To the usual suspects: Haden, Seth, Chloe, Riley, Victoria, Nathan, Meg, Parks, Lauren, Stephanie, Brittany, and Brianna. What can I say, guys? In a world where I am Queen Decision Maker, fangs sprout. Claws grow. Dark descends. Youâre welcome.
Once again to The Awesome, editor Natashya Wilson, for her brilliant insight and dedicated beyond-the-call-of-dutying. Yes, I just made that entire phrase a verb. Not once did she freak out when I said, âI donât know. Iâll figure it out later.â (Which pretty much sums up my writing process.)
To the wonderful folks at Harlequin, who took me in and made me one of their own!
To P.C. Cast, Rachel Caine, Marley Gibson, Rosemary Clement-Moore, Linda Gerber and Tina Ferraro for helping me run the Unravelled puzzle contest last year. Such a blast. I owe you, ladies!
To Pennye Edwards, the best mother-in-law a girl could have. Honest to God, she kept me sane while I was writing this book. Well, as sane as a girl like me can be.
To my Love Bunny. When I locked myself in my writing cave, he made sure the beast was fed. Even if he had to slide the food under the door and run for his life.
To Jill Monroe and Kresley Cole. If I wasnât already married, and they werenât already married, Iâd marry them. For reals.
And this time, Iâm not going to dedicate the book to myself, but to LâOréal hair colour (medium to dark brown). After writing this book, I needed this miracle worker more than ever.
ADEN STONE STARED DOWN at the girl sleeping on the rocky dais. Long hair the color of a wintry midnight, dark yet glimmering like the moonlight on snow, spilled over slender shoulders. Spiky black lashes cast shadows over high, model-sharp cheekbones. Lush pink lips glistened with a sheen of moisture.
Heâd watched her lick those lips several times, and he knew. Even lost to slumber as she was, she scented something delicious and craved a taste.
Taste ⦠Yes â¦
Her skin was snow-white yet constantly flushed a deep rose in all the right places. Not one flaw did she possess. Not a single line or wrinkleâeven though she was over eighty years old.
Young, for her kind.
She wore a tattered black robe that draped from just under her arms to the tips of her toes. Or would have, if she hadnât rucked the material up one of her legs. The slender limb was bent and angled outward. A feast for his gaze, perhaps even an I-want-you-to-drink-from-the-vein-in-my-thigh invitation.
He should resist.
He couldnât resist.
She was the most beautiful female heâd ever seen. Fragile-looking, dainty. Like a priceless piece of art in the one and only museum heâd ever toured. The curator had slapped his hand for trying to touch something he shouldnât.
No need to guard this one, he thought with a small smile. She could protect herself, snapping a manâs neck with a single twist of her wrist.
She was a vampire. His vampire. His sickness and his cure.
Aden placed one of his knees on the makeshift bed. The T-shirt that stretched underneath the girl, cushioning her ever so slightly, snagged underneath his weight and pulled tight, rolling her in his direction. She didnât moan or utter a breathy sigh as a human might have done. She was quiet, eerily so. Her expression remained the same: serene, innocent ⦠trusting.
You shouldnât do this.
He was going to do this.
He wore a pair of ripped, bloodstained jeans. The same jeans heâd worn the night of their first date. The night his entire world changed. She wore the robe and nothing else. Sometimes their clothing was the only thing that kept them from doing more than drinking from each other.
Drinking from each other. Or âfeeding.â So mild a word for what happened. He would never purposely hurt her, but when the madness came upon himâhell, when the madness came upon herâaffection was forgotten. They became animals.
You shouldnât do this, what was left of his conscience repeated.
One more drink, and Iâll leave her alone.
Thatâs what you said last time. And the time before that. And the time before that.
Yeah, but I mean it this time. He hoped.
Once, he would have been talking to the three souls trapped inside his head. But they werenât inside his head anymore, they were inside hers, and heâd reverted to talking to himself. At least until the monster awoke. An honest to God monster, prowling through his conscious, roaring, desperate for blood. The monster the sleeping girl had inadvertently given him, the monster responsible for his new favorite sportâjugular tapping. Then he didnât talk to anyone at all.