The Warrior Vampire(5)

She had no idea why, but magic always pooled in the hands of the experienced and inexperienced alike. Amethyst light leached from his pores like sweat, dripping thick and sludgy before pooling at his feet. His fingers curled and Naya could tell from the set of his jaw that his teeth were clenched tight. This wasn’t the typical theft-gone-wrong she was used to seeing. The magic’s tune was now in perfect pitch, the purest melody she’d ever heard. But despite that, this guy was in serious trouble. Scared shitless or at the very least hurting like a sonofabitch.

Crouching low, she continued toward him. Her eyes watered from the power leaching out of him. She’d never felt anything like it in all her life. And she’d been around the block a few times. Her heart pounded in her chest and emotion swelled like a rising tide: anticipation, excitement, and … tenderness. A moan escaped his lips and he fell to his knees, dropping his hands onto the wet asphalt. The glow of magic spread out around him in a perfect circle like he was bleeding the stuff, and he threw back his head while he panted like a wounded animal.

Holy shit. What in the hell was she looking at here? Before she could answer that question the mystery guy hopped up from the ground like his ass was on fire. And made a beeline straight for her. May the goddess forgive her … she stood there like an idiot and just watched him advance.

Time seemed to slow and she saw the whole damned thing as though she were nothing more than a spectator. Water splashed out from beneath his feet, his head tucked down as he ran. He hit her in a football tackle, shoulder to her stomach, arms wrapped tight around her waist. It barely registered when he spun, cradling her against his chest as he took the brunt of the fall. Shit, she was dazed out already by the power the guy was throwing off. Forget keeping her balance. Her eyes opened slowly after impact, her lids dragging across her eyeballs, which felt as though they were floating around in her skull. She met his gaze nose to nose, his bright green eyes boring into her with an intensity that stole her breath.

“Protect. You. Naya,” he gasped before losing consciousness right on top of her.





CHAPTER

2

Fuuuuuck. Hangovers were a bitch.

But the way he felt wasn’t the result of going out and getting shit faced the night before. No, this was something else entirely. His lids dragged across his eyes, the room swimming in and out of focus. Where was he? The last thing he remembered …

Shit. What in the hell was the last thing he remembered?

As he shook off the dregs of what had to have been the most hard-core bender of his fucking life, he pulled his shoulders forward and met with resistance. Panic surged within him as he realized that his wrists were bound, his arms stretched high above his head and secured to a sturdy metal headboard. The flesh at his wrists, encircled with silver cuffs, was burned, and raw. He was so godsdamned weak that lifting his head from the pillow took more effort than he had to give. Son of a bitch. Nothing like waking up in the middle of your worst nightmare.

The low thrum of his pulse rushed in his ears and his vision darkened at the periphery as he was overcome with an emptiness that pressed his spine right down into the fucking mattress. Endless and dark, the sensation sucked at the center of his chest like an open wound. And on its heels, a burning thirst scorched the back of his throat. Fuck, he was going to pass out again. A haze clouded his brain, and for a moment nothing mattered more than abating the thirst and want that consumed him, causing his body to tremble.

Focusing his breath, he managed to slow his pulse and quell his panic, if only slightly. He needed a calm head if he was going to get himself free. His head bobbled on his neck as he lifted it to look down at his feet—yup, awesome—secured to the footboard with gods-damned chains and cuffs. Several more deep breaths helped to calm the panic that once again stirred his pulse to a frantic rhythm. The loss of control in this situation, the thirst that consumed him, the inability to move or free himself made him feel like bursting right out of his skin. Deep breaths. This is nothing. You’re fine. Don’t jump to conclusions. Chill the fuck out.

He let his head drop back to the pillow—damned thing felt like it weighed a thousand pounds—and closed his eyes in hopes that it would stop the room from spinning. Whatever had happened, it must have been one hell of a night. The deep breathing helped as much as focusing his thoughts. Already his pulse began to slow, and the urge to mindlessly thrash against his bonds abated.

First things first, try to get his head in order. Then he’d worry about the chains. Unpleasant memories washed through his thoughts, pulling him back into the past like a riptide dragging him out to sea. Leave the past in the past. You’re not in that place; you burned it to the ground. No, he wasn’t in that damned room, bound, beaten, and held prisoner by those who sought only to exploit him. But he was still chained, still a prisoner, only in an unfamiliar place. The pounding behind his eyes wasn’t helping him to focus. At. All. His brain felt like someone had spun it around a blender set to “liquefy.” Stay in the present. Worry about now. Details of the previous night seemed to float just out of his grasp, like a word at the tip of his tongue.