Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Because whatever darkness has awakened inside me, whatever caused me to tear a man apart with my bare hands and then forget doing it—it’s still there, lurking beneath the surface. Waiting.
And god help me, part of me is hungry for more.
15
LENA
Itrace my finger where the bruise on my cheek once was. There is no evidence of Marco’s rage, no mark to show what happened in my apartment yesterday. There never is, something I’ve explained away by having a good makeup kit.
But the same can’t be said for my memories.
Marco’s hands on my throat.
The door splintering as Callahan kicked it in.
The look in Callahan’s eyes as he attacked Marco—something feral, unrestrained. Something that stirred a response in me I wasn’t prepared for.
I close my eyes, remembering how Callahan’s fists had connected with Marco’s face, the sound of bone cracking, the blood spattering across my floor. I should have been horrified. Instead, I’d felt a shameful thrill, a dark excitement that I’ve spent years trying to suppress.
Violence is in our nature—in vampire nature, at least. We’re predators, designed to hunt, to kill. But my parents raised me to resist those impulses, to blend in with humans, to be better than our baser instincts.
Yet watching Callahan unleash that fury had awakened something in me. A recognition.
“You’re mine, not his,” he’d said afterward, his voice rough with possession.
The memory sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with want. I’ve never felt this pull toward anyone before, this desperate hunger that goes beyond physical attraction.
Even now, thinking about the way his mouth had claimed mine in my dressing room, the way his hands had moved over my body with such possessive need—it makes my fangs ache, my pussy throb, the hunger rising in me like a tide. I’ve never lost control like that before, never given myself over so completely to desire.
Is it because he’s different than most humans? Because there’s something about him that feels like recognition, like coming home?
Or am I just falling into the trap that has snared so many of my kind—mistaking bloodlust for love?
I shake my head, turning away from the mirror. Whatever this is between us, it’s dangerous. For both of us.
Besides, I have bigger concerns right now than my complicated feelings for a human detective, no matter how enthralling he is. Marco threatened us both yesterday, promised retribution.
And Marco doesn’t make empty threats.
As I enter my kitchen, I try to focus on the mundane task ahead of me. Making sandwiches for Anne has become a ritual even in trying times like these, one of the few human connections I maintain outside of necessity. I carefully arrange ham, lettuce, and a slather of mustard between slices of bread, wrapping them in wax paper.
The simple act grounds me, reminds me of the person I’m trying to be—not the monster lurking beneath my skin, the one that wanted to join Callahan in his violence against Marco, the one that wanted to sink her teeth into Marco’s throat and drain him dry, get the fill I’ve been wanting all this time.
The sandwich-making also gives me time to think about what I should do next. The diary is gone, stolen by someone who knew exactly where to look. That means I’m being watched, my movements tracked, yet I haven’t been hurt. By whom? The Europeans? Marco? Cohen’s people?
Or could it be Callahan himself?
The thought brings me up short. Could he have staged the break-in, manufactured a reason to get closer to me? But that doesn’t make sense. He already had access to me. If he wanted the diary that badly, he could have just asked. Besides, no human could have moved like that.
No, someone else took it. Someone who doesn’t want the truth about Elizabeth’s death to come out.
I wrap the extra sandwich, tucking it into my bag as I prepare to leave for The Emerald Room. The usual flutter of pre-performance nerves is absent tonight, replaced by a heavy dread. I don’t know what awaits me there—whether Marco will make good on his threats with a carefully bandaged face, whether Cohen himself might be involved already. If Callahan will show up wanting me and wanting trouble.
All I know is that I need to be careful. More careful than ever.
The club is uncharacteristically quiet for a Friday night. The usual buzz of conversation is subdued, the laughter forced. Even Joey seems tense as he greets me backstage, his smile not reaching his eyes.
“Light crowd tonight,” I observe, hanging up my coat.
“Yeah, it’s strange,” he agrees, glancing over his shoulder as if expecting someone to be listening. “Marco’s a no-show, too. No word from him all day. None of his pals are here, either. Same goes for your detective buddy.”
A cold weight settles in my stomach. “That’s unusual.”