While the bagged stuff provided sustenance, it didn’t give him the same satisfaction as sinking his fangs into a sweet, warm neck. Feeling the pulse against his tongue. Tasting the life that pumped through someone else’s veins.
It was pure ecstasy, and at the same time, the worst kind of pain because it only made him want more.
That’s why he refrained from biting as much as possible. Because it increased the craving as much as it satisfied it.
His hands trembled as he poured another glass and pulled out his cell.
“You sound like shit,” Jake McCann said when Garret asked if he was at the shop yet.
Jake was his best friend and business partner. He was also a vampire, thanks to Garret.
It had been the anniversary of Garret’s turning and he’d instinctively returned to the place of his death to relive those last few moments when his humanity had slipped away and the hunger—the damnable hunger—had seized control. Like any other vampire experiencing the turning, he’d been out of control. Jake had crossed his path, and Garret had attacked him. And then he’d tried to right his wrong by giving Jake back the life that had been stolen from him.
Or rather, a new life.
One born and bred in darkness.
He’d doomed Jake to the same fate, just as Jake had doomed Dillon. Jake hadn’t been the one to attack the young man. No, Garret had done that during the most recent anniversary of his turning. In yet another thirsty craze, he’d attacked Dillon and inadvertently left him on Death’s doorstep. Luckily, Jake had been on hand to turn Dillon before he completely bled out.
“What the hell happened to you?” Jake asked.
“Two bottles of Jack.”
“Only two?”
“I lost count after two.” Before Jake could push for more information, Garret rushed on, “Did you finish the design on the Harwell bike?” Ethan Harwell was CEO of a multi-million dollar oil company who’d commissioned a specialty chopper that incorporated his company’s theme and logo.
“I’m putting the final specs on the oil well shaped spokes tonight. Late tonight. It’s Saturday night.”
“And?”
“Saturday night is date night. I promised Nikki I would take her out.” Nikki was Jake’s girlfriend and the best hairdresser in town. She was also human, and Jake meant for her to stay that way. He refused to turn her. Not while there was still hope of reclaiming his own humanity.
Hope that hinged on Garret.
Since he had sired Jake and Jake had sired Dillon, finding and destroying the vamp who’d sired Garret would start a domino effect that would free all three of them.
“We’re meeting Meg and Dillon over in Karnes County for the rodeo. After the bull riding, we’ll head back to the shop and catch up.”
“Since when do you like bull riding?”
“Since forever.” Jake had been a real cowboy back in the day. He could ride and rope almost as well as Garret. “Why don’t you come with us?” Jake added.
“I’ve got a meeting with someone about some free PR for the shop.”
“You work too much, bro.”
“Yeah, well, somebody has to while the rest of you are goofing off.”
“It’s called having fun. You should try it sometime.”
“Trust me. I have plenty of fun.”
“You mean plenty of one-night stands.”
“Same thing.” At least, it had been. A long, long time ago when he’d first turned.
But after one hundred and eighty years and too many women to count, he didn’t enjoy it nearly as much as he used to. He wanted more than sex. He wanted an actual relationship. He wanted someone to love. Someone to love him.
“He needs a real date,” came Nikki’s voice in the background.
“I don’t need a date.”
“I don’t know, buddy.” Since settling down with Nikki, Jake had done a complete one-eighty when it came to women and relationships. Ditto for Dillon since he’d landed Meg. While Garret knew that a real relationship could exist between a vampire and a woman, he knew his buddies were the exception rather than the rule. Dillon and Jake had gotten lucky, and Garret had never been long on luck.
“A date might lighten you up,” Jake continued. “Take the edge off. You sound really tense.”
“I’m fine.”
“Nikki’s got this friend—”
“Later.” Garret hit the Off button. He was over one hundred and eighty years old, for Christ’s sake. He didn’t date.
Dating implied liking and liking implied a relationship, and a relationship implied a mutual give and take between two individuals. Other than fantastic sex, Garret had nothing to offer a woman.
