And Nikolai Aleyev looked like every woman’s dream sperm donor.
Tall, dark, and dangerous, with chiseled bone structure, messy hair the color of melted dark chocolate, dark brows slashing over pale green eyes, a flawless olive complexion lily-white people like Violet would kill for…yep. The sperm bank—or Mrs. Copely’s daughter, for that matter—would probably kill to take a dip in Nikolai’s gene pool.
“What do you want?” she asked, ruthlessly dragging her attention away from thoughts of Nikolai’s presumably grade-A swimmers.
“I only want a few minutes of your time. Then I’ll leave you alone.” He glanced at the phone in her hand. “You don’t need that. I won’t hurt you.”
“Again,” she said quietly. “You won’t hurt me again.”
He winced, but held her gaze. “No. Never again.”
They both knew she wasn’t talking about hurt in the physical sense, either. He was too diabolical for that. During the whole kidnapping ordeal he’d been nothing but gentle with her. Tender, even. No, her scars from that night weren’t physical.
Emotional dings and bruises were another matter entirely.
There’d been a time with him, right before the kidnapping, when she’d been sure he was The One. She’d let her natural defenses down with him in ways she never had before. He’d seen more of her—the real her, not the serious, professional mask she usually let the world see—than anyone she’d ever known. She’d been within kissing distance of falling for him.
And damned if that thought didn’t remind her of the one and only kiss they’d shared. A kiss she’d initiated, of course—the best of her life. Which only deepened her humiliation where this man was concerned.
How utterly clueless and naïve she’d been to think he’d felt any of what she was feeling.
Violet stared at him for what felt like an eternity, searching for something, anything, that would tell her he was lying to her now. That he had some kind of new agenda. She found nothing. He sounded and looked totally sincere.
And that just pissed her off. Hating him would be so much easier if he was a lying bastard, incapable of empathy or love or any other messy human emotion.
She cleared her throat. “Talk fast. I have to get ready for work.”
If he was at all put off by her abrupt tone, his stoic facial expression certainly gave no indication. “I have a job in town, so I’ll be here in Whispering Hope at least for a few months. I wanted you to know so that if you saw me somewhere, you wouldn’t be caught unaware.”
Unaware? You mean, like I am now, as I stand here with nothing but a thin robe covering my flannel pajama pants with little light sabers all over them and the tank top with Yoda’s face and the words “There Is No Try” printed across my boobs?
She was about to inform him that the best way to avoid catching someone unaware was to call them before you showed up on their doorstep when a disturbing thought occurred to her. “What kind of job?” she asked, her tone ripe with suspicion. “You’re not—”
One dark brow rose. “Here to kill someone?” he finished her sentence for her in a tone drier than Death Valley sand. “No, Violet. The Council helped me get a construction job with a company downtown.”
She took a relieved breath, even though she logically knew the vampire Council wouldn’t let him pick up his life where Sentry left off. They wouldn’t have let him ever see the light of day again if they thought he was a danger to anyone.
He tipped his head down so he could look her straight in the eye and quietly said, “I’m not crazy, kotehok. I know what I did to you was wrong. I just didn’t know what else to do at the time.”
Violet wanted to ignore the stab of sympathy she felt for him. She really wanted to. But she just couldn’t. She knew too much about ex-Sentry employees—and about Nikolai specifically— not to sympathize with him, no matter what he’d done to her.
Back before vampires came out of the coffin, paranormal threats against human society were policed by Sentry, an organization with endlessly deep pockets and ties to every government in the world. Such threats were eliminated without prejudice.
All that ended when the vampires peeled back the curtain on their society, exposing Sentry in the process. The organization didn’t fare too well in the court of public opinion. The vampires had made sure of it.
When Sentry folded, thousands of people were out of work. People who’d been told they were heroes, helping to safeguard humanity, were suddenly hated for no other reason than their association with Sentry. That kind of thing tended to scar even the most resilient psyches, which was where Vi came in.
