The Breed male stood in the wide entryway of the living room. He was immense, as all of their kind were. Light brown hair was slicked back off his angular face, his hooked nose and sharp chin giving him the appearance of a sneering bird of prey.
Scythe might have blown the bastard’s ugly head off his shoulders if not for the fact that the male had a nasty looking 9mm trained on Chiara.
“Apparently, I’ve come late to the party.” The Breed male’s voice was thick with his Italian accent. A dangerous combination of menace and lust blazed from within his narrowed eyes. “From what I see—and smell—the little bitch who fought me off like a screaming banshee last week is just a common whore. One who’ll spread her legs for virtually anyone. How disappointing.”
Scythe’s urge to fill the vampire’s skull with lead was nearly overwhelming. But this asshole didn’t matter. He was the walking dead; he just didn’t realize it yet.
All that mattered was making certain Chiara stayed out of the other male’s reach.
Scythe kept his own weapon and his gaze rooted on the intruder. With his free arm, he subtly motioned for her to come to him. She edged over, and he smoothly swept her behind him, using his own body to shield her.
He was prepared to use his last breath and heartbeat, if it meant the difference between her life and his.
A sneer thinned the other male’s lips as his gaze lit on Scythe’s maimed arm. “She screeched and struggled with me, yet she let a gimp like you fuck her?” He scoffed. “Was it out of pity, or just poor taste?”
Scythe muzzled the growl that gathered at the back of his throat. He wasn’t going to rise to the bait. Killing this pathetic excuse for a male would be a pleasure, but he hadn’t forgotten his promise to help the Order collect vital intel. His first, most important priority was the one huddled at his back, but duty bound him to do whatever he could to assist his brother and the other warriors.
He glowered at the hulking male, both of them caught at an impasse between the business ends of their weapons. “What kind of sick bastard makes a habit of terrorizing defenseless mothers and children?”
The sneer turned even darker. “One who means to have vengeance.”
“Vengeance.” Scythe hissed the word. “What the fuck does this woman have to do with that?”
“She owes me. She owes me for what I lost because of her. A new life for the one she took. Whether that’s her life or the sons I mean to plant in her as soon as I shackle her to me by blood, I don’t really give a damn. But I will collect.”
“He’s insane,” Chiara gasped. “I never saw him before he broke in here last week. I have no idea what he’s talking about.”
“You should step aside,” the male warned, fire flashing in his eyes. “I don’t intend to leave here without her this time.”
Scythe met the sparking animosity with fury of his own. “You’ll have to come through me first.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
Scythe’s senses stirred abruptly, jabbing through the veil of his concern for Chiara. He had been unable to recognize the threat of her assailant in time enough for her to get away, but this was even worse.
“Scythe!” Her scream pierced him to his marrow. The air went acrid with the scent of another Breed male, poised to attack and moving in on them from behind.
Scythe swiveled his head, turning his body to meet this new threat, even though he knew the inattention to the enemy in front of him was liable to cost him dearly.
And it did.
The second male fired his gun. The shot rang out and Chiara’s pained cry felt like a bullet ripping through him instead of her. She went down. The scent of her spilling blood staggered him. It shredded him.
He roared, pulling the trigger on his semiauto and bellowing as the rounds made hamburger of the shooter’s face and skull.
He heard other gunfire around him, smelled the pungent odor of smoke and heated metal—and blood. His own and Chiara’s. But in those frantic seconds, all he saw was rage. Red, blinding rage.
When he pivoted to deliver the same lethal fury on the first male, he found nothing but empty space. The son of a bitch had fled.
Chiara moaned.
He dropped down beside her, relief washing over him to see that she was alive.
“Scythe.” Her beautiful brown eyes flipped open, searching for him.
“I’m here, love.”
“The other male—”
“Don’t worry about him. He’s gone now, but I’ll find him. I won’t rest until I do.”
He smoothed her hair from her face, cursing when he saw the smear of blood he left on her brow. He’d been hit, too, evidently. Not that he gave a damn about that.
Chiara was injured. Safe for now, but bleeding from a gunshot wound in her shoulder. Fury coiled in his gut. He would eviscerate the male who got away. If he had his choice, he would make the pain last a lifetime.
She winced and reached over to her wounded shoulder. The sleeve and front of her sweater were scarlet with spilled blood—a good deal of it his.
“Lie still,” he said, but she ignored his order, already pushing herself to a sitting position.
“I’m okay.” She frowned as she covered her wound with her hand and looked up at him. “It hurts, but I’ll be—” Her face paled. “Oh, my God. Scythe, you’ve been shot too.”
He shrugged, wholly unconcerned with his own injuries. That is, until he glanced down and realized the extent of them.
Bullet holes pierced his bare chest and torso in several places. Those were problematic enough. But it was the gunshot wound that had ripped into the biceps of his left arm—his only fighting arm—that made a cold worry settle in the pit of his stomach.
“I’ll live,” he assured her. That much he was certain of.
But given that he hadn’t fed in a full week?
