by Michele Hauf
“Why did you do it?”
“Do what?” Hart snapped, pacing before her, unsure yet if he should get out the stake he kept in a kitchen drawer—he’d lost the gun in the Seine—or shove her out the door and wish her good riddance.
“You saved my life.”
He flung a hand outward, dismissing the heroic deed. “Wasn’t like you were going to die.”
“No, but I would have been stuck down there forever.”
“Yet still alive. So there. I didn’t save your life.”
She heaved out a sigh and nodded. “Either way, I owe you one.”
“I don’t need a favor from a longtooth, thank you very much.”
“I know. You hate me. I’m supposed to hate you.” She lifted the clump of her wet hair and squeezed the water out onto the floor. “What’s your name?”
He snarled, thinking she had some nerve. By rights he should bring her in to the compound to let the pack serve her the justice they saw fit.
I’m supposed to hate you. Like she wasn’t sure whether or not she should?
“Hart,” he offered briskly. He never used his first name; Christian was too sissy. “You can take the towel with you. Just get the hell out before I decide to serve you as chum for the pack.”
Wrapping the towel about her shoulders, she opened the door. A sigh preceded her darting glance at him. Sadness wafted through the air and permeated Hart’s chest. He felt the hit directly and sucked in a breath.
“Name’s Danni Weber,” she said. “Tribe Zmaj. I know it doesn’t change things, but...sorry about the bite. I was in survival mode.”
With that, she closed the door, and Hart let out his breath.
“Sorry? About changing my life forever?” He grabbed the nearest thing—a pillow on the couch—and hurled it at the door so hard the seams split and out spilled thick white stuffing.
Hart slapped a palm to his neck. The wound was achy and hot. He would have preferred death over a bite, any day.
Two
Danni stood naked before the mirror mounted on the back of her bedroom door, inspecting her smooth stomach. Gliding her fingers up the skin, taut with underlying muscle, she frowned at the absence of a scar below her ribcage. That her body healed at an insanely fast rate did not cease to bewilder her. It was unnatural. Wicked. Perhaps even demonic.
Truth was, it was vampiric. And thinking the V-word ignited a wrenching twist in her gut. She hated what she had become. Or did she fear it?
A little of both, for sure.
Pressing a palm to the mirror she opened her mouth and watched as she willed her fangs lower. It didn’t hurt, but accompanying their descent, she felt a strange tingling for fulfillment, to satiate her needs with blood and sex. Another wicked, demonic thing that had become a part of her life.
It was all Slater’s fault.
She’d not called him this morning to check in. Revealing her incompetence wasn’t so much a risk to her status in the tribe as it would be to her brother’s neck. Literally. No, she had to avoid Slater for a few days until she could again put herself near the pack leader, Remington Caufield. And this time she wouldn’t screw things up.
The sticky tracking device had slipped off her finger before she’d gotten it on the principal. And the device being miniscule, she hadn’t a chance to find it in a dark nightclub. She’d fled in a panic. The pack wolf who had pursued her—Hart—had been a surprise.
This lurking about and spying business wasn’t her thing. Though tribe Zmaj seemed to think it was. As a former soldier, Danni could reconnoiter a site, sneak up on the enemy, and had even begun training to scout out landmines. Getting close to a werewolf to plant a tracking device? So out of her comfort zone.
But she had to do this. She must not fail a second attempt. Or David, her brother, would suffer for it.
She tapped her fang and sneered at her reflection. “I won’t let this happen to you, David. If it’s the last thing I do.”
Hart plowed a right hook into the punching bag, held by fellow pack member Tony Santenolli. The wolf grunted and let go of the bag, stumbling backward.
“Hart, I think you’ve got it. You got something anyway. Why so angry?”
Angry? Light on his feet, Hart dodged side to side, fists wrapped in tape up by his face in defensive position, before he swung again, and sent the bag flying toward Tony’s growling face. He wasn’t angry. He was...
Hungry. For something he couldn’t quite name. Not food, that was sure. The hunger had been gnawing at him for days, since he’d woken the morning after his swim in the Seine. And yet, that deep, dark twist in his gut and curdling at the back of his throat did have a name. It coiled in his nostrils, drawing in Tony’s musky, metallic scent from beneath his skin.
Blood.
“I’m cool,” Hart huffed. He delivered another iron blow to the bag and felt the sting in his forearms. The best way to avoid the truth? Beat on something.
“Yeah? Well, I’m wrecked, man. You’re beating me bloody.” Leaner, and not as dedicated to the gym but still a powerful force, Tony shoved off from the bag and swiped a hand over his sweating brow.
“I don’t see any blood on you. Come on, bloke!” Hart delivered a high kick to the bag with his bare foot. Mixing in Muay Thai with standard boxing moves was his thing. He loved the martial arts workout and never missed a day. “Give me a challenge!”
Tony waved him off and grabbed a water bottle from the weightlifting bench.