Most of her ex-Sentry patients hated themselves for what they’d been forced to do for their organization more than anyone else ever could. Nikolai wasn’t her patient, but she could easily see that he fell into that category.
Nikolai was a dhampyre, a genetically engineered vampire/human hybrid, and like her former patient, Seven, he’d been a cleaner for Sentry. As Seven had explained it to her, cleaners were essentially trained to kill anyone and anything that stood between them and whatever mission Sentry had assigned to them. If they resisted, they were sent for “reprogramming,” which was basically just a euphemism for months of solitary confinement, brainwashing, and torture.
Since the time his parents were murdered and he was sold to Sentry when he was only five years old, Nikolai had been sent for reprogramming four times. As far as she knew, no one else had ever been sent for reprogramming more than once.
Cleaners set about killing each other when Sentry folded, as they’d been trained to do. As far as anyone knew, Nikolai and Seven were the last of their kind. Thank God Seven had been able to reason with Nikolai, or else they’d probably both be dead now.
But not before he’d kidnapped Violet to get to Seven.
Logically, Violet knew not to doubt the Council’s judgment. They were all ancient vampires, with Hunter, her friend Mischa’s husband, being the oldest of all. Combined, they had thousands of years’ worth of wisdom under their belts. If they thought Nikolai wasn’t a danger to society, he most likely wasn’t.
But her not-so-logical heart still saw him for the predator he was. She wasn’t about to usher Nikolai back into her life with open arms (or legs, for that matter).
That kind of hurt and humiliation just wasn’t something she’d ever subject herself to again.
Mask of calm professionalism firmly back in place (even though her heart and stomach were warring for a spot in her throat), she said, “Thank you for telling me. Is that all?”
Something she couldn’t quite identify flashed in his eyes. Pain? Maybe a little regret? She wasn’t sure, and it was gone before she could make sense of it. “I also wanted to tell you that I’m sorry,” he said.
Violet crossed her arms over her chest, steeling herself against the sincerity in his tone, the warmth in his eyes. “For what? For fake dating me? Kidnapping me? Trying to kill one of my patients?”
Letting me kiss you? Kissing me back? Kissing me back so passionately it ruined me—ruined me, damn you—for all other kisses?
“All of it,” he murmured.
He leaned in a little closer and the heat of his body flowed over her skin, carrying with it his scent—laundry detergent, soap, and testosterone, she imagined. It was a scent that was all too familiar and entirely too pleasant for her peace of mind.
Danger, Will Robinson, her brain shouted. Step back!
Don’t be stupid, her body argued. Jump him!
Oblivious to her inner turmoil, he raised his eyes to hers and asked, “Do you ever think about…how things might have been between us if I hadn’t ruined everything?”
Violet blinked up at him. Well, that was a question she certainly hadn’t been expecting. “Do you?”
His gaze dropped to her mouth before lifting to her eyes once more. There was only an inch or so separating their bodies, their mouths, and from the hot, dark look he was currently pinning her with, he realized it, too.
/> “I think about it all the time,” he said, his voice even lower and raspier than usual. “It wasn’t all a lie, you know. I often wonder if you’d ever let me make it right.”
Sweet Christ, was he asking her to give him another chance? To…date him?
Her heart jumped up and down, squealing girlishly, while her brain reminded her what it felt like to be kidnapped and tied to a chair. And not even in the remotely fun and kinky way.
Stupid, stupid heart.
Violet cleared her throat again. “I don’t believe in looking backward,” she said in her best shrink voice. “There’s nothing for you to make right. I accept your apology.”
One corner of his mouth lifted and he reached for her, but she jerked back before he could make contact. There was no way she could keep her emotional shields up if he touched her. “We can go our separate ways now, and you have nothing left to feel guilty about,” Violet added as sternly as she could muster.
In other words, we’re done here.
Take that, Stockholm syndrome!
He stared at her a long moment, his eyes searching hers. His expression gave nothing away, but the ever-so-subtle slump of his shoulders let her know her message had been received loud and clear.
