Her Vampire Hero
Nicolina Martin
Burning Desires
Copyright © January 2020 Her Vampire Hero by Nicolina Martin, Renee Rose Romance and Silverwood Press
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this book ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the authors. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors' rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Published in the United States of America
Renee Rose Romance and Silverwood Press
Editor: Renee Rose and Lee Savino
This book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book contains descriptions of many BDSM and sexual practices, but this is a work of fiction and, as such, should not be used in any way as a guide. The author and publisher will not be responsible for any loss, harm, injury, or death resulting from use of the information contained within. In other words, don’t try this at home, folks!
Created with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Bonus scene
About the Author
Want More?
Read the Bad Boy Alpha Series that launched Midnight Doms
Chapter 1
Kat
They call it the graveyard shift for a good reason.
More people die in the early hours of the morning than at any other time during the day. At around four they start coming in to St. Mary’s: strokes, heart attacks, suicide attempts.
Then there are the victims of violence, the ones who were mugged on their way home from a night out. They’re often drunk, filled with adrenaline, delirious, and often not very cooperative. I think the cops have given up. They look jaded, uninterested, when they interrogate yet another victim.
I can’t afford that attitude. I won’t. My duty is to give everyone my fullest attention.
“Doc!”
I rub some alcohol on the stethoscope, hang it around my neck and turn to see who called for me. I’m the only ER doctor on call at this hour, and it’s been a crazy night. There’s a full moon, and it’s known to bring out the crazies. Tonight is no exception. I’ve been elbow deep in blood, stitching up shotgun wounds all night. There were also a couple of animal attacks, probably dogs. The victims were incoherent and couldn’t say much. One of them bled to death, rather unexpectedly. The wound wasn’t that bad.
One of the nurses, standing behind the counter in the middle of the ER ward, waves with a slip of paper.
“What’ve you got for me, Sara?”
“They brought in a dead guy. He’s in number four. You just gotta sign him off.” She’s short, with a beautiful ebony skin tone. She’s also heavily pregnant, her pink scrub straining over her round belly.
I walk over to her and grab the form. “Does anyone know what happened? Is there anyone with him?”
She shrugs and gestures helplessly toward the booth at the far end of the ER. “I’d say hit and run from the looks of it. He’s badly hurt, head almost ripped from the shoulders. You just gotta confirm it. Sorry.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and nod.
Sara puts a hand on my shoulder and regards me with her compassionate eyes. “Tired, Doctor Donovan?”
Sucking in some air between my teeth, I let it out on a sigh. “Yeah. Four hours to go.”
“You get off at eight?”
“I do.” I loosen my ponytail, rub my scalp, then tie my hair back up. “Okay, anyway, I’m on it.”
The rustle of the staff’s quick feet on the linoleum floor and the moans from the patients quiet the farther down the corridor I get. Finally, all I hear is the sound of my own steps. I pull the yellow curtain to the side to expose our DOA, dead on arrival.
I take in the shape of a man, unmoving, on a gurney. There’s no blood. Someone pulled up a white sheet, covering him. I’m used to gore, but I always experience some trepidation before I uncover a trauma victim. It can be a mess. Expect the unexpected, they say, but this is a threshold I can’t seem to get past despite my years in this profession.
Clutching the slip of paper in one hand, I wrap my fingers around the top of the sheet with the other, slowly pulling it down to reveal his face.
I blink. Inhale. Take a step back.
He’s beautiful.
I trace his features with my eyes. My heart seems to skip a beat and then plummet as I’m overcome by an unexpected sadness.
He looks so peaceful, as if he’s merely sleeping. He lacks the sunken look of a deceased, where you so clearly see that life has left them. This man looks so much alive that a shudder slithers along my back. The only thing that gives it away, that shows he isn’t among us anymore, is the lack of breathing. He’s absolutely still.
A mess of unruly dark curls lies like a crown on the flat plastic pillow. His eyes are closed, long dark eyelashes rest against his cheeks. I tilt my head and take in his narrow Roman nose, his high cheekbones, and his full lips, slightly parted. He’s clean-shaven apart from sideburns that curl in front of his ears in a slightly out of fashion manner.
He looks like an angel, at peace. I almost don’t want to lift the rest of the sheet and disturb the eerie calm. It’s as if I’m wrapped in silence and tranquility, as if all my tiredness vanished the moment I set foot inside this little room. My hand moves on its own accord. It’s not a voluntary decision to reach for him. I stop myself right before the tips of my fingers touch his temple, then I trace the outline of his profile, leaving a sliver of air between us. There’s no heat radiating from his skin. It’s almost as if there’s a chill instead. I frown and curl my fingers, resting my knuckles against his cheekbone, freezing up. He’s cold. He must have been dead for hours, and yet he’s still soft to the touch.
