by Juliet Lyons
Also by Juliet Lyons
Bite Nights
Dating the Undead
Drop Dead Gorgeous
That Killer Smile
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Copyright © 2018 by Juliet Lyons
Cover and internal design © 2018 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Aleta Rafton
Cover images © Kiuikson/Shutterstock, fernandocomet/Shutterstock, jarek killian/Shutterstock
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
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
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
A Sneak Peek at Hooked on a Phoenix
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
For James
Chapter 1
Ronin
“Which one? Blond or brunette?”
I lift my eyes from the amber liquid in my glass to Harper’s smirking face, ghostly white beneath the flicker of strobe lighting, before following his gaze to the two women perched on shiny, high stools at the bar.
The club is tightly packed, dozens of revelers grinding to the beat of thumping music. To call it dancing would be an insult. There is no finesse or rhythm to the heaving bodies as they sway from side to side, exposed skin glittering with sweat, arms waving wildly as if drowning in an ocean of alcohol and lust.
The women Harper spotted shoot glances in our direction. Predatory stares, red lips parted like an invitation. Even if I couldn’t read body language like most people read flat-pack furniture instructions, I would know their intentions in a heartbeat.
Sex.
I survey the scantily clad women with a sigh, waiting for my trouser region to wake up and smell the pheromones. My eyes feast upon their coltish limbs, buffed and bronzed beneath their short skirts, two matching swells of cleavage oozing from tight, strappy tops.
“Or both?” Harper whispers, dark eyes flashing. Though the loud thud of music mostly smothers his voice, a single arched eyebrow does the talking.
Both. Not an unusual suggestion by any means.
I’m admiring the women like a farmer appraising cattle on market day when my attention snags on a third woman standing a few feet behind them. A cloud of wild, curly, dark hair is bending over a silver bag while a pale hand rummages desperately inside. Judging by the martini in front of her and the tap tap of Paulo’s fingers on the bar, she is searching for money. My throat goes dry and my knees tingle.
Surely, she would never come here.
A second later, I’m out of my seat and at the bar, ignoring the stares of the two women as I wedge myself into the space behind them.
“It’s on the house,” I say to Paulo, waiting for the dark puff of hair to reveal her face.
When she looks up, my heart crashes in disappointment. It isn’t her. Though similarly built, this woman’s eyes are slanted, catlike, and the color of ebony. Still, that hair. I have to stop myself from reaching out to touch it.
“Thank you,” she says, smiling and ducking her head.
I take a step backward, reading her face. Unlike the females standing behind me, this lady is not at my club for sex. It’s written in the relaxed set of her shoulders, the genuine smile on her full lips. The length in my trousers stirs. Lately, I seem to need a challenge to get off, and with that hair… If her body were arched across my desk, I would hardly know the difference between her and who I thought she was.
“Why are you here?” I ask, shifting my weight against the bar.
She blinks a few times, as if she’s recently pondered that question herself. “I came with a colleague.” She skims a gaze over the pulsating mass of bodies on the dance floor as if searching for someone.
Lying.
“Tell me why you’re really here,” I say.
She lets out a sigh and with a quick eye roll says, “I’m a journalist. I’ve been asked to write a column on alternative dating.”
My brows shoot skyward. “Alternative dating,” I repeat.
She takes a gulp of martini, her hand betraying a slight tremor. My eyes track the movement like a tiger eyeing its prey. Her nerves are an aphrodisiac, a direct connection to the fangs prickling beneath my gums like knives.
“Yes, alternative—you know, BDSM, swinging…vampires.”
I frown. “Isn’t it a tiny bit prejudiced to consider vampires akin to sexual deviants?”
Another gulp of martini, faster this time. Her eyes dart across the pulsing room again, reminding herself where the exit is. Despite her obvious desire to flee, her voice is calmer than a church sermon on Sunday. “Not at all. There’s nothing wrong with those things. They’re just…different.”
“What do you have on us so far?”
She jerks a little with surprise. Though really, what did she think I was? A lawyer, a stockbroker, a candlestick maker?
Her dark eyes widen. “Nothing really. It all seems…normal.”
Though it wasn’t my original intention to scare her, I can’t help but lean into her ear, my lips brushing her magnificent hair. She smells of perfume and the London Underground, a faint whiff of spices from cooking. “Stick around. Wait for the bell. Things won’t be so normal then.”
“The bell?” she asks, a flash of fear lighting up her face. “What bell?”
I grin by way of response and spin around to the women behind me. They straighten immediately, the brunette spilling some of her cocktail in her haste.
“You should probably sponge that out before it leaves a stain,” I say, motioning to the splash of liquid sinking between the fibers of her tight, white top. “I have some stain remover in my office if you’d allow me to take care of it.”