Not until he managed to find and destroy the vampire who’d made him.
He chugged the rest of his blood, grabbed his Stetson and headed outside to the barn.
For so long he’d run from the past, from the man he’d been. He’d dressed differently—all bad-ass biker with his leather and bandanas and chains. He’d avoided small towns and clung to the cities, desperate to trade the rolling pastureland for miles and miles of concrete. He’d even refused to sit a horse.
But seeing Jake so determined to break the curse, to have a real future with his human girlfriend, Nikki Braxton, had reminded Garret of the man he’d been.
A man who’d loved horses and lived in the saddle, one who’d enjoyed the fresh air and freedom. A man who’d fought hard for what he believed in—his family and his land and his right to have both.
Until he’d been turned.
Even then, he’d held tight to the man he’d been. He’d wanted to save himself. He’d fought the damnable hunger for so long, and he’d kept fighting. But eventually, he’d gotten tired. Exhausted. Giving in had been easier.
No more.
He was through running. Forgetting.
He still hadn’t climbed back into the saddle yet, but that was just a matter of time. He’d recently purchased several horses, and taming them would take a while. One in particular—Delilah. She was the toughest of the bunch and the most stubborn.
So was Garret.
He wouldn’t give up on her any more than he would give up on finding the vampire who’d turned him.
He held tight to the thought and spent a half hour pitching hay and pouring oats.
When he finished, he checked the gates, grabbed his chopper keys and headed into town to find out what Viviana Darland really wanted from him.
Uploaded by Coral
6
IT WAS TOO SMALL, too cramped, too quiet.
Viv wanted to move, to open the door and crawl out of the stifling closet. The sun had already set, and there was safety in the darkness. Right?
She touched the sticky wetness soaking her chest. The blood wasn’t coming as fast as when Molly had first staked her, but it was still flowing, saturating her shirt and oozing onto the scarred wooden floor of the abandoned cabin.
She tried for a breath of air and a white-hot pain cut through her. Molly had been aiming for her heart, but she’d missed. Barely.
Still, the puncture hurt like a sonofabitch, and she was still bleeding heavily.
With every beat of her heart, more blood gushed from the open wound and made her wonder if—despite the fact that they’d missed her heart—she might die anyway.
Maybe this was it.
Her last few moments in existence.
The past flashed through her mind as she lay there, like images advertising the birth of America on the History channel. The names echoed in her head.
Names she would never forget.
She saw Jimmy, the dying confederate soldier she’d gathered in her arms when she’d found him sprawled on the battlefield. She heard the anguish in his voice as he begged her to save him. She felt the tightening in her chest as she tried to resist.
But he kept begging, and her own heart kept hurting, until she gave in. She leaned over, sank her fangs into his neck and tasted the sweet heat. Pure ecstasy ro
lled through her body, along with a rush of dizzying energy, followed by a wave of regret.
Because as much as she wanted to save him, she knew the hunger he’d soon experience would be far worse than death.
She knew, but she turned him anyway because she couldn’t help herself. She couldn’t watch him die. She couldn’t watch anyone die.
Never again.
Fast forward to an Apache raid. Or what was left of one.
She saw herself wandering through the demolished camp. The voices of the dying echoed in her ears. One man in particular called out to her. Travis. He was a farmer whose wife and three children had just been abducted. He was their only hope. He had to follow them. Save them.
But first he had to stop bleeding.
“Please,” he begged and she couldn’t resist. Not the desperation in his voice or the sweet scent curling in the air, luring her closer to his slaughtered body.
Her nostrils flared, her hunger roared, and she dipped her head. She lapped at the blood pulsing from one particular wound and awareness ripped through her. Her senses came alive, and it was as if an amplifier switched on in her head.
The whisper of the wind became a roar as it whipped through the trees. Crickets buzzed so loudly that she wanted to cover her ears. Horse hoofs thundered, and she flinched. Women pleaded and begged. Children whimpered and sniffled.