Twitching out of my near-hypnotized state, I scramble to look for something to tell me who he is, where and when he was found, anything, but the room is absolutely empty apart from the vision before me.
Dried blood smudges his left cheek, but he seems so unharmed. My hands tremble as I pinch the sheet and pull it further down. The nurse said his head was almost torn off and I steel myself before the expected sight. Pulling it past his neck, I stop in shock, then I rip the sheet to below his waist. There’s a lot more blood. His neck and his shirt is drenched in partly dried, flaky blood, but I don’t see even a scratch. Sara must have been mistaken.
Frowning, I look around, almost wanting to ask if someone else sees what I’m seeing, but I’m as alone as I was a minute ago. The detective in me, the analytical medical professional takes over and I snap on a pair of gloves before I make quick work, unbuttoning his shirt. I need to understand what might have killed him. An autopsy is needed, obviously, but I’m the one who needs to get a first impression. There’s a sprinkle of
dark hair on his chest, and a lot more blood. I pull the shirt apart and let my gaze sweep across his ribcage and his stomach. Not a bruise as far as I can see, not a laceration.
Nothing.
I pull the stethoscope from where it hangs around my neck and snap it in place in my ears, then I put the diaphragm in place over his heart, find his wrist, put two fingers over his artery and hold my breath as I listen. It’s dead quiet and he’s as pulseless as expected. I rip off the stethoscope and leave it on his belly, pulling my little pen flashlight from my breast pocket.
My heart pounds with a sudden feeling of urgency that I can’t explain. I tell myself it’s because I’ll be needed elsewhere any second now and that I have to wrap this up. I put the tips of my thumb and index finger on his eyelids and pull them up, exposing warm brown irises and an unseeing gaze.
I almost drop the flashlight. These eyes don’t look dead, the cornea isn’t dried. I must be too tired. I can’t wrap my mind around this. Flicking the button, I shine in his eyes, looking for any reflex, but there is none. His pupils are dilated and don't contract.
Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I look him over once more and then let his eyes fall closed, that sense of sadness returning. He’s so beautiful. What a waste. I grab the sheet and pull it back up when a movement catches my attention. My heart leaps to my throat and I stare intently at his face. Did his eyelashes just flutter?
No. It’s impossible.
His heart doesn't beat. He’s dead.
I grab the sheet again and exhale on a whimper. His eyelid twitched. I swear! I gasp and grab his wrist, feeling for a pulse again, and there it is, weak, but it thuds undeniably beneath the pads of my fingertips.
I slam the alarm button and stick my head out into the corridor, pushing the curtains aside.
“Trauma room! Now!” I yell, then unlock the gurney and roll it out of the room, down the corridor, almost skidding into trauma one. Everyone rushes from all different directions, pulling on plastic aprons and vinyl gloves, opening cupboards and drawers.
“What’ve we got?” asks the nurse.
“We need two IV’s, a Ringer, order four units of O negative blood, pull up epinephrine.” My hands shake as I prick his skin, looking for a vein, praying it won’t be too late to save him, that the lack of oxygen to his brain hasn’t damaged him. Deep inside, I know it has, but I’ll be damned if I don’t give it my all. “And oxygen! We need to intubate him.”
“He’s breathing on his own, Doctor.”
I come to an abrupt stop and look him over. Sure enough, his chest rises and falls, slowly, but steadily. I shake my head in part confusion and part awe. “Okay, just oxygen.”
Sara goes to work, putting an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. “What happened?” she asks.
“He was alive, Sara,” I whisper. “He is alive.”
“But how?” She stares at me in horror as she hooks up the EKG electrodes and the graph shows up on the screen, his heartbeat slow and steady, the spikes on the green line unflinchingly clear.
“Did you see his wounds?” I ask, unable to look away from the screen.
“Yes,” she whispers, her eyes wide.
“Are you sure?”
Sara nods, puts a hand on her belly, as if protecting it. “Yes.”
“Well, you must have been mistaken. Let’s go. He needs to get to the ICU now.”
Sara gestures to the staff. The drip is hung on the bed, the monitor put between the man’s legs, the gurney unlocked, and then we move. I pull up my phone and call the nurse in charge at the ICU. I’m not sure what to tell her. We just woke up a dead man and he seems fine, but can he please spend the night?
Chapter 2
Lou
It’s the scent that gets to me. Clean and fresh flowery soap, with a slight hint of Irish whiskey having been consumed not today, but recently. It’s a combination that entices me. There’s sorrow there, loneliness, a touch of darkness.
I was badly wounded, I know as much. With the blood loss, the healing hasn’t gone as quick as it normally does, and I made it to ‘declared dead’.
