Vampire's Faith (Dark Protectors Book 8)

by Rebecca Zanetti

  Tears filled her eyes. She swallowed. “Ronan. I love you too. I’ve never trusted anybody like I do you.” She leaned up and kissed him, her lips soft and sweet.

  He returned her kiss, his body settling. For so long, he’d been alone. But in this miraculous moment, he was home, surrounded by family and friends. There was a war coming, but he had time to prepare. For now, he would work on rebuilding the Seven, planning to save his brother in the Shield, and then protecting the Keys and Enhanced women.

  Finally, right here, he was whole. He leaned back and studied his woman. The one who held his soul in her very capable hands. “Immortality won’t be long enough to show you how much I love you.” He grinned. “But I’ll do my best.”

  Epilogue

  The rain pattered gently outside, while Faith snuggled down in the big bed, her back to Ronan’s front. His arm was around her, and she played with his long fingers, marveling at his size. “I can’t believe I moved through dimensions yesterday,” she murmured, feeling warm and safe.

  “You get used to it, but I much prefer this dimension,” he mumbled, his mouth near her ear.

  She shivered, her body slowly awakening. Morning would arrive all too soon and reality would intrude. “I felt you leave last night.” Even in her sleep, she had known when he’d slipped from the bed.

  “I walked the property. This is not a secure location.” He moved against her, ripped muscles shifting against her bare skin. “Benny and Logan will leave this morning to scout out a mountain somewhere. We’re running out of ranges.”

  How scary was that? She stretched against him, and tingles exploded through her. “Did you check on Grace?”

  “I did. She’s sleeping peacefully.”

  Tears threatened Faith’s eyes, and she let them be. It was a miracle, or rather an immortal gift, and she’d take it. “Was Adare with her?”

  “No.” Ronan caressed down her arm. “Adare dislikes weakness as much as he does humans. He saved her life because he’s my brother and because she’s a Key. Don’t hope for anything more from him.”

  Faith sniffed. “Gracie can do better, anyway.” As soon as communications were up, she was going to figure out more about the virus that negated mating bonds. Since Grace was essentially out of her coma, she wouldn’t be harmed by cutting all ties with the grumpy Adare. “While she heals, I’ll need to take a leave of absence from the hospital.”

  Ronan’s palm moved up her arm, the touch gentle. “That would be wise, considering you’ll be locked down in a mountain somewhere.”

  She blinked, noting the shadows on the wall as dawn slowly arrived. “Maybe temporarily, but you understand I have work I love to do, right?” Especially now that she knew there were immortal cells available that could cure people. “I’m a doctor.”

  “I do understand, and I promise I’ll get you back to work as soon as possible.” He brushed the hair away from her face and rolled her, landing squarely on top of her. Hardness and heat. “You also realize that you will be immortal soon? That at some point, you will need to disappear from human contact for a time?”

  That was so freakin’ weird. She traced the amazing angles of his face, marveling at the strength even there. “As long as we’re disappearing together, I can do it.”

  His eyes softened to light aqua. “We’ll always be together, Doc.”

  Man, she loved him. Every stubborn, hard, wounded line. Her feelings didn’t make sense after such a short time, but screw that. He was hers, and she was keeping him. “I’ll call Louise and the hospital later today with the news about Grace and my sabbatical.” She had to introduce Louise and Ronan at some point. They’d get along wonderfully—she just knew it.

  He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “I will have somebody fetch your felines for you as soon as we find a new headquarters.”

  There was that sweetness in him. Her entire body flushed and then warmed. “I should probably get up and check on Grace and Garrett.” The doctor in her insisted upon it.

  He dropped his head, and his mouth wandered up her neck. “Maybe in a few minutes.”

  Desire swamped her, and she smiled. She’d faced enough loss in life that she knew to take the good moments and squeeze every ounce of pleasure out of them. “I guess there’s no hurry. Although didn’t Ivar say he was cooking us a Viking breakfast today?” Whatever the heck that was.