Finally, he nodded and said, “I understand. Whatever you need, I’ll give you, kotehok. Even if it’s my absence.”
And as he turned away from her and started to leave, she couldn’t be sure, but she thought he added, “I’d do anything for you.”
Chapter Two
The cherry on top of the shit sundae of Violet’s day came in the form of a printed death threat.
There were a few things that bugged her about this death threat. First of all, it was the third one she’d received in the past week. One was bad enough, but three? Her would-be assassin was most likely harboring some obsessive-compulsive tendencies. She could probably help him sort that out if he made an appointment with her instead of threatening to murder her.
Second of all, the messages were getting redundant. They never really varied enough to keep things interesting. If he was going to send three separate notes, the least he could’ve done was get a little creative with the whole thing. Maybe instead of saying, for example, “I’m going to kill you,” he could’ve hinted at how he planned to kill her. Or more importantly, why he planned to kill her. Where he planned to kill her would also be good to know, she supposed.
And last but certainly not least, this particular death threat contained an egregious error a third grader should’ve been able to spot. Why send a death threat if you didn’t care enough to proofread it before delivery?
“Your dead,” Violet muttered, tossing the latest death threat into her top desk drawer. “He clearly meant ‘you’re dead.’”
Lexa flipped her smooth auburn hair over her shoulder and placed a bulging bag of fragrant Chinese food on the desk between them. “Yes, Vi, because that’s what’s most troubling about the death threat: Poor grammar.”
As usual, Violet didn’t appreciate her assistant’s sarcasm. But since Lexa made sure the office ran like a well-oiled machine and Violet’s coffee cup was never empty, she kept her mouth shut. In the grand scheme of things, what was a little snark and lack of respect for authority when the alternative was caffeine withdrawal?
“Don’t you think it’s time you called the police about those notes?” Lexa asked.
“I did call them,” Vi began as she pulled a carton—oh, yummy. Pot stickers—out of the bag, “but there wasn’t much they could do. They didn’t find any fingerprints on the other notes, and there’s no return address on the envelopes, so unless the threat escalates into something physical, they’re pretty much staying out of it.”
Violet didn’t add that the detective she’d spoken with also insinuated that maybe she wouldn’t be in this predicament if her psychiatric practice focused on human patients as opposed to supernatural ones.
Lexa let out a disgusted snort as she broke apart a set of chopsticks and dug into her lo mein. “Our tax dollars at work. Whispering Hope PD is totally useless.”
Violet couldn’t really disagree. Their little town had a great many things to offer: fantastic restaurants, a wide range of talented local artisans, an adorable, bustling downtown business district full of historic brownstones and interesting architecture. But to get cops that gave a crap about the supernatural community? For that you’d have to leave town.
“Do you think it could be one of your patients? That guy who peed on his wife certainly wasn’t happy when he left here the other day,” Lexa said, then snickered.
Violet sighed. “Lex, first of all, you’re not supposed to know anything about that. I need you to at least pretend you’re not retaining any confidential information when you’re transcribing my notes. And second of all, Mrs. Richards has a highly complex relationship with her husband. It’s no laughing matter.”
Lexa arched a single brow heavenward in that annoying way only supremely cool people could ever accomplish. “Vi, her werewolf husband peed on her to mark his territory when he thought her co-worker was hitting on her. If I can’t laugh about that, what can I laugh about?”
Vi could admit on some level—a deep, deep, way, way down level—that she’d had to choke back a giggle or two when Mrs. Richards had explained what happened with her husband. But she wasn’t about to admit it aloud. She was a professional, after all.
“Technically,” Violet began as she set the pot stickers aside and dove into a container of garlic shrimp, “he didn’t pee on her. He was only trying to mark the area around her cubicle.” It was just Mrs. Richard’s crap luck that she’d been hit with some…splatter.
Again with the raised brow. “Did she or did she not end up with her husband’s urine on her leg?”
“She did,” Violet grumbled.
Lexa sucked a noodle back with dramatic flourish, then shot Violet a self-satisfied, told-you-so smirk. “I rest my case.”