It was her soft, warm voice and delectable scent that lit up every dead nerve ending and pushed my consciousness to the surface, kicking my heart back to beating. I meant to stop it, but it’s too late, the too-observant doctor detected my pulse. Now I have to let it beat and keep up the charade. I fed earlier tonight, but I also bled a lot when I was attacked by some shifter thugs, coyotes, who either followed my scent all the way from Louisiana, or belong to the local clan. I might have gotten them. I vaguely remember ripping open an artery or two, but then I shut off, the shock too great even for my immortal flesh.
I bled, and I’ll need to feed.
The nurses and the doctors at this hospital do good work. I want them to live. They save my food on a daily basis, and help me and my brethren to sustain our lifestyle. If they see more than they should, I will be forced to slay them all, though. It won’t please me, but my secret must remain just that. A secret.
“Trauma victim—”, “—resuscitated”, “breathes on his own—” “—epinephrine”, “two units of blood—” The young doctor with the delicious scent fires off her report over the phone as my gurney moves through a corridor, a couple of floors in an elevator, then through another corridor.
She lays a hand on my shoulder, unwavering and warm through the blanket. “You will be all right, sir. You were badly hurt but you’re safe now.”
It’s endearing. I admire anyone who devotes their life to caring for others. The world is a cold and lonely place and hearing her voice, soothing and calm, gives me a sense of peace I rarely experience.
I’m fully awake now, and it’s all pretend. I’ll bide my time and when they give me a moment alone, I’m out of here.
Hunger rages in me and my thoughts stray to the underground clubs in New Orleans. There were always humans there, easy to compel, easy to drink from. I’ve heard Tucson has similar clubs. In New Orleans the young men and women were so eager to please, so hungry for an adventure, but I’m not feeling it. Dominating a human, whipping them into submission, makes them taste delicious, but I have always lacked the connection. There has to be more. I’ve never been satisfied with the hunt alone. This doctor is something else, proud, clever, strong. I know it from her scent alone. I’ll let her be, though. She needs her strength to do her admirable work, and I don’t want to have to wipe her mind, and maybe erasing more than I should.
When I get out, I’ll need to feed, and then find the alpha of the nearest pack of coyote shifters and see if it was any of his pups who attacked me. I could kill them all, but I’ll settle for one-on-one revenge. If they didn’t taste like wet wool and old socks, I’d drain them dry.
Late night begins to turn into morning. With the approaching sunrise lethargy weighs my limbs down. I’m not alone, there are people everywhere, but I must move. I can’t stay here for too long, letting someone become suspicious of what I am. I’m still hooked up to a monitor, and that’s going to set off an alarm, no matter if I just rip off the cords, or if I turn it off. That’s a small issue, but I’ll pull them off at the last second, then I’m out.
Opening my eyes for the first time, I take stock of my surroundings. I’m alone in a room with glass walls. Outside is a counter, located in the center of the ward, where the nurse can keep check on everyone. Just like I suspected, she has monitors on the wall next to her and will be notified the moment I take off the electrodes. The delicious scent of the doctor is everywhere and it’s distracting. I glance up at the monitor, and sure enough, it detects my breathing as well. I’d have preferred to stop it, so I won’t have her in my nose the whole time.
Bit by bit, I free myself of the plastic cords they think will save my life and finally all that is left are the electrodes.
When the nurse gets up to answer a call from one of the other rooms, I act. I rip off the electrodes and dart out of the room, down a corridor and through a pair of opaque glass doors, tak
ing care not to shatter them. No human eye can catch my movement when I run. I’m nothing but a shadow and a draft.
I almost slam into her. Even though I haven’t seen her until now, I know it’s the Donovan doctor, the compassionate soul who gave her everything, thinking she was saving me, the woman who oozed sadness as her hand hovered over my cheek.
I drink in her scent. She’s beautiful. Her face is heart-shaped and her lips plump, forming a silent ‘O’. Wide brown eyes, framed by naturally long and thick eyelashes stare up at me in confusion, quickly turning into sound wariness before the supernatural. My hand moves on its own accord. I have to touch her. Just once.
I stroke my fingers along her temple, touch her cheek, warm and soft. Her eyelids flutter and her pupils dilate as a gasp escapes her. I need to leave now, or I’ll take her with me.
With a growl, I break the window next to us and jump out without knowing how high up we are, or what lies beneath me. I take off through an alley, three stories down, brushing glass off my naked chest, hearing her cry of surprise from above. I stop flat in the shadow of a dumpster. The sun is rising. My body screams in protest from being forced to be up and on the move. I need to cover myself, or I’m done for. A few feet in front of me is a sewer entrance with a heavy iron lid. The rays from the sun haven’t reached it yet but the brightness is still unbearable.
I’m not alone. There are people. I hear them, their mindless chatter, their heels clicking against the pavement. I listen, time it, and then dart forward to open, jump, close and fall at least ten feet into the dark, damp corridor beneath the street.
Her Vampire Hero (Midnight Doms Book 4) Page 1