It had been three days since Hart’s plunge into the Seine. He’d thought to walk it off, get on with his life. He’d detailed his chase after the vampire assassin to his principal, but had left out the part about her being a female—and biting him. Pack Levallois would banish him if they knew he’d been bitten. Which is why he had a workout towel draped about his neck right now. The bite mark had scarred and had not gone away as most wounds did within hours.
And every day he felt it more. The gnawing hunger. The deep, gut-clenching desire to sustain himself on a substance no sane wolf would consider. Werewolves didn’t need blood. His breed lived alongside mortals, and to each his own. But consume their blood for survival? Hell no.
The day Hart started drinking blood was the day he gave it all up. He had a good life. He worked hard to protect the pack and in turn was surrounded by the family his soul required. Someday he hoped to take a mate and begin his own family. It was all he needed.
Damn it! Everything he needed was now thoroughly shagged thanks to—her.
“Stupid vampire,” he growled, as another punch pummeled the sand-filled bag.
“What was that?” Tony set aside the water bottle.
“Nothing. Get out of here, man. I’m almost finished. Thanks for sparring with me.”
“No problem. You going to the games tonight?”
The blood games pitted two half-crazed vampires against one another to the death. Right now? Hart would love to see a vampire get its throat ripped out as a small means of recompense against the travesty committed against him. But if he smelled blood, let alone, saw it fly through the air and stain flesh, floor and walls? He’d lose it.
“Nah. Have a...date,” he summoned.
“Cool. Talk to you later.”
Date? He punched again, this time feeling the bones crunch in his knuckles and wincing through that small pain. Who the hell was he trying to fool? He had a date with the weights at his home gym because if he didn’t find a focus, his mind and body would stra
y toward the hunger.
Wicked, unnatural, wrong—so wrong—hunger.
As it stood, he wasn’t sure he could make it home, walking the streets filled with innocent mortals, smelling the hot blood gushing beneath their skin, calling to him, beating, pulsing, thumping...
“Aggh!” Hart kicked the bag and the chain snapped, sending it flying. It hit the wall, and knocked a hole in the plaster.
“Exactly how I feel.” Like a hole had been kicked in his gut. And the only way to fill it required a dark deed. “I have to resist.”
* * *
Her best bet was to return to the Lizard Lounge tonight. From the intel tribe Zmaj had obtained about pack Levallois, Remington Caufield frequented the place. Danni had to use caution inside the nightclub. Supposedly faery dust was dangerous to a vampire. Getting some on her skin would give her a contact high, and the place had glittered with the stuff. She’d suit up in head-to-toe Gore-Tex again and cross her fingers the second time proved the charm.
Masculine clothing was sort of her thing. Wearing form-fitting workout shorts, which reminded her of men’s boxer briefs—she loved them on a man—and a military-issue tank top, Danni leaned over the kitchen counter. The tiny tracking device was stuck to an adhesive tape she could wear inside the wrist of her glove. Slater had provided her with three. Because he’d suspected she would need the extra chances? The man was a self-possessed asshole whose crooked snarl always sent a chill up her spine. Yet his bite was frustratingly erotic.
Setting the glove aside, she turned to go gather her work clothes, when someone pounded on her apartment door.
Grabbing the nearest weapon, a bowie knife she’d been sharpening on a whetstone earlier, Danni stepped lightly and cautiously to the door. Could be someone from the tribe, in which case, she’d keep the weapon in hand. No love lost with any of her tribe mates.
Tightening her jaw, she leaned forward and turned the knob, stepping back and raising the blade to attack.
She lowered the blade, her jaw dropping as well.
In the doorway, palms to the white-painted wood frame, leaning forward and huffing as if he’d run a marathon, stood the werewolf who had rescued her. Hart. She’d never forget that name. It was ironic on this beefy hunk of wolf. And yet, she suspected she was more wrong about the irony than she could ever guess.
“What the hell?” She stepped aside as he plunged forward and landed on the sofa, hands to the back of it to support his weak stance. Had he run here? “How did you find me?”
“Followed your scent. It’s strong. And the big surprise is it runs through my system now. I can suss you anywhere. Weird.” He turned, leaning against the sofa. His muscle-strapped chest heaved and he seemed to relax as he took in the room, the bare white walls and furniture, and bright red pillows and rugs that popped like bloody stains. “Danni, right?”
“I’ll give you two minutes, wolf.” She thrust the blade up under his chin. The man didn’t flinch, yet his gray-blue eyes grew serious and his breaths calmed to silence as if a ninja preparing for the kill. “What do you want?”
“What I want is the craziest thing,” he said. “And you are the one who gave me that insane want with your bite. Danni, I have the blood hunger.”
“Yeah? Well start snacking, big boy. There’s a whole world of mortals walking around with blood running through their veins. Bonanza!” she said, though the idea of making a feast out of mortals didn’t sit well with her. She was discreet and only fed once a week, and never killed.
“You did this to me!”
“Hey, it’s not like you’re my bitch now, so quit freaking and man up.”
“Man—? This is not normal. It’s an abomination for a werewolf to have this feeling. I crave, Danni.”
“Already?”
“Yes. Fuck!”
