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  She quickly slipped inside. With her eyes already adjusted to the darkness from being outside, she searched through the dimness, gun aimed.

  No one.

  She stepped farther into the empty room.

  The end of a gun barrel pushed against her skull. The small click of the hammer sent adrenaline pumping through her body. Her heart thumped hard against her chest.

  Positioned at the end of a vampire’s gun.

  Royally screwed didn’t even begin to cover it.

  * * *

  Damon held the Desert Eagle without a single ounce of fear in his body. If there was one thing he was excellent at, it was staying detached in intense situations. He wasn’t used to dealing with vampiresses, but there was a first time for everything.

  He held the gun steady, resting right against her skull. “Drop your weapon.”

  With slow tentative movements, she spread her arm to her sides, so he could see the firearm. She released the magazine clip, and it fell onto the floor before she dropped the gun.

  He increased the pressure on the base of her skull. “Names. All the high-ups in the Rochester nests.”

  In a risky decision, she spun away from his gun, grabbing hold of his hand and digging her long fingernails into his metacarpals. A very smooth martial arts move. He let her go and released the gun, not from the pain, but from the reassurance of his silver dagger. Giving her a false sense of accomplishment could work in his favor. With quick agility, she threw a roundhouse kick. He blocked the blow from his face, but the force of her attack gave him pause.

  She was strong and an impressive fighter, but she was no match for him. He grabbed hold of her leg and twisted. She lost her balance, toppling toward the ground, but he caught her midfall, holding her.

  With precision, he pulled his dagger from his sleeve and forced it against her throat. Not enough to make her bleed, just so she could feel its presence. He had to know for certain if she was a vampire. He couldn’t bring himself to harm a woman without being sure.

  She stopped struggling. Smart.

  He backed her into the corner nearest the light switch. If he got lucky and she was angry or afraid enough, her irises would reveal the answer to him. “Turn around.”

  She did as she was told. He pushed her body against the wall with his own, the dagger still at her throat. With his free hand, he flipped the switch.

  Then wished he hadn’t.

  Damon’s breath rushed from his lungs, and his heart skipped several beats. Adrenaline kicked into his system like a tidal wave. Every inch of his skin electrified. He was a live wire, all senses enhanced and awake from their deadened state. His arousal was instantaneous as the sweet smell of her perfume hit his nose. She smelled like baked cinnamon apples, autumn spices, vanilla and sweet, sweet sex.

  He’d never been one to stop and take in the beauty of the world, but he was certain that her face was more gorgeous than anything he’d ever laid eyes on. Her thick dark brown hair fell just past her shoulders, and from that he recognized her as the woman from the bar. His eyes trailed over that gorgeous hair, which stopped just above a pair of ample breasts that pushed against him. Her slender frame felt amazing against his body.

  But what completely entranced him was her stare. A pair of large honey-colored eyes rimmed with dark layers of full lashes gazed up at him. A slight hint of fear showed behind her irises, mixed with the drive to fight, and he immediately hated himself for being the one to put that fear there. He cursed silently. What was wrong with him? He never regretted terrifying bloodsuckers, and she wasn’t even afraid enough to give him the answer he sought. He cursed himself again. God, she was gorgeous. Vampiresses were impressive beauties, but no woman he’d ever seen, human or vampire, compared to her.

  No. He snapped his attention into focus.

  He wouldn’t be distracted. He clenched his jaw and crushed his own desire. How could he be thinking of sex? Mark was a vampire, and it was his fault. His own neglect had killed his closest friend—more than once. It was his fault Caius had stolen Mark’s life. If he’d only staked Mark as an extra precaution before the building exploded, Mark wouldn’t...

  He pushed all his feelings deep inside himself, where there was no escape. His focus wouldn’t be broken, not again. He had three tasks he needed to accomplish: kill Caius to avenge Mark’s death, end the gruesome killings plaguing Rochester’s streets...and murder his best friend.

  He would not let her faze him. His brain fought to concentrate, but his body was saying otherwise. Not once had he ever had this problem. Well, not since she refused to answer his letters.

  He wished he could end it right then, draw the blade across her throat and free himself from the agony of wanting her. He scowled, disgusted with himself. Wanting a vampire? The thought made his stomach churn. But bloodsucker or not, he’d never laid a hand on a woman, and he hoped he wouldn’t have to change that now. Unless an innocent life was in danger, he doubted he could bring himself to do it, and his life was far from innocent.

  Still, something in his gut protested that he needed to know for sure what she was, and there was one sure way.

  He shook his head. The sight of her Mark of Caine would shock him back to normal. To the version of himself that had little interest in women when there was a job at stake—and there always was, especially now.

  “Turn,” he said. When she didn’t move, he increased the pressure on her neck. “Turn around.”

  With a glare of pure hate in her eyes, she turned away from him.

  Before she could escape, he locked his arms around her, pressing her back against his body. He held the knife to the front of her throat and forced her to bend over. If the mark was there, he wouldn’t hesitate to use the necessary force to get answers from her. Then, female or not, he would do what he had to do.

