The Warrior Vampire(32)

“I should apologize.” The charge of energy that had sparked between them evaporated into an awkwardness that settled over Ronan like a black cloud. It ignited his already-volatile temper and he swallowed the emotion down, stuffing it to the soles of his feet. “I’ve never let magic control me like that and I won’t let it happen again. I’m sorry.”

She was fucking apologizing to him? As though what had happened between them was some shameful thing. The Collective scratched at the back of Ronan’s mind and he pushed at the memories that threatened to crest over him. A blood exchange between a tethered pair was sacred. An act that always accompanied sex and was meant to solidify the bond between them. Had she been a vampire or even a dhampir, Ronan would have offered his vein to her in his eagerness to sustain his mate.

She wasn’t a vampire, though. Just another obstacle that lay between them.

“Don’t apologize.” Ronan would be damned if he let her see how deeply her words cut him. “Let’s just get a move on. We’re wasting time and burning night.” He pushed himself from the couch and stalked toward the door, his jaw welded shut. Trothed to a female he couldn’t escape and tethered to another who wanted nothing to do with him.

“Sure, let’s get moving.” Naya gave him a nervous smile that didn’t shine past her lips. “We’ll pick you up a few T-shirts on our way through town.”

Fuck it all. What was the use in having his soul returned to him only to feel it crushed beneath the weight of his many disappointments? Oblivion would be a relief in comparison to the pain he felt now.





CHAPTER

9

Christian Whalen paced outside of the director’s office, waiting for the imperious bastard to grant him entrance. It was easier to get an audience with the goddamned Pope, and Christian should know: He’d done business with the Vatican a couple of times. He flipped the bird to the two guards flanking the door and they each took a step in as though he’d actually try to muscle his way past them. Whatever. Like he’d waste his time with a couple of powerless pussies like them.

He was too antsy to sit down, so while he paced he checked the spread for the upcoming LSU/Georgia game on his phone. If he laid down his bet by the weekend and if LSU’s defense could actually pull their weight, he might make a shit-ton of cash. A familiar tingle danced across his scalp and down his spine, the urge to make the wager like an itch he desperately needed to scratch. If he won, the high would be triple since the spread was so wide. If he lost … eh, it’d sting. But he’d make it up on the next game. Winning and losing didn’t matter as much as the high he felt just taking the chance. Placing a bet was like walking through an alligator-infested swamp. Blindfolded. He felt a trickle of adrenaline just thinking about it.

“Christian?” The director’s secretary poked her head out of the door. “He’ll see you now.”

Goody. Christian gave the secretary a flirtatious smile and raised both of his hands to the guards, giving them each the finger one more time as he walked past them. They actually thought they had a sweet gig standing in front of a door all day. Morons. Jesus, the director was so paranoid that Christian hadn’t even been allowed to wait in the small foyer where the director’s gatekeeper answered phones and directed calls. Christian wondered how much longer it would be before the director’s gatekeeper’s gatekeepers had gatekeepers. Jesus.

“Moneypenny,” he said with a wink in his best James Bond British accent as he sauntered past the secretary’s desk and into the director’s office.

“What is it, Christian? I’m busy.”

The director of the Sortiari didn’t even bother to look up from his computer screen as he addressed Christian with less-than-casual disinterest. And why should the director give a shit? He’d been sitting in his ivory tower while agents like Christian risked their necks out in the field. Tristan McAlister had become obsessed over the past couple of years, stationing guards all around him and going nowhere without an armed escort. He used to be a damned good leader, but that was before a simple rumor reduced him to nothing more than a paranoid shut-in. The guy hears one little rumor about his impending death and turns all single-minded, I-don’t-give-a-fuck-about-anything-except-for-finding-my-rumored-killer obsessed. Death threats or not, if he was that uptight about it he should have resigned from his position a long time ago.

“It’s been over three weeks and Gregor hasn’t checked in,” Christian said. “There’s no trace of him or any of his men anywhere in the city.”