Brunette smiles. A slow, tight curl of red lips. She steps toward me, her voice a cat’s purr. “If it’s
not too much trouble.”
I allow my fangs to slip out over my lips, so she knows exactly what my intentions are. Like a seasoned pro, she doesn’t flinch. “Ladies first,” I say, extending an arm.
“Hey,” the blond cuts in. A sneer mars her pretty face. “What about me?”
Ordinarily I would take them both, but tonight I need the brunette alone.
Harper appears by her side, and I watch with amusement as her hard mask of protest dissolves at the sight of his handsome features. “I would love to keep you company.”
The Miss Piggy act is dropped. “I’m Natalie,” she says, eyeing his muscular body as if he’s the last lounger by the pool.
“I’m honored to meet you, Natalie.” He lifts one of her hands, kissing the back of her fingers.
Smooth bastard.
The friend taken care of, I let Brunette walk ahead of me. The stare of the curly-haired journo lasers into the back of my head. Curiosity is rolling off her in waves. I can almost hear her mind turning my words over. Wait for the bell.
Inside my office, I lock the door and hang back. These days, I rarely make the first move, which has nothing to do with being a gentleman and everything to do with boredom. Brunette prowls around, running red-painted nails over everything—the leather chairs in front of the fireplace, the edge of the buffed walnut desk.
“It’s pretty tame in here,” she says in husky tones.
I shove aside a wave of indifference, focusing on the swell of breasts beneath her tight top. “Is it? What were you expecting? Whips and a rack?”
She hops up onto the desk, knees slightly apart. “Maybe.”
I watch her for a second, hands thrust deep into my pockets. She isn’t who you want, a voice whispers in a far-off corner of my brain. Why kid yourself?
“You know, I’ve been coming here for a few weeks,” she says, plucking a glass paperweight of the Tower of London from the desk and examining it. “I know you’re different from the other vampires.”
“Really? How am I different?”
“Older, wiser, more sophisticated—and not just because you own this place.”
A buzz of warning stirs me into action. I pull myself to full height. “Turn around,” I say, my voice coming out in a growl.
Her eyelids flicker, and she gulps as my fangs extend farther. “I thought you’d never ask,” she retorts, a slight waver in her voice.
She spins around, fingers gripping the edge of the desk, knuckles bone-white against the lacquered wood. The sight of them gives me pause. So pointless, the voice in my head whispers. Shoving the thought aside, I press myself into her spine, gripping her wrists. Her hair smells of cigarette smoke and hairspray, and as I move the immaculate mane of hair from the bronze column of her neck, she shivers. Without pausing to consider if it’s from arousal or fear, I scrape my fangs over her skin. The taste of chemical tan is sharp on my tongue.
“Wait,” she says suddenly. “Aren’t we going to have sex before you bite me?”
I grin into her flesh. Below my waist, I’m not even at half-mast. “No,” I murmur. “That’s not the order in which I like to do things.”
Without further warning, I sink my fangs into her neck, the soft pop of flesh filling me with new vigor. She moans loudly, her bottom squirming against my groin, stirring me to life. I half close my eyes as my length stiffens, and then I hoist her skirt up around her waist and reach for my zipper. A brief glance at her startlingly white derriere affirms there are no panties to remove. As I begin to swallow her blood, I move her legs apart with a knee, bringing a hand between her thighs.
“Yes,” she whimpers. “Give it to me.”
I slide a digit around her slick walls, pumping a couple of times to get her good and wet before guiding my erection to her entrance. Just as I’m about to thrust inside her, I sink my fangs deeper. The slow drip of blood oozes into my mouth like an open faucet. I shut my eyes completely as her body sags, a deep, dark unconsciousness seizing her like a thief in the night. I, too, lose myself, surrendering to the usual fantasy—a cloud of black hair, eyes the color of sunlight on a river, and pink lips caught in a sneer that screams of hate.
* * *
When I’ve taken my fill of the brunette and she’s come around, I zip up my fly and whirl her around to face me. Her eyes are lazy and confused, her once-perfect makeup a mask of smudged mascara.
“Look at me,” I command, ducking to look directly into her eyes.
As her tired pupils focus on mine, a pulse of energy passes between us like an electrical current. I use the connection to seize her mind, controlling her as easily as if she were a puppet.
“You will leave the club and never come back. Tomorrow, you will call whomever sent you and tell them there is nothing to report, that you never saw Ronin McDermott and the club is the same as any other in London.”
I hold her gaze as I lean over to push a button on the phone. My doorman, Charlie, appears in an instant.