  “He did, but plans changed.” Ronan kissed her, his mouth lazily wandering across hers. “He went hunting one of those physicists we need.” A slight edge rode his words.

  She paused, her fingers tangling in Ronan’s hair. “You sound concerned?”

  “No.” He pressed kisses along her jawline. “Ivar is the responsible one around here—usually. But he also has little regard for humans—especially those breaking laws. I just hope he uses finesse with the scientist. He might just grab her up.”

  That didn’t seem like Ivar. She opened her mouth to ask a question and Ronan swooped in, kissing her until there were no questions left about anything. Finally, he let her breathe.

  She moved restlessly against him. “I can’t believe I’ve found you. No matter what happens next, I love you.”

  His smile would stay with her forever. “I love you too. And I knew I’d find you.”

  She placed her hand above his heart, her palm warming. “How? How could you know that?”

  He leaned in, his feelings for her glowing in his eyes. Promise, possession, protection…and love. “Because, Doc. I always did have Faith.”

  Read on for an excerpt from Rebecca Zanetti’s blazing hot romantic suspense series, The Requisition Force, coming October 2018.

  THE HIDDEN

  By Rebecca Zanetti

  The day he moved in next door, dark clouds covered the sky with the promise of a powerful storm. Pippa watched from her window, the one over the kitchen sink, partially hidden by the cheerful polka-dotted curtains. Yellow dots over a crisp white background—what she figured happy people would use.

  He moved box after box after box through the two-stall garage, all by himself, cut muscles bunching in his arms.

  Angles and shadows made up his face, more shadows than angles. He didn’t smile, and although he didn’t frown, his expression had settled into harsh lines.

  A guy like him, dangerously handsome, should probably have friends helping.

  Yet he didn’t. His black truck, dusty yet seemingly well kept, sat alone in the driveway containing the boxes.

  She swallowed several times, instinctively knowing he wasn’t a man to cross, even if she was a person who crossed others. She was not.

  For a while she tried to amuse herself with counting the boxes, and then guessing their weight, and then just studying the man. He appeared to be in his early thirties, maybe just a couple of years older than she.

  Thick black hair fell to his collar in unruly waves, giving him an unkempt appearance that hinted nobody took care of him. His shoulders were tense and his body language fluid. She couldn’t see his eyes.

  The damn wondering would keep her up at night.

  But no way, and there was absolutely no way, would she venture outside to appease the beast of curiosity.

  The new neighbor stood well over six feet tall, his shoulders broad, his long legs encased in worn and frayed jeans. If a man could be hard all over, head to toe, even in movement, then he was.

  He was very much alone as well.

  A scar curved in a half-moon shape over his left eye, and some sort of tattoo, a crest of something, decorated his muscled left bicep. She tilted her head, reaching for the curtains to push them aside just a little more.

  He paused, an overlarge box held easily in his arms, and turned his head, much like an animal rising to attention.

  Green. Those eyes, narrow and suspicious, alert and dangerous, focused directly on her.

  She gas
ped. Her heart thundered. She fell to the floor below the counter. Not to the side, not even in a crouch, she fell flat on her ass on the worn tile floor. Her heart ticking, she wrapped her arms around her shins and rested her chin on her knees.

  She bit her lip and held her breath, shutting her eyes.

  Nothing.

  No sound, no hint of an approaching person, no rap on the door.

  After about ten minutes of holding perfectly still, she lifted her head. Another five and she released her legs. Then she rolled up onto her knees and reached for the counter, her fingers curling over.

  Taking a deep breath, she pulled herself up to stand, angling to the side of the counter.

  He stood at the window, facing her, his chest taking up most of the panes.

  Her heart exploded. She screamed, turned, and ran. She cleared the kitchen in three steps and plowed through the living room, smashing into an antique table that had sat in the place for more than two decades.

