Oh, God … what if she were mated?
“She is not Selena.” iAm’s face was grim. “I don’t care who she looks like, this is not your dead mate coming back to you.”
Therese stood just inside the bustling kitchen and wondered whether or not she should leave.
She had found the job opening on a closed Facebook group for vampires only and had emailed in her résumé. She had also applied for two other positions, one at a human call center on the night shift, and the other for a company that needed data processing, which she could do from home. Out of the three, this waitressing gig had been her first choice, because the call center had no guaranteed income and the data processing was going to be tough because the rooming house she was staying in, which was all she’d been able to afford, didn’t have Wi-Fi.
It barely had running water, for godsakes.
Staring down at the floor, she thought about that giant male fainting right in front of her, landing where she’d been standing. Unbelievable. And whereas the drama would ensure she was remembered by the restaurant’s owner, it wasn’t for any reason that would help her get the job.
Not unless he was looking for people who inspired others to lose consciousness.
With a frown, she pictured the male who’d hit the ground, his face, his eyes … his body. He’d been really extraordinary. But a crazy attraction to a guy who couldn’t stay upright was not what she had come here for. A job. She needed a job so that her savings, slim as they were, would not get burned out before the end of the month.
There was no going back to where she’d come from. No returning to Michigan—
The owner came around the corner and took a deep breath. “So, listen.”
“I don’t want to be a problem or anything.” Even though she didn’t know what she had done exactly. “I can, you know, just go.”
The owner looked away, seeming to focus on the lineup of chefs making ambrosia at the stoves. “It’s not your fault. My brother … he’s been through a lot.”
“I’m so sorry.”
The owner rubbed the top of his head, his nearly shaved hair not realigning itself in the slightest. He was a Shadow, just like his brother—well, duh—with those beautiful Shadow features and that dark skin. But it was the other one she wanted.
Wait. Not that she wanted him.
“Is he going to be all right?” she blurted. “It looks like he might need a doctor.”
“We have a private one he can go to.”
Therese lifted her brows. “Oh.”
“It’s just, you look like—”
The male in question entered the kitchen. God, he was so big, with shoulders that were heavy with muscle, and a chest that was padded with strength, and legs that were long and powerful. Handsome? Yup. Like, really good looking, with those lips, particularly the lower one, and that face with that deep-colored skin. He was dressed in white slacks, a gray silk shirt, and a black suit coat, and he looked … expensive and sexy—jeez, those loafers were so fine they had to have cost more than her room rent.
For, like, half the year.
His eyes, though, his eyes were what truly got her attention. They were dark as night, but hot as fire—and he was staring at her like she was the only thing that existed in the world … which didn’t make a lot of sense. She wasn’t bad looking, but she was no beauty queen, and she wasn’t dressed up or anything.
“Can I just … speak with you for a sec?” he said.
Not a demand. Not at all. In fact, there was an ache to his voice that suggested he was at her mercy in some way.
“Ah … one of your pupils is a different size.” Therese pointed to the left one. “I think you need a doctor more than you have to talk to anybody out of a set of scrubs.”
“Fine. Will you take me to Havers’s?”
“Who is he?”
“Our healer here in Caldwell.”
Therese blinked. “I don’t have a car.”
“We can take his.” The male nodded at his brother and put his palm out to the guy. “Gimme the keys.”
The restaurant owner rolled his eyes. “No, I’ll drive you—”
“That’s okay,” Therese found herself saying. “I don’t have any plans for tonight, and in a weird way, I feel kind of responsible.”
Later, she would wonder exactly why she stepped up. After all, the guy could have been a stalker ID-ing his next target, some kind of mentally unstable whack job in a city where she knew no one and had nobody to turn to if she got herself in over her head.
But her instincts told her she was not in danger.
Of course, it turned out that that assumption was wrong, although not because he presented any physical threat to her. No, it was damage of another sort that he eventually brought.
Sometimes, though, for destiny to work, it had to make sure you were blind going into things. Otherwise, you would turn your wheel and hit your brakes … and avoid your fate like the plague.
“Perfect,” the male said in a low voice. “That’s just perfect.”
TWENTY
As Vishous stood over Layla and Xcor, he was losing his goddamn patience. Which was kind of like a thief ditching his scruples: not a lot to let go of. But whatever.
“Layla,” he commanded, “get the fuck out of here. Right now.”
From Xcor’s vantage point on the forest floor, the enemy fighter said, “Leave, my love.”
“And do it proper, true.” V couldn’t believe he was backing up that fucker on the ground. “Go all the way back to the safe house. He’ll know how far you go, and I will ask him.”
“Please spare him,” Layla said as she rose to her full height. “Please …”
V slashed his gun through the air with impatience. “Worry about your kids, female. Not the likes of him.”
In the end, Layla did what was right—because at her core, she was a female of worth: After a last lingering stare at the bastard she loved, she nodded once and closed her eyes. It was a while before she dematerialized, but that was to be expected. Emotions were running high. At least in the two of them.
V? Tight as fuck, thank you very much.
When the Chosen was gone, V focused on the piece of shit at his feet. “She out of here?”
Xcor shut his lids. “Yes, she is away a vast distance. She has honored your request.”
“You lie to me, and you’re only screwing her.”
“Truth is the only currency for me the now.”
“Well, ain’t you a rich sonofabitch.”
As Vishous knelt down, his boots and jacket creaked in the cold.
“I am ready,” Xcor mumbled.
V flashed his fangs. “I don’t give a fuck how you are, asshole. And I don’t need your permission to put a bullet in your head.”
“Yes, you are correct.” The male met V’s stare steadily. “You are in charge here.”
With his free hand, V took out a hand-rolled and put it between his front teeth. And he meant to light it. He really did. Yup … he was just going to light it and then put a fucking lead slug into Xcor’s frontal lobe on the exhale.
Yup. Uh-huh …
Yeah.
Some moments later—hell, maybe it was better measured in years—he put his gun away and removed his lead-lined glove, pulling the thing free finger by finger. The glow his curse let out was so bright he got a Mr. DeMille close-up on Xcor, and V’s first thought was shiiiiiit, he better hurry up if he wanted to kill the fucker. Bastard made Vincent Price look like the poster child for a tanning franchise.
Bringing up his deadly little friend, V lit the end of the hand-rolled with his middle finger and inhaled.
What the fuck was he doing here?
Or not doing, as was the case.
Hello? he wanted to say to his nut sac. Granted, there was only one ball in there, but usually aggression was not a problem for him.
And yet here he was, completely surrounded by him not shooting Xcor in the skull.
Bad, bad, bad … this was bad.
And then things got worse.
Without allowing himself to think about what he was doing, he extended his curse over the naked, dying male, and ordered the energy to flow out of himself and into Xcor. In response, waves of heat pulsated over the almost-corpse, the snow not so much melting from the body as withering away like paper curling back from open flame.