His healing would take time he didn’t have. Dawn would be breaking in a few hours, but he had no idea how he was going to manage to protect Chiara once night fell again and the Breed male bent on his private vengeance came back to take what he thought he was due.
Because Scythe had seen the determination—and the madness—in the vampire’s eyes. He was gone for tonight, but not gone for good. He would return for Chiara, and when he did, Scythe knew the son of a bitch would not be coming alone.
Chapter 10
Chiara sucked in a hiss of pain as she reached into the cupboard for a coffee cup that next morning. The bullet graze could have been much worse, but it still hurt like hell. Her shoulder felt as if it had been used as a punching bag, then lit on fire just for good measure.
But as uncomfortable as she was, she knew it was nothing compared to how Scythe must be feeling.
The sight of him last night, bullet-riddled, bleeding—all because of her—was something she would never forget. She could never repay him for how he’d protected her from the madman who was holding her responsible for a crime she couldn’t understand.
Scythe had been willing to give his life for her last night; she had no doubt.
God, he almost had.
He was Breed, so his advanced physiology meant he could heal from all but the most catastrophic injuries. Gunshot wounds to the body were rarely fatal, but it would take time and blood to heal them.
Scythe had neither.
He had dismissed her concern last night, insisting on cleaning up the mess from the confrontation and then disposing of the body outside so the rising sun could ash the remains. He had refused her help in dressing his wounds, assuring her that he’d dug plenty of bullets out of his body before. He argued that he had patched himself up hundreds of times in the past and that last night was no different.
Except it was.
She knew it, even if he refused to admit it.
Scythe hadn’t fed since the night they left Rome a week ago. For a Gen One, even without the gunshot wounds to contend with, he was treading dangerously close to the edge of depletion.
She heard his deep voi
ce in the other room, so she poured a cup of coffee and padded out of the kitchen in her sleep shirt and pajama bottoms to find him. His phone pressed to his ear, he prowled the living area like a cat in a cage. He was showered and dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, a fresh bandage on his left arm. From across the room, she could see a small red rose of blood already seeping through the clean white wrapping.
He glanced her way as she stepped into the room. His brows were furrowed, his mouth bracketed with deep lines. A lot of the color was faded from his face, making him look stark and sallow, even though he was still formidable and easily the most brutally handsome male she’d ever seen.
Once his onyx eyes fixed on her, they stayed rooted there, inky dark and grave. Impossible to read. “I’ll call again when things are in motion on this end, Trygg. Expect to hear from me within the hour.”
“You called the Order,” she said as he ended the call.
“Yes.” He slid the phone into his pocket, his voice edged with an odd resignation. “They needed to be apprised of the situation.”
She nodded. She couldn’t deny feeling a vague sense of relief to hear that he wasn’t going to let pride or any other foolish idea keep him from enlisting the warriors’ help. “Will we be returning to Rome, or will the Order be coming here?”
“Neither.” The answer made her heart lurch. “The warriors have a Rogue problem in Florence that’s grounded them all in that city until nightfall tonight. But I didn’t ask them to come here. This fight is mine now. As for you, you’ll be going back to the Order’s command center without delay. The daylight will be your best protection until you reach Rome.”
“What?” No. Everything inside her rejected the idea. She didn’t like this plan at all. She didn’t like the grim finality of his tone. “What about you?”
“I’m going to finish what I came here to do.”
She set her cup down on the nearby bookcase, bristling and defiant. But she was terrified too. Not so much for herself, but for him. “You’re in no shape to do anything. Scythe, you were shot multiple times last night. Your left arm took the worst of it. I realize you’re a big, strong Hunter who’s probably seen more combat and violence than ten other Breed males put together, but this is crazy. My God, this is probably suicidal.”
He grunted in dismissal of her concern, turning away to inspect the arsenal of firearms and blades that he’d assembled on the surface of the bar.
“You won’t be ready,” she argued. “Your wounds won’t heal that fast and you know it. You need rest and you need to feed—”
“Trygg is arranging to send a blood Host from a neighboring town to service me.”
Chiara staggered, absorbing the news as if she’d been punched in the stomach. Feeding from a human was as routine for him as her morning coffee was for her, but this felt different. This felt like a goodbye.
This felt like rejection of everything they shared.
She had no claim on Scythe; she knew that. But after they’d made love last night, after they’d let each other into their pasts, into each other’s hearts, a part of her belonged to him. A part of her had belonged to him even back in Matera—this lethal assassin with the haunted eyes and the core of honor he didn’t understand that he possessed. A part of her had loved him from the moment he’d given Pietro that carved stone lion.
So now, as badly as he needed nourishment, the thought of him feeding from someone else—male or female—tore something loose inside her.
Whether he understood how viscerally it affected her or if he felt the same way, too, she couldn’t be sure. But Scythe’s expression hardened, his gaze finally breaking contact with hers.
“I don’t want you to be here when the Host arrives,” he murmured, staring at the floor. “Now that it’s morning, it will be best if you leave the villa as soon as possible.”