  Pain ratcheted up her leg, and she dropped, making panicked grunting noises as she crawled past the sofa and toward her bedroom. Her hands slapped the polished wooden floor, and she sobbed out, reaching the room and slamming the door.

  She scrabbled her legs up to her chest again, her back to the door, and reached up to engage the lock. She rocked back and forth just enough to not make a sound.

  The doorbell rang.

  Her chest tightened, and her vision fuzzed. Tremors started from her shoulders down to her waist and back up. Not now. Not now. God, not now. She took several deep breaths and acknowledged the oncoming panic attack much as Dr. Valentine had taught her. Sometimes letting the panic in actually abated it.

  Not this time.

  The attack took her full force, pricking sweat along her body. Her arms shook, and her legs went numb. Her breathing panted out, her vision fuzzed, and her heart blasted into motion.

  Maybe it really was a heart attack this time.

  No. It was only a panic attack.

  But it could be. Maybe the doctors had missed something in her tests, and it really was a heart attack. Or maybe a stroke.

  She couldn’t make it to the phone to dial for help.

  Her heart hurt. Her chest really ached. Glancing up at the lock, a flimsy golden thing, she inched away from the door to the bed table on her hands and knees. Jerking open the drawer, she fumbled for a Xanax.

  She popped the pill beneath her tongue, letting it quickly absorb. The bitter chalkiness made her gag, but she didn’t move until it had dissolved.

  A hard rapping sound echoed from the living room.

  Shit. He was knocking on the door. Was it locked? Of course it was locked. She always kept it locked. But would a lock, even a really good one, keep a guy like that out?

  Hell, no.

  She’d been watching him, and he knew it. Maybe he wasn’t a guy who wanted to be watched, which was why he was moving his stuff all alone. Worse yet, had he been sent to find her? He had looked so furious. Was he angry?

  If so, what could she do?

  The online martial arts lessons she’d taken lately ran through her head, but once again, she wondered if one could really learn self-defense by watching videos. Something told her that all the self-defense lessons in the world wouldn’t help against that guy.

  Oh, why had Mrs. Melonci moved to Florida? Sure, the elderly lady wanted to be closer to her grandchildren, but Cottage Grove was a much better place to live.

  The house had sold in less than a week.

  Pippa had hoped to watch young children play and frolic in the large-treed backyard, but this guy didn’t seem to have a family.

  Perhaps he’d bring one in, yet there was something chillingly solitary about him.

  Of course, she hadn’t set foot outside her house for nearly five years, so maybe family men had changed.

  Probably not, though.

  He knocked again, the sound somehow stronger and more insistent this time.

  She opened the bedroom door and peered around the corner. The front door was visible above the sofa.

  He knocked again. “Lady?” Deep and rich, his voice easily carried into her home.

  She might have squawked.

  “Listen, lady. I…ah, saw you fall and just wanna make sure you’re all right. You don’t have to answer the door.” His tone didn’t rise and remained perfectly calm.

  She sucked in a deep breath and tried to answer him, but only air came out. Man, she was pathetic. She tapped her head against the doorframe in a sad attempt to self-soothe.

  “Um, are you okay?” he asked, hidden by the big door. “I can call for help.”

  No. Oh, no. She swallowed several times. “I’m all right.” Finally, her voice worked. “Honest. It’s okay. Don’t call for anybody.” If she didn’t let them in, the authorities would probably break down the door, right? She couldn’t have that.

  Silence came from the front porch, but no steps echoed. He remained in place.

  Her heart continued to thunder against her ribs. She wiped her sweaty palms down her yoga pants. Why wasn’t he leaving? “Okay?” she whispered.

  “You sure you don’t need help?” he called.

  Her throat began to close. “I’m sure.” Go away. Please, he had to go away.

  “Okay.” Heavy bootsteps clomped across her front porch, and then silence. He was gone.