“See the young lady gets home safely, Charlie,” I say, seizing the brunette’s arm and shoving her toward him. “Oh, and get her picture before she leaves. She’s barred.”
I notice Charlie looking at the bite marks, brows drawn. “Is she…?”
“No, I didn’t turn her. The last thing London needs is more vampires. Now get her out of here, would you?”
The brunette is wobbly on her legs as she leans against my doorman, but she doesn’t protest. Tomorrow she’ll wake up with a hangover and remember nothing. Chances are she’ll blame it on a spiked drink. Most of them do.
After the door clicks softly shut behind them, I sigh, sinking down onto the edge of the desk. How many more of these informants will I have to root out? Now that vampires are common knowledge, it’s only a matter of time before we’re hung out to dry.
Remembering the curly-haired journalist out in the bar, I flip my wrist and glance down at the face of my Rolex. It’s five minutes to midnight. I wonder if Cinderella has decided to stick around.
I slip back out into the pounding noise of the club. Little has changed. Harper is sitting in our booth, sucking the face off the blond, who is straddling his lap. Or is she sucking the face off him? It’s hard to tell from this angle. Forcing him to meet my penetrating stare, I glare at Harper until he glances up. Pointing two fingers at my eyes, I indicate the need to glamour her after their fun. Who sent these girls, anyway? Last I heard, the Metropolitan Police had shelved their special investigations into historic vampire crimes to focus on the ones happening now. A wise move, considering how many human psychopaths live in this city. Vampires should be the least of their concerns.
The journo from earlier is easy to locate. She’s positioned near the exit, propped up against a gray-painted pillar. The glass in her hand—not the shallow martini she nursed earlier—is empty. Either she’s thirsty or nervous as hell. As if sensing she’s being watched, her cat eyes meet mine across the room. She jerks violently when a second later the ringing of a bell reverberates off the walls. The noise is like a high school class change, but its meaning is much darker. A loud cheer goes up from the crowd before mayhem ensues.
Until now, it’s been impossible to tell which of the revelers are vampires and which are human. Now the difference is as obvious and jarring as a fist to the face. Dozens of fangs extend, glittering white beneath the strobe lighting, as if a school of sharks have swum into the gloomy depths of the dance floor. But unlike some low-budget horror movie, no rising crescendo of earsplitting screams carve up the beat of the music. The humans succumb to their partners with little more than a satisfied sigh. Throats are offered, veins are taken, and before long, an iron tang of blood permeates the air. All the while, the music continues to pound.
My gaze beats a path between the carnage on the dance floor and the horrified expression of the journalist. Her eyes are fixed on a couple in one of the booths near the exit.
A smartly dressed man in his twenties sits, legs apart, head tipped backward onto the seat, while a female vampire sucks at his main artery like a leech in a miniskirt. Inlets of crimson zigzag down his pale neck, disappearing into the pastel-blue collar of his shirt.
One of my men approaches the couple and taps the woman on the shoulder. Dazed, she pulls away, as if waking from a deep sleep, and allows my man to hold two fingers to her boyfriend’s neck. I flick my gaze back to the journo as my worker speaks into his radio. Without anyone noticing, Charlie appears and they carry the man’s body around the edge of the dance floor and through the door at the back. The female vampire shadows them, her hands glued to the sides of her head in horror at what she’s done. She disappears after them into the passageway beyond.
The curly-haired woman’s eyes are wider than the pool of blood left behind on the leather seat. She is frozen with fear, her skin taut and waxy under the flickering lights. She begins to move swiftly toward the narrow flight of stairs, more wobbly than a pin on bowling night. Sensing she’s about to pass out, I cut through the crowds, catching her the split second she falls. I heave her up onto my shoulder and carry her through the dark corridor to the exit.
Outside, amid the roar and screech of traffic pouring along the late-night street, I set her on her feet and flag down a taxi.
“Is he dead?” she asks as a black cab screeches to a halt beside us. Her once-steady voice shakes, like a toddler’s after a nightmare.
“I don’t know,” I say truthfully. “It happens occasionally, I’m afraid.”
“That place is so fucked up,” she mutters.
The cabbie’s window slides down and a bald head peers out suspiciously at the pair of us. “No puking in my cab,” the driver says in blunt cockney tones, eyeing the female as she sways unsteadily in her heels.
I cut him an impatient glare. “She won’t. Keep your hair on.”
I yank open the door, but before she can climb in, I grab her elbow through her thin jacket. Her eyes flutter up to mine.
“The club is nothing out of the ordinary,” I say as the current stirs between us. “There was no bell or biting. It was just a club. Plain and simple. You didn’t speak with anyone the whole time you were there.”