“Daddy!”
The desperate cry filled her head. A girl. Travis’s youngest.
The hungry red haze that clouded her vision faded until his broken and battered face came into sharp focus. She saw the faint laugh lines around his eyes, the tiny scar that ran along his cheekbone, the deep pores of his skin. Recognition sparked as he stared up at her, and his lips moved.
“Do it,” he rasped. “Help me. You have to.”
She didn’t. She shouldn’t. She knew that.
At the same time, she couldn’t stand the blood on her hands. The death on her conscience.
Not just Travis’s death, but that of his wife and three daughters.
The horse hoofs kept pounding the ground, fading ever so slightly with each passing second. The little girl’s voice faded, too. The crying. The pleading. The praying.
Anxiety rushed through Viv and she bared her fangs. Sinking them deep into her own wrist, she drew blood and held it to Travis’s lips, and then she gave him back the precious life that was fast spilling out all over the dusty ground.
Her past kept replaying and she saw the others. Mary. James. Walter. Francis. Ruby. Ben. Molly and Cruz. Caroline. Mitchell. Richard. Loretta.
She could see their faces, hear their anguished voices, feel their pain and suffering.
She meant to say no to each and every one of them. To satisfy her own hunger and walk away. That’s all that should have mattered. Feeding the beast inside of her.
At the same time, she couldn’t resist the tears, the fear, the desperation. And so she tried to help, to cheat death out of yet another precious life.
But while she robbed death of victory, she didn’t really save anyone. Rather, she doomed them to the hunger.
She’d doomed Garret.
Her stomach convulsed and her chest hurt and the blood kept coming, flooding the floor of the small closet. The ripe, sticky scent mingled with the smell of mothballs burned her nostrils. She held her hand to the wound and prayed for sleep. For peace.
She needed to heal. To forget.
Instead, she remembered.
Garret sprawled on the ground.
Broken.
Bleeding.
Dying.
“No!” She touched her lips to his and felt the weakness of his breath, the coldness of his skin.
One sharp slice to her neck, and her lifeblood spilled out, running in tiny rivulets down her skin, falling onto his pale lips, giving him new life all the while his old slipped away.
Slowly the color returned to his face, and his heartbeat grew strong and sure against the palm of her hand. She started to move, to leave him to heal before he opened his eyes and realized what had happened. She drew her hand away, but strong fingers clamped around hers and jerked her back down. A growl vibrated up his throat and his fangs flashed. He opened his eyes and instead of a warm chocolate, they burned a fierce, vivid violet. Her own heart catapulted with excitement, and lust rushed through her.
He turned her, pinning her to the ground.
She arched against him as he ripped her clothes away, until she felt his bare skin against her own. His hands swept up and down, touching her everywhere as he drew one nipple into his mouth and suckled her so hard that she moaned long and deep and…Ahhhhhh.
Strong, purposeful fingers found the wet heat between her legs and plunged inside. She gasped, wiggling her hips and drawing him another inch deeper…There. And there. And there.
Sensation coiled, and she felt herself winding tighter. Her hands roved over him, and she felt the bunch of his muscles as his excitement multiplied.
Her own hunger stirred, eager for a taste of the climax building inside of him. She threw her head back and arched her body, ready to feel his fangs sinking deep, and his hard erection pumping between her legs.
Sex and blood.
It was an intoxicating duo. One she’d never enjoyed with any man. Not at the same time.
But Garret was different.
Because she loved him.
Because he loved her.
Her body throbbed, and her hands trailed up and down his back, begging and pleading with him to touch her faster, harder, deeper—
The thought shattered as pain sliced through her from her collarbone, clear to her belly button. Her eyes went wide and she saw him poised above her, his hands wrapped around the sharp stake that protruded from her chest.
Blood spurted and steamed, the sound sizzling in her ears.
