Chapter 2 #2
Soft lips brush the skin of my throat. A trail of kisses burns across bare, trembling flesh.
I experience an explosion of need at the most gentle and unexpected of touches—then unwanted freedom as he releases me.
He lightly dusts those same lips over my forehead and pushes my pulsating body away from his.
Holding me at a distance, he looks me up and down and shakes his head.
“You are distracting.” He lets me go and runs his hands through his hair.
His fingers leave it ruffled in thick ridges, and I like that there is at least one tangible sign that he feels this electric energy between us.
Even if he has the self-control to stop himself from acting on it.
“You are distracting, and we need to do the cleanup.”
He moves back into the darkness, away from the fizz and flicker of the streetlight, and for a moment I feel weak and deprived, like someone has switched off my air supply.
I blink and take a few deep breaths, telling myself yet again to get a goddamn grip.
He could have killed me. Or fucked me. Or both.
I’ve never been in this position before, and I don’t know how to react. Even my amulet is confused. It usually flares with heat when I’m at risk and cools when the threat is gone. For the last few minutes, it’s been cycling furiously between the two, adding to my body’s confusion.
I stoop to pick up my fallen stakes and follow him over to the wounded girl.
The one I unforgivably forgot about. He crouches beside her, and I notice again exactly how well he fills out those sleek suit pants, and how seam-bustingly broad those shoulders really are.
I stand behind him, stake trembling in my fingers, and tell myself that if I really needed to, I could take him.
If he shows any sign of harming the victim, or me, then I will bring him down.
Just as soon as I stop feeling like a high school virgin with her prom date.
“Are you planning to stake me or screw me? I can feel those green cat eyes of yours all over me, bella.”
Unsure of the answer to his question, I ignore him and kneel beside them on the rain-soaked cobblestones. The smell of rotting food wafts from the dumpster, and distant sirens and electronic dance music pumping from a car stereo play in my ears.
Rogan’s victim is young—late teens, barely out of high school from the looks of her, despite the heavy makeup and the fuck-me pumps.
She’s gazing up at the vampire, her face glazed with confusion and smeared with mascara.
He gently wipes some of the blood from her neck and turns her head to inspect the wounds.
He shows no sign of reacting to the blood, not even the tinge of red that usually rings vampires’ eyes when they scent prey.
Yet another indication that this predator is old and has had decades, if not centuries, to perfect his control.
Rogan, on the other hand, was a sloppy eater. He shredded her skin and sucked a good amount from her, but it looked like he sealed the wound, presumably hoping to return to his snack later. The vamp version of using a chip clip on a half-eaten bag of Doritos.
Besides the ick factor, vampire blood is the best remedy around, and I carry a vial with me at all times.
I’m not a superhero, so I don’t always make it in time.
Sometimes when I find my target, a poor sap like this girl here is already pale, cold, and bleeding out.
A couple drops of vamp blood rubbed into the wound or swallowed can work small miracles.
In previous eras, drinking vamp blood was enough to turn someone, whether they wanted it or not.
Since the vamps agreed to the Bargain—a witch-sealed pact that changed all the rules long before my time—it’s much harder.
Now the blood exchange has to go both directions and be repeated for three nights in a row.
No more accidental vamps, and a top-class treatment method.
Tonight, I’m not going to need my vial of the red stuff, and I’m glad.
Vampires can get weird about people walking around with a pocket full of their life force, and I can’t say I blame them.
If more humans knew about its curative properties, they’d be dead and drained, and the stuff would be available for purchase with a premium-rate healthcare plan.
Instead, I pull out a travel pack of wet wipes, wad up a small handful, and clean the worst of the blood away. The mundane act calms me, reminds me of why I’m here. Allows my heart rate to slow to something below skyrocket riot.
The girl is drifting in and out of consciousness, shaking and crying as the terror and pain take hold. I use another wipe to clear the streaks of makeup from her cheeks and to smooth away her tears. Jeez. She really is young under the spackle, with big blue eyes and trembling lips.
She looks so innocent, so scared, so desperate for help.
For a moment, she reminds me of Serena, my twin sister, despite there being no physical resemblance.
It’s all in that confused gaze. In how I imagine Serena’s last moments, as her bloody hands clawed at the door that trapped her inside a burning building.
It was too late for her, and she died alone while I was across town at a party, dancing my drunk teenage ass off.
I couldn’t help Serena, but I can help this girl. Even if it means working myself to death, I swear I will do all I can for as long as I can. I hold her face with tenderness, look directly into her eyes, and speak slowly and reassuringly. “What’s your name?”
“Heather … Heather O’Malley.” She looks from me to the vampire with nervous, darting glances. Dammit, he’s getting in the way. For both of us.
I need her focus on me so I can persuade her that every word out of my mouth is true.
Seers are gifted with a power of suggestion that borders on the hypnotic, a bit like a vampire charm.
It’s really useful for skipping the line at Starbucks.
Or when you need to erase the memory of a vicious vampire attack.
It’s easier when I’m alone, when my mark and I are focused on each other. For the gimmick to work, I need Heather to be looking into my eyes, not at an alpha male vampire with the world’s best ass.
I shoot him a pointed look, and he nods, standing gracefully to his feet and retreating into the shadows.
Of course, he could have done this himself.
With his age and strength, his charms would be off-the-charts effective on a young, inexperienced human like Heather.
But I don’t want to be beholden to him in any way, shape, or form.
I don’t know him, and I certainly don’t trust him.
After tonight, I’m not so sure I trust myself.
“Heather, honey, listen to me,” I say once I have her attention.
“You had a bit too much to drink and you fell over. And while you were down, it looks like you might have been bitten by a stray dog, maybe a rat, but there’s no harm done.
Everything is going to be all right. You’re going to wake up at home, and you won’t remember what happened.
Only that you had a great night out with your friends and there was a bit of a problem on the way home.
No need to worry your parents with this, is there? ”
“No,” she says in a shaky voice. “Not if everything’s all right. Is everything all right?”
“It is,” I reply firmly, stroking back her hair. “I promise. I won’t let anything bad happen. Everything is fine.”
But as I help her up, hyperaware of the vampire lurking behind me, I wonder about that. Is everything fine?
I am Vecchissime; he is vampire. I should not, by any natural laws, be attracted to him.
Yet there’s no denying it—I wanted him more than I’ve ever wanted a man in my whole messed-up life.
When he held me there, breathless and bewildered, arm pinned and pussy throbbing, I felt something deeper than I’ve ever experienced.
It wasn’t merely lust; it was the knowledge that I had met my match.
That he could kill me or keep me safe. Protect me or punish me.
I’ve never been the kind of girl to dream of a man’s protection, but part of me now yearns for it.
I get Heather up onto shaky Bambi legs. I am so very tired. The weariness is bone deep. What would it be like to rest? To lie in his arms and know that no harm could come to me?
It would be a mistake, I tell myself, glaring at him as he approaches. A huge mistake.