  As his gaze trailed the length of her spine, he caught himself admiring the curve of her ass. Her round behind rubbed against him. Holy smokes... Had he ever wanted a woman so badly? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been interested in sex.

  No distractions. He was weak, selfish. Stupid.

  Need raced through his veins while he lifted the hem of her black tank top. He hooked two fingers beneath the edge of her leather pants, then slid them down an inch. The two cute dimples just above her ass were enough to leave him wanting for days, but her skin was smooth and unmarred.

  No mark. A female vampire’s Mark of Caine always appeared on her lower back. He blinked several times. He found himself at a loss for words. “Where’s your...?”

  “My what? My vamp stamp? News flash, buddy, I don’t have one.”

  That she even knew what a “vamp stamp” was gave him pause. He released her shirt and allowed her to stand up straight, but he maintained the knife at her neck. An odd sense of relief washed over him, and he immediately chastised himself. Whether she was human or not, he had a job to do. “Who are you, and why are you wielding a gun in a dark room in a known vampire club?”

  She shook her head. “Tell me who you are, and then maybe I’ll consider sharing.”

  He pressed the sharp blade against her skin, reminding her of its presence. He didn’t have the patience for this. “I’m the one with the knife,” he said.

  She stood completely still, nothing but the rise and fall of her chest giving away her agitation. “Touché.”

  He forced her toward the wall again. She turned around before he even told her to do so. She was trying to show her lack of fear by taking the lead, not waiting for directions. Not surprising, with her overly trigger-happy attitude, but her confidence was her weakness. Her gaze met his in a show of defiance, but he wouldn’t let himself be fooled into picking a fight. He was easily twice, if not three, times her size. Though she well trained in fighting, she would never be a match for him.

  He held her star
e until finally she looked away.

  “Tell me your name,” he demanded.

  She closed her eyes, glanced at the floor and let out a deep breath. Her eyes flickered up to meet his gaze again. “Sandra—”

  He pushed her harder against the wall. “Real name.”

  She gaped at him as if he’d slapped her. “How do you know that’s not my real name?”

  “Everyone has a poker tell.” One of the things he’d learned in his time at the E.U. headquarters was to interpret body language. It came in particularly handy when trying to distinguish vamps from humans, though detecting lies was always advantageous. She glanced down and to the left when she lied— a classic sign for many people and overly predictable. But he wasn’t about to tell her that.

  “What’s your real name?” he asked again.

  Her jaw clenched. Her anger at her current position was apparent in her eyes, but her voice was a sexy feminine alto when she finally said, “Tiffany Solow.”

  The air rushed from Damon’s lungs as if a high-speed bullet had hit him straight in the abdomen. His head spun, and it took every ounce of self-control he had not to shake with anger. He couldn’t believe the night had actually gotten worse, although he knew he deserved the massive beating the universe had just dished out to him.

  Tiffany Solow...Mark’s baby sister. His own Achilles’ heel.

  Rochester was a huge city. Though it was her hometown, when he transferred there in order to hunt Caius, he’d hoped like hell he would never run into her. What the hell were the chances? And what was she doing hunting vampires?

  The memories flashed through his head in a nonstop pulse. His training officer’s voice rang in his ears. Brock, see a therapist or find someone to tie yourself to. Pronto!

  With no family to support him, Damon had been deemed at risk of “low morale” by the Execution Underground. They’d thought the pressure of hunting might turn him into some crazed psycho if he didn’t have someone to talk to. They covered their asses by insisting on “therapeutic ties.”

  Rather than see the resident shrink, he’d opted for Choice B: to forge a bond, anonymously, with someone outside the E.U. He’d preferred to write a few BS letters to a stranger than have the E.U. psychiatrist record his every thought. The Execution Underground already rode his ass about everything. He didn’t need them inside his head, too. And being his usual giving self, Mark had volunteered to help his best comrade and had contacted his baby sister.

  Headquarters was all about “family contacts.” In other words, they ensured that their hunters had something to live for besides the hunt alone. It was a numbers game to them. An overwhelmed hunter who committed suicide forced the E.U. to shell out money to train a replacement, not to mention compensation for the family. They were saving their pocket change.

  Tiffany was in the same age group as many of the female victims the hunters set out to avenge, so the E.U. found her an appropriate contact. Because she’d known already that vampires existed, because she’d lost her parents to a vampire attack and had a hunter for a brother, there had been no security breaches involved in writing to her. According to the E.U., it also benefited her to know there were other men out there, aside from her brother, keeping her safe at night. Damage control, really.

  Headquarters called it personalization and bond forging. He called it a load of crap. Like he’d needed any more incentive to do what he’d been trained to do. He would never forget the first letter he wrote to her.

  Tiffany,

  They say I need to write someone, so here it is.

  Yours truly,

  B

  She’d replied with an eight-page letter telling him all about her. Little did he know when he’d signed that first damn letter “yours truly,” he really would be hers. In a matter of weeks she’d clutched his heart in her hands.

  The last picture Mark had shown him of Tiffany, she’d been only seventeen, long before Mark’s death...before everything fell to shit...before she grew to hate Damon. Now she was twenty-two. He met her gaze and took in the breathtaking woman standing before him.