“No.” At her sharp reply, his head snapped up. She ignored his furious scowl, glaring right back at him. “No, I won’t. This is my home. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Chiara, I don’t need you here—”
“Yes, you do.” She stepped forward, not stopping until she was standing right in front of him. “You do need me here, Scythe. And I’m not going to run away while you try to gain your strength so you can fight a battle that belongs to me. Not after what we shared last night.”
As much as she loathed the thought of him putting his life on the line for her, it terrified her to think that he would do so at anything other than his physical best. Human blood would ease the pain of his hunger and nourish his body, but it wouldn’t heal his wounds. Not fast enough for him to fight.
Anger flared in the dark pools of his eyes. “I’m not asking for your agreement on this.”
“No,” she replied. “And I’m not asking for yours. I’m not leaving you. I won’t let you take a human’s vein when I know that a Breedmate’s blood—my blood—is the only thing that will truly heal you.”
He reared back on his heels, uttering a tight curse. But even as he did, she could see the bright white tips of his fangs already stretching from his gums.
She saw the torment and the want—the thirst—in his anguished face.
As much as he needed the gift she was offering, they both understood what drinking from each other would mean. One taste of her blood on his tongue would bind him to her for as long as they both lived. There would be no other woman for him, Breedmate or human. He would crave only her. And if she drank from him, the same would be true for her. They would be bound eternally. Unbreakably.
“You need to go, Chiara. Damn it, you need to go right now.”
The words were like gravel, jagged and rough, but the look in his eyes... it was pure, desperate desire. There was no hiding his fangs now. They gleamed razor-sharp, filling his mouth.
A grimace twisted his handsome, tormented face. Growling something low under his breath, he turned away from her and went back to preparing his weapons for the battle that would be coming all too soon.
“I won’t go,” she said, resolve taking root inside her. “I won’t leave you. I’m not going to walk away when I’m the only one who can truly help you right now.”
She picked up one of the blades on the table. There was no question as to what she intended to do. Not a shred of doubt or apprehension in her mind.
She sliced the dagger across the soft flesh of her wrist.
Scythe’s hiss was even more pained than hers. He wheeled around as the first scarlet drops swelled from her open vein. His eyes seared her, ablaze with amber light, his face contorted with shock and anguish.
“Damn you, woman.” His low voice didn’t sound like anything from this earth. It was as dark as she’d ever heard it. So deadly it sent a shiver through her bones, into her veins. If she had forgotten how lethal this Gen One Hunter was, his face and voice were stark reminders now.
She had enraged him, possibly even earned his hatred with this impulsive act. But she didn’t tremble. She didn’t shrink away, not even when he stalked toward her, radiating a fury she’d never felt or seen in him before.
She held her bleeding arm out to him, her eyes fixed on his. “Take it, Scythe.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.” His scowl deepened along with the otherworldly edge of his voice. “You’ll be trading one unworthy mate for another. I’m no better than Sal.”
“Yes, you are.” She shook her head, tears stinging the backs of her eyes. “You are worth ten of him. You’re so much more than that, Scythe. You are the kindest, most honorable man I’ve ever met. I’ll never know a man as noble or courageous as you. I’ll never want anyone more.”
He made a sound somewhere between anguish and denial. “Chiara—”
She silenced his mounting protest with a kiss, then drew back from him, extending her arm between them. Blood splashed onto the floor, pulsing from her opened vein. “It’s yours, Scythe. Just as I am... if you want me.”
His large hand closed around her wrist, his nostrils flaring
as he held her in his grasp. He shook his head, his eyes hot with need and hunger and something deeper.
“My brave, beautiful Chiara,” he muttered. “God help you if you want me as much as I want you.”
He brought her wrist to his mouth. Then he sealed his lips over her opened vein and began to drink.
Chapter 11
Scythe let out a helpless groan as the first taste of her coursed over his tongue.
For all his tough talk and self-castigation, this female was the one thing that truly made him weak. She wrecked all of his defenses, tore down all of his walls. Her beautiful heart and fierce courage left him vanquished, just as surely as her blood was making him strong, healing the damage of his flesh and bones.
In truth, she was healing him in ways far more profound than that.
She was his. Even before he’d taken her vein to his mouth. In his heart, she had been his all along. And now it was real. Now, it was forged in blood.
Breakable only by death—his own, or hers.
He’d never had better reason to keep breathing than he did now.
And he would not fail her.
He couldn’t live with himself if he did.
She moaned as he suckled her wrist, his throat working greedily, drawing her in vitality, her life. Her love.
As incredible as it felt to know that her cells were feeding his, it was the taste of her affection toward him—the stunning depth of her emotions—that was the most powerful revelation.
She loved him.
He felt it through the new bond that was taking root between them. His emotional and psychic link to her gained more strength with each heartbeat. Her blood was alive in him, infusing his body with energy so intense he could feel it streaking through him like lightning. It was her energy. Her essence. It throbbed deep into his marrow and into his senses, a strange, vibrant hum that grew stronger with each sip he took from her.
He had never experienced anything so awe-inspiring, so humbling.