He stood and Danni took a step back. He was slightly taller than her six feet two inches, but his imposing shoulders made her feel like an All Hallow’s skeleton standing before a Mac truck.
He grasped the air and winced. “It’s a deep, feral craving. Right here.” A fist pounded his gut. That was about where the blood hunger originated, though she tended to feel it a bit higher— “And here.” His palm slapped over his heart. Okay. So the guy got it right. “And it’s...hell, I thinks it’s sexual.”
“Sounds about right. Blood and sex usually go together. Go find yourself a mortal and sink in those fangs. You got ‘em, just like me. Yours are probably thicker—”
He grabbed her arms and squeezed so hard she couldn’t maintain control of her grip, and she dropped the bowie knife at their feet. “I can’t harm a mortal. I would never—this isn’t natural for me, Danni, don’t you understand?”
She nodded. For as little as she had learned about the various paranormal breeds over the past few months, she was aware wolves depended on humans the least of them all. And a wolf with a blood hunger was off-the-scale wrong.
“Like I said that night, sorry,” she said and shoved at him, but he wouldn’t release her. His musky scent wasn’t entirely offensive, yet her instinct to get free was stronger than her desire to lean closer to his smell. “Let go of me!”
He maintained hold. “You do owe me one.”
“What?”
“After I pulled you from the Seine you said you owed me one.” He released her. “Well.” He spread out his arms, his eyes slinking appreciatively down her skimpy attire. “I’m here for the one.”
“You want to stave that craving on me?” She straightened, hooking her hands akimbo. No one told her what to do. Okay, so they did if they were vampires. But a wolf?
Danni ran her tongue along her lower lip. On the other hand, a bite always felt so damn good. She hated when a tribe member bit her because that wasn’t her choice, even though it ended in bliss. But this man? A wolf. Such a fierce and powerful creature. He needed her. How awesome was that?
You hold the power over him now, Danni. Might return the power and confidence the tribe robbed from you.
And he wasn’t bad to look at. Handsome, in a bulky, tough guy kind of way. She liked them brute and manly. Give her a soldier over a GQ model any day.
“Danni?” His accent was British and he spoke differently than she expected.
“For a guy who’s all muscles and punch,” she said, “you speak softly.”
“Yeah? Well maybe I should shout so you can hear what I’m saying. I’m hurting here. And you have to know how it brings me down to stand before you—a vampire—and ask for such a thing.”
“Then why not go to one of your pack mates?”
“And risk them discovering I’ve been marked by a vampire? I’d rather die. I wish I had died instead of you biting me.”
“Flattery.” It was an easy form of defense to go for the snark.
“I know you were in fight mode. I’d have done the same thing in an attempt to save my arse. I blame you and I don’t. It’s been done. Now I need to deal with it.”
“And you need my neck to deal?”
“I don’t know who else to go to.”
He sat on the sofa arm, head bowing and shoulders rounding. No man should be reduced to such a cower. Especially not this one, whom she suspected had never bowed before a woman for a favor, ever.
“It aches. I can’t think of anything but blood, of tasting it. It’s tearing me apart fighting it, but I know I’ll go mad if I don’t fulfill this craving.”
Yes, he probably would pop a mental chord or
two if he resisted too long. Danni remembered when the blood hunger had overtaken her. She had screamed and begged for blood, an appalling thing. The wolf’s insides must be burning, his skin sensitive to the slightest touch, and his senses picking up everything, her heartbeat, the gush of her blood, the heat of it and the vanilla scent of her skin.
Torture had never been her thing. But to suddenly hold the cards over a werewolf? This was too rich. Maybe she could use his weakness to get to the pack principal? Bargain with him. A bite for information?
Danni strolled before Hart, assessing his beaten posture. Sweat trickled down his face, pearling over the stubble darkening his jaw. His mouth, open and breathing heavily, appealed to her. Now she was vampire, plain old mortal men didn’t do it for her. Not the ones she used to date, anyway, and they had generally been strong, macho soldiers.
What could be more challenging than a werewolf? A man who, by nature, hated her breed, and would likely tear out her throat if she let him near her? She might die in his arms, and it—this horrible life she’d been forced into—would be ended. Nothing wrong with that.
Except that would leave David a sitting duck for tribe Zmaj.
Right. She couldn’t give up so easily. Hell, giving up was not her thing. Come what will. And today, what had come into her life was a desperate, starving werewolf.
“Hart,” she said, garnering his attention. His eyes resembled an icy winter sky, gleaming yet troubled. A nick in his left eyebrow made her wonder who had hurt him so seriously it had actually scarred the wolf, and if he’d enjoyed the challenge. He had, she knew. This man would like a good fight. She’d given her best when they’d been battling in the SUV. And she had scarred him as well.
Points for the vampire? The win didn’t feel right.
“Come here,” she said, placing her feet square and exhaling. Drawing in a breath tightened her abs, and her core felt solid, steady. Preparing, she gave herself one last moment for retreat, to lunge for the bowie knife and shove it into his gullet.