  Mark had loved her more than anything in the world. She had been the only family he had left, and he would have wanted her cared for, protected. Not in the line of fire of the same vampire who had killed him. Damon lowered his eyes. How could he look her in the face when he held the blame for her brother’s death? And if she knew Mark had turned...

  No. She would never know. Damon had sworn to Mark that if he were ever turned, he would drive the stake through Mark’s heart himself. A small part of him would die as he did it, but his promise stood firm. But she couldn’t know any of that, which meant he needed to get her out of Club Fantasy, away from Caius. An overwhelming need to protect her surged through him, accompanied by the desire to claim her as his own.

  No.

  Without a doubt, he could not seduce her. Not only for the sake of his job, but because he owed that much to the memory of his fellow hunter and best friend. Taking Mark’s sister into his bed? He might as well spit on his grave. Her eyes showed she didn’t know who he was. She’d never met him in person, never seen his face. There was no way she would recognize him, and it needed to stay that way. Not even his name would give him away. He was thankful revealing his full identity had been against the rules during their correspondence. He would protect her anonymously and nothing more.

  He inhaled a deep breath to cool his head. He tried not to think of how sweet her voice would sound saying his name as he drove himself into her. No. He wouldn’t get attached to anyone again, then he couldn’t fail anyone, then protocol couldn’t get in the way of relationships. Hunting, protection. Nothing more. “What are you doing here?”

  She scoffed. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? I’m here every night. You’re the new vamp on the block.”

  He growled, low in his throat like an animal. Anger boiled inside him at the accusation. “I am not one of those worthless leeches.”

  She froze. Her eyes widened. “You’re too strong to be human.” She scanned his body, her eyes stopping on the muscles of his arms, chest and abs. “Prove it, then.”

  * * *

  Tiffany stared at the stranger before her, her eyes locked on to his icy gaze. A shiver ran down her spine, but heat pooled between her legs. That alone made him dangerous.

  “Go on. Prove you’re human.” Her pulse began to race from excitement instead of fear as she challenged him. Her gut screamed not to fight him, that he was no threat to her, but the knife at her throat and the ferocity in his eyes said otherwise.

  “Just trust me on this,” he said.

  Not a chance. “Well, unfortunately for you, I don’t trust people easily.” With as much force as she could muster, she stomped on his instep.

  He didn’t cry out, but the move surprised him enough that the knife shifted slightly away from her throat. She seized the advantage and grabbed hold of his arm, pushed his sleeve up and dug her fingernails into his skin. She wasn’t against fighting dirty. Not if it saved her sorry ass.

  Her assailant didn’t even curse at the pain, only grunted in response as her sharp acrylics dug into the flesh of his arm. Blood pooled around the edges of her nails before she released him. She lunged forward, knocking into his midsection like a linebacker. Damn, that had been a stupid idea. The man was built, and running into his abdomen was like hitting her head on a solid concrete wall. That would really hurt in the morning.

  He tucked his knife up his sleeve instead of using the weapon against her. What was that about? He grabbed at her as she stumbled back, but she was short enough that she managed to duck out of his reach. He towered over her and was probably twice her weight with all the sexy muscle he was packing.

  Regaining her footing, she threw a spinning roundhouse kick. He blocked it with ease as if he often fought third-degree black belts wi
thout blinking an eye. He was fierce, no denying it. She continued going at him, throwing nonstop kicks and punches, but he blocked every one, and she was running out of options. Wait! Her gun. Her gun was lying on the floor.

  She rushed to reach the weapon. Seconds later, he loomed over her, trying to grab her. Why wasn’t he fighting back? She was sure that if he really wanted to, he could kick the living shit out of her.

  She snatched the gun from the floor, but she had no time to aim. She threw a sidekick, but he caught it, then swept her other foot out from under her. She toppled to the floor, landing with an audible oof as the wind rushed from her lungs.

  Before he could make his next move, she spun around and kicked his ankles. Pain shot through the edge of her big toe, despite her high-heeled boots; even his legs were pure muscle.

  Without thinking, she lunged into his legs, wrapping her body around his knees. He started to fall, but he caught himself and landed prepared to kick out, except that...oh, snap...she was attached to his leg!

  She scrambled backward, but he was too fast. Within seconds he was on top of her, straddling her hips and holding her hands against the ground.

  He let out a long deep growl and leaned in near her face. “Next time, I won’t hold back from hurting you.”

  The ice-cold look in his eyes showed he meant it, and she vowed to herself that there would be no next time. The man was pure unadulterated muscle and no matter how good a fighter she was, she knew when to call it quits.

  As she stared up into his eyes, she wished she hadn’t charged him, because damn it, her head hurt and her brain was sending all sorts of crazy mixed signals into parts of her body that had never been lit up before. Though he was on top of her and she was clearly in a vulnerable position, he wasn’t threatening her, just pinning her down and, oh, man, what on earth was wrong with her, because she didn’t mind one bit.

  Her gaze traveled over his rock-hard body. His chest heaved in and out from the adrenaline. Through his shirt she could see a nicely defined pair of pecs, and she knew from the pain in her head that washboard abs hid beneath.