The Warrior Vampire(6)

Okay, buddy, get your shit together.

Name? Ronan Daly.

Age? Well, the age on his ID stated his was thirty-three. In reality, he was much, much older. Centuries older. But that he knew this fact about himself was a good sign. He hadn’t completely lost his mind.

Focus on the present. Don’t think about the manacles on your wrists. Location? Crescent City, California. He’d come to the city from Los Angeles. On business? No. His reason for being here was personal. Fog settled on his brain, the fire in his throat choking him. His secondary fangs punched down from his gums and Ronan could think of no time that he’d ever felt so desperately starved for blood.

What was he here for? Who?

Ronan shook his head as if he could rattle the information loose. A face loomed in his memory, one with flawless dark skin, deep brown eyes, and a fierceness that made him mad with want. Was she the reason he’d left L.A.? Or the reason he was going out of his fucking mind tied to this bed? Hell if he knew.

Okay, moving on … Whereabouts? Ronan slowly lifted his head and took in his surroundings once more. A bedroom, too lived-in to be a rented room but not lived-in enough to be a permanent residence. The furniture—including the bed he was chained to—looked custom-tailored to whoever lived here. Nothing hanging on the walls, though. No personal photos on the dressers or end tables, but no generic aesthetically pleasing art, either. The entire space was pretty drab, actually. Sort of utilitarian, and didn’t give him a clue as to where he was. Whereabouts: undetermined.

Situation? He tugged the chains securing him to the headboard and winced at the searing heat of silver against his skin. Probably hostile.

All right, so Crescent City. When did he get here? He could remember driving into the small town under the cover of night, but that was it. Everything between then and now was a dark haze in his memory.

The doorknob turned and Ronan made his body go completely slack. He closed his eyes and focused his breathing so it would be deep and even. The hinges creaked as the door edged open and the near-silent whisper of footfalls on carpet made his stomach coil into a tight knot. He let his senses do recon on the situation as his captor advanced. The footfalls were too light for anyone of substantial size and sounded more like tennis shoes or bare feet than the heavy thud of a combat boot, which didn’t rule out Sortiari involvement, though he’d yet to see a slayer pad around in bare feet. If Ronan could manage to free himself, he had no doubt he could at least physically overpower his captor. He’d take what he could get at this point. It might be the only factor to swing in his favor.

Ronan took a deep breath and held it for a brief moment. The scent that filled his lungs reminded him of the forest after a heavy rain. Clean. Naturally sweet. It stirred his body into awareness, and remaining still became much more of a problem than it had previously been. Gods, that delicious scent. It drove him out of his fucking mind. He wanted to bury his face in it. Roll around on it. He wanted to drink it. Thirst punched at his gut, scoured his throat, and Ronan swallowed against the sensation. How long had it been since he’d fed? His heart still beat, his lungs still functioned, so it couldn’t have been too long ago. But the scent invading his nostrils now made his entire body ache with bloodlust.

The urge to crack his lid and steal a peek was overwhelming. An impulse built inside of him, one that, once unleashed, could do some serious damage. And hell yeah, did he want to do some damage. But he’d spent years squashing that impulse, trained too well to act rashly. To fight blindly. He refused to lose control. It didn’t matter if his situation was dire and his existence might very well be in danger. And so he swallowed down that impulse that was as much a part of him as his own limbs—and waited.

Something cracked in front of his nose a split second before the noxious odor hit him. Too bad he was already conscious, because that smell made him wish he were passed the fuck out. He jerked his head away from the smell and let it loll to one side as if he were just barely coming to. The sound of a heavy sigh gave him another clue to his captor’s identity: too light and airy to be male. Situation? Too soon to tell, but maybe not altogether hostile.

A dazed moan escaped Ronan’s parted lips. His acting skills were killer. The soft staccato of a toe tapping on the carpet broke the silence, followed by the sound of liquid being poured into a container—great, now he had to take a piss—as his kidnapper took a long swig of something. The suspense was killing him, and so he cracked one eye, just in time to see a sheet of water splash down on him. He gasped at the icy chill, choking as it splashed up his nose. Yeah, so not the wake-up call he wanted.