Vampire Hunter: Shadow Hunter. Anna Hackett
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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 without 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