• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Well, wasn’t this a bitch.

Fucking Lash . . . she was so going to murder him for this. Not for what she was going through, but for the position she’d put John in.

“I’m sorry,” she groaned. “I shouldn’t have started it. I’m really sorry.”

When she was able, she stopped in front of the dresser and looked into the mirror that hung on the wall. John had gotten up while she paced and gone to stand before the sliding glass door, his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw clenched hard as he stared out into the night.

“John . . . it’s not you. I swear.”

As he shook his head, he didn’t look at her.

Scrubbing her face, the silence and strain between them amplified her urge to run. She just couldn’t deal with any of this, with what she was feeling and what she’d done to John and all that shit with Lash.

Her eyes went to the door and her muscles tensed for her exit. Which was straight from her playbook. For all of her life, she had always relied on her ability to ghost out of things, leaving behind no explanations, no trace, nothing but thin air.

Served her well as an assassin.

“John . . .”

His head swiveled around and his stare burned with regret as she met it in the leaded glass.

As he waited for her to speak, she was supposed to tell him it was best that she go. She was supposed to toss over another limp-ass apology and then dematerialize out of the room . . . out of his life.

But all she could manage was his name.

He pivoted to face her and mouthed, I’m sorry. Go. It’s okay. Go.

She couldn’t move, though. And then her mouth parted. As she realized what was in the back of her throat, she couldn’t believe she was going to put it into words. The revelation went against everything she knew about herself.

For God’s sake, was she really going to do this? “John . . . I . . . I was . . .”

Shifting the focus of her eyes, she measured her reflection. Her hollowed cheekbones and pasty pallor were the result of so much more than lack of sleep and feeding.

With a sudden flash of anger, she blurted, “Lash wasn’t impotent, all right? He wasn’t . . . impotent—”

The temperature in the room plummeted so fast and so far, her breath came out in clouds.

And what she saw in the mirror made her swing around and take a step back from John: His blue eyes glowed with an unholy light and his upper lip curled up to reveal fangs that were so sharp and so long they looked like daggers.

Objects all around the room began to vibrate: the lamps on the bed stands, the clothes on their hangers, the mirror on the wall. The collective rattling crescendoed to a dull roar and she had to steady herself on the bureau or run the risk of being knocked on her ass.

The air was alive. Supercharged. Electric.

Dangerous.

And John was the center of the raging energy, his hands cranking into fists so tight his forearms trembled, his thighs grabbing onto his bones as he sank down into fighting stance.

John’s mouth stretched wide as his head shot forward on his spine . . . and he let out a war cry—

Sound exploded all around her, so loud she had to cover her ears, so powerful she felt the blast against her face.

For a moment, she thought he’d found his voice—except it wasn’t vocal cords making that bellowing noise.

The glass in the sliders blew out behind him, the sheets shattering into thousands of shards that blasted free of the house, the fragments bouncing on the slate and catching the light like raindrops. . . .

Or like tears.

FORTY

Blay had no idea what Saxton had just handed him.

Well, yeah, it was a cigar, and yes, it was expensive, but the name hadn’t stuck in his head.

“I think you’re going to like it,” the male said, shifting back in a leather armchair and lighting up his own stogie. “They’re smooth. Dark, but smooth.”

Blay flicked up a flame off his Montblanc lighter and leaned forward for the inhale. As he took the smoke in, he could feel Saxton focusing on him.

Again.

He still couldn’t get used to the attention, so he let his