He’d fucked this whole thing up.

“Lane who?” The man sounded less demanding than before.

Lane forced himself to focus. Only one bouncer remained. Hopefully, the other had gone to fetch Rowan. “I don’t have a lot of time.” And he didn’t want to give his surname. He couldn’t risk Rowan sending him away before they spoke.

Damnation, he’d been an idiot to come here.

Deluded. Affected by the curse. Rowan Valero wouldn’t want to speak to him, let alone save him.

The ruthless vampire and his coven had a reputation for helping people in need, but they hated Lane and the rest of the Blackburns.

Rowan especially. And he didn’t fuck around when it came to his enemies.

But Lane had to tell Rowan what he’d learned. It was the right thing to do. Then, if he was still alive, he’d explain what happened ten years ago, even if it seemed inconsequential now.

He could accomplish those two things, dammit. It might be the last he ever did.

“What’s wrong with you?” the bouncer asked, and Lane had the impression it wasn’t the first time.

“Curse.” He didn’t know more. He’d been overwhelmed before he could even think of countering it.

The man guarding the door swore. “Get in here.”

He pulled Lane inside. Into a stairwell? Music pulsed, the inner doors to Arcadia hardly blocking the thundering bass. Lane’s vision went white and his head exploded with pain. He gripped his forehead, throwing out his other hand to brace against the wall. His hand met air, and he staggered.

On the street, he’d have sworn he’d hit rock bottom. Now, everything was worse. He was drained to nothing. Broken.

There was a thunder of footsteps, and Lane forced his eyes open. Two men came down the neon-lit stairs. Neither was Rowan, and Lane’s struggling heart sank.

He was at the Valero headquarters, so it didn’t matter who he talked to. He could pass on what he knew to any of Rowan’s men, but he’d have liked to see Rowan one last time. The realization hit with a bitter pang. If this were the end, he’d like to… He wasn’t sure.

Maybe the past wasn’t so inconsequential after all.

Two men flanked Lane on either side, grabbing him as he slumped. Voices swelled around him. Lane couldn’t be sure if the shorter man was the same guy who’d disappeared earlier. Maybe. The third guy was saying, “I won’t be much help if he’s cursed.”

“Let’s get him upstairs anyway. Jack, stay here.”

Lane was lurched forward.

“Don’t know if we’ll make it far without carrying him,” someone muttered.

A moment later, Lane was lifted off his feet. Vampires and their stupid strength. At least they were good for more than ruining Lane’s life. Twice.

The vampire carried Lane up the stairs at a sickening speed.

“He’s out of it. I don’t know what you expect me to do,” someone said.

Lane was set on a strange chair, half reclined and covered in plastic.

He blearily took in the room, a frown tugging at his lips.

The air carried a sterile tinge, and medical supplies were visible in a glass cabinet.

Sharps containers sat on the counter, and exam chairs were spaced throughout.

Had he been swept off to a doctor’s office?

“Hey,” a sharp voice said, and Lane startled. Bright light passed in front of his face, and he shrank away. “Look at me. Eyes open.” The light passed by again, then, with a click, went out, revealing a young man with dark hair. “It’d be easier to help if you were high like Jack said.”

“Not high,” Lane insisted, the words coming out jumbled.

“You’re a witch, yeah?” the dark-haired man asked. He must be another vampire; they could sense magic the same way Lane normally could. “Why’d you come to Rowan for help? Where’s your coven?”

It was a fair question. Vampires couldn’t cast spells or counter curses like witches. Lane couldn’t find the strength to answer.

“I’ll take it from here, Hunter,” said a deep voice.

The dark-haired guy stepped out of the way, and Rowan strode forward.

Lane would have sat straighter if any of his muscles were cooperating. His heart strangled. Was it the curse, or something even more devastating? He’d had a hopeless crush on Rowan before everything had crashed and burned.

Their eyes locked, and every one of those old feelings came rushing back in a tidal wave of hope.

Lane could breathe again. Rowan was a crystal clear beacon in his blurry world.

The most beautiful person he’d ever met.

Fine featured, his brown skin flawless, and hair like long, dark silk falling down his back.

He was, as always, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, every inch the powerful vampire leader.

But Rowan’s allure wasn’t solely his appearance.

It was in the way he held himself, the energy he exuded, and the feelings his deep brown-and-gold gaze inspired.

When Rowan looked at him, Lane felt like everything he ever wanted was sitting right there, nearly within reach.

Rowan approached, unhurried, his expression impossible to read. “Lane Blackburn, I told you to never return to this city.”