  * * * *

  Malcolm West knew the sound of terror, and he knew it well. The woman, whoever she was, had been beyond frightened at seeing him in the window. Damn it. What the hell had he been thinking to approach her house like that?

  A fence enclosed their backyards together, and he’d wondered why. Had a family shared the two homes?

  He grabbed another box of shit from the truck and hefted it toward the house. Maybe this had been a mistake. He’d purchased the little one-story home sight unseen because of the white clapboard siding, the blue shutters, and the damn name of the town—Cottage Grove. It sounded peaceful.

  He’d never truly see peace again, and he knew it.

  All of the homes the real estate company had emailed him about had been sad and run-down…until this one. It had been on the market only a few days, and the agent had insisted it wouldn’t be for long. After six months of searching desperately for a place to call home, he’d jumped on the sale.

  It had been so convenient as to have been fate.

  If he believed in fate, which he did not.

  He walked through the simple one-story home and dropped the box in the kitchen, looking out at the pine trees beyond the wooden fence. The area had been subdivided into twenty-acre lots, with tons and tons of trees, so he’d figured he wouldn’t see any other houses, which had suited him just fine.

  Yet his house was next to another, and one fence enclosed their backyards together.

  No other homes were even visible.

  He sighed and started to turn for the living room when a sound caught his attention. His body automatically went on full alert, and he reached for the Sig nestled at his waist. Had they found him?

  “Detective West? Don’t shoot. I’m a friendly,” came a deep male voice.

  Malcolm pulled the gun free, the weight of it in his hand more familiar than his own voice. “Friendlies don’t show up uninvited,” he said calmly, eyeing the two main exits from the room in case he needed to run.

  A guy strode toward him, hands loose at his sides. Probably in his thirties, he had bloodshot brown eyes, dark hair, and graceful movements. His gaze showed he’d seen some shit, and there was a slight tremble in his right arm. Trying to kick a habit, was he?

  Malcolm pointed the weapon at the guy’s head. “Two seconds.”

  The man looked at the few boxes set around the room, not seeming to notice the gun. Even with the tremor, he moved like he could fight. “There’s nowhere to
sit.”

  “You’re not staying.” Malcolm could get to the vehicle hidden a mile away within minutes and then take off again. The pretty cottage was a useless dream, and he’d known it the second he’d signed the papers. “I’d hate to ruin the yellow wallpaper.” It had flowers on it, and he’d planned to change it anyway.

  “Then don’t.” The guy leaned against the wall and shook out his arm.

  “What are you kicking?” Malcolm asked, his voice going low.

  The guy winced. “I’m losing some friends.”

  “Jack, Jose, and Bud?” Mal guessed easily.

  “Mainly Jack.” Now he eyed the weapon. “Mind putting that down?”

  Mal didn’t flinch. “Who are you?”

  Broad shoulders heaved in an exaggerated sigh. “My name is Angus Force, and I’m here to offer you an opportunity.”

  “Is that a fact? I don’t need a new toaster.” Mal slid the gun back into place. “Go away.”

  “Detective—”

  “I’m not a detective any longer, asshole. Get out of my house.” Mal could use a good fight, and he was about to give himself what he needed.

  “Whoa.” Force held up a hand. “Just hear me out. I’m part of a new unit with, ah, the federal government, and we need a guy with your skills.”

  Heat rushed up Mal’s chest. His main skill these days was keeping himself from going ballistic on assholes, and he was about to fail in that. “I’m not interested, Force. Now get the fuck out of my house.”

  Force shook his head. “I understand you’re struggling with the aftereffects of a difficult assignment, but you won. You got the bad guy.”

  Yeah, but how many people had died? In front of him? Mal’s vision started to narrow. “You don’t want to be here any longer, Force.”

  “You think you’re the only one with PTSD, dickhead?” Force spat, losing his casual façade.

  “No, but I ain’t lookin’ to bond over it.” Sweat rolled down Mal’s back. “How’d you find me, anyway?”