Violet fought back an eye roll. She needed to introduce Lexa to her friends Mischa and Harper. The three of them loved to be right more than any people Vi had ever met in her life. They’d all get along famously.
“To answer your question,” Violet said, “no, I don’t think Mr. Richards wants to kill me for suggesting he come in for additional therapy sessions to help curb his urges. He wasn’t happy with me, but he’s a decent guy. Ultimately, he’ll come back because he loves his wife and wants to make her happy. Therapy will help with that. Killing me? Not so much.”
But sadly, while she was reasonably certain Mr. Richards didn’t want her dead, it wasn’t entirely outside the realm of possibility that another one of her clients—or former clients—might not exactly wish her all the best.
Her current and former patients’ mental stability ranged from fairly solid to kind of, well, murder-y, to everything in between. If she was any other therapist, she most likely would’ve hired a full-time bodyguard after receiving the first threat. But knowing vampires and shapeshifters tended to be super dramatic when they were feeling vulnerable or emotional (as everyone tended to be in therapy), she wasn’t terribly inclined to take her would-be assassin too seriously. She’d only gone to the police hoping that her stalker had made some kind of rookie mistake that would lead to an easy arrest.
“So you’re just going to ignore the whole thing?” Lexa asked.
Violet shrugged. “Yes. What would you have me do?”
Lexa stared at her like she’d just suggested they go skinny-dipping in the Hudson. In January. “Um…I dunno…maybe call Lucas? Or Harper?”
Violet wasn’t an idiot. She’d thought about calling Lucas when she received the first note. As a cop who’d once been on the Whispering Hope PD’s vampire crimes unit (and as a dude who just happened to also be a werewolf), Lucas Cooper was uniquely qualified to provide guidance on her current predicament. But since he was also an ex-boyfriend and Seven’s current husband, to say calling Lucas felt a little awkward was like saying the Pacific was a tad
moist.
And Harper was an amazing woman—a psychic, in fact—who ran a successful paranormal PI firm, so Violet had considered calling her as well. But Harper Hall’s services were in high demand these days, and Violet hated to waste her time on a threat that would most likely never amount to anything.
Besides, she hadn’t spoken to Lucas or Harper since the kidnapping. Since she’d last been with…
Don’t go there, dumbass.
“Lucas and Harper are busy. I didn’t want to bother them.” Violet held up a hand in supplication as Lexa shot her an exasperated glare. “Fine. If anything else happens, I’ll give them a call. Okay, mom?”
Lexa looked less than appeased, but eventually grumbled, “Fine. I feel like your mom sometimes, you know. Getting you to do something for yourself is like trying to herd cats.”
Time for a subject change, Violet thought. “I’m sure it’s all just a stupid prank anyway, which means I have bigger concerns. Such as, what should I wear to the wedding next weekend? The red dress?”
Lexa’s pert little nose wrinkled like she’d just sniffed a pile of fresh dog crap. “Ugh. I still don’t understand why you’re even going.”
If she was being totally honest with herself, it was kind of a mystery to Violet, too. Maybe she was a closet masochist?
But at least her sister had let her out of maid of honor duties. That would’ve been way worse than simply attending as a guest. She shuddered at the thought of having to throw a bachelorette party for her incredibly nitpicky sister. “She’s my sister, Lex. I can’t just skip it.”
“Yes, you can,” Lexa immediately shot back. “That kid has always been jealous of everything you ever had. You’re telling me she would’ve fallen for Darren if you hadn’t been with him first?” She rolled her eyes. “Please. He’s hell and gone from her type. That marriage won’t last a year. Hardly worth your time at the wedding. Definitely not worth the vintage red Versace.”
Violet had always done her level best not to psychoanalyze her family. But it was damn near impossible to ignore that her little sister, Rose, harbored some resentment toward her. It was hard to say why, really. Maybe because Violet was old enough to remember their father and Rose wasn’t? Violet had plenty of happy memories of the man, but he’d passed away shortly before Rose had been born.
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