She opened her mouth, but her throat closed in on itself, and only a gurgle bubbled past her lips. Her gaze collided with his, and she saw the anger that burned a hot, vicious red in his eyes.
He knew the truth now, and he hated her for it.
“You did this to me,” he growled. “You.”
VIVIANA BOLTED UPRIGHT, her heart pounding.
She touched her chest, feeling only the soft cotton of her T-shirt and the warm metal of her St. Benedict medal.
No stake. No blood.
A dream.
That’s all it had been.
Just a wild, horrific nightmare.
She and Garret hadn’t made love that night, and he certainly hadn’t tried to kill her.
He’d been too busy hurting. Dying.
She forced aside the memory of his body riddled with stab wounds and glanced toward the window. Shadows pushed past the edge of the blinds, a tell-tale sign that the sun had already set.
She eased from the bed and headed for the bathroom. She didn’t bother to turn on the overhead bulb. She didn’t need to. She could see every detail of the ancient powder-blue tile, the old-fashioned sink, the small medicine cabinet. She stared at her reflection in the mirror and noted the frantic rise and fall of her chest.
She was so freaked out she was actually breathing.
Closing her eyes, she counted to ten. Until the breaths stopped coming and her hands stopped trembling.
While the dream was a far cry from reality—she hadn’t so much as kissed him that night—she had found him broken and bleeding, and she’d done her best to ease his pain.
She closed her eyes against a rush of tears and swallowed against the sudden tightening in her throat. She hadn’t meant to hurt him.
But she had no doubt he would see things much differently.
That’s why she’d left him so long ago. She’d been afraid to see the hatred in his eyes should he discover the truth.
She was still afraid.
He won’t find out.
Even if he did, it wouldn’t matter.
Cruz and Molly would catch her, and she wouldn’t fight them. The curse would end and Garret would
have his humanity back.
When they caught up with her.
She left the bathroom to double check the lock on the front door. As her hand closed over the doorknob, a strange niggling awareness worked its way up and down her spine. It was the same sensation she’d had up in Washington. When she’d been sensationalizing the Butcher’s latest handiwork and Sheriff Keller had escorted her from the crime scene.
She could still feel his strong fingertips on her arm, hear the leaves crunching beneath his boots as they’d walked down the mountain, smell the sharp scent of pine trees and fresh blood and something else…
Someone.
They were getting closer. She knew it. She felt it. But while the feeling was there, it wasn’t nearly as strong as it had been in Washington.
She double-checked the lock and headed back to the bathroom. Drawing back the shower curtain, she turned the shower on full force and stepped beneath the icy spray.
Dunking her head under the sluice of water, she closed her eyes and fought to control the frantic beating of her heart. Eventually, the tears faded. The fear started to seep away and spiral down the drain along with the ice-cold water.
By the time she stepped from the shower and reached for a fluffy towel, she’d managed to tamp down on her regret and gather her control.
Think tonight.
Think seduction.
Think Winona’s ten Do-Me-Baby commandments.
Or, at least most of them.
While she fully intended to bat her eyes and lick her lips as often as possible, she wasn’t so sure she was going to slap Garret’s ass or tickle his balls (numbers seven and eight on the list). At least not until they were already naked and in bed.
That was the goal.
To turn him on to the point that he toppled her onto the nearest horizontal surface and initiated the sex so she didn’t have to.
She’d spent an eternity being the aggressor, mesmerizing men and bending them to her will, acting rather than reacting.
No more.
Yes, she would be suggestive, seductive, inviting. But she wouldn’t make the first move. She was leaving that up to Garret.
She had to.
That’s why he’d been the first and only man to give her an orgasm. He’d been the aggressor. He’d been the one to take the initiative and approach her first—before she’d “vamped” him. He’d swept her off her feet and ravished her, and all because of his own passionate nature. Because he’d really and truly wanted her of his own free will. Unlike the others, who’d been puppets manipulated by her vamp charm.
A Body to Die For Page 5
