There wouldn’t be any more. At least not for him.
Her fangs pulsed in their sheaths, and her mouth watered. The vein throbbing wildly in his neck seemed to beckon to her, but Leandra had no intention of feeding from him.
She reached out and clasped his head in her hands. As she wrenched his neck to the left, snapping it cleanly, she closed her eyes.
She’d seen too many lives ended—and each one left a mark on her. Slowly, she rose, staring into his lifeless eyes.
“He doesn’t deserve it.”
At the sound of that familiar voice, she hunched her shoulders instinctively.
What in the hell is he doing here
? she thought as she tried to relieve the tension suddenly tightening her entire body.
It wasn’t easy; all she wanted to do was get away from him.
Well, either that or jump him. Although she doubted Mike Prescott really wanted her touching him. And Leandra would be damned before she let him see he bothered her enough to make her want to run.
As he circled around her, she blanked her features and looked up at him with what she hoped was an unreadable look. “Doesn’t deserve what?” she asked.
“Your pity.” Mike nudged the dead man with the toe of his boot, his lip curled in a sneer. “I smell the violence on him. He preyed on fear.”
“Isn’t that what we do?” she asked mildly.
Mike glanced at her, his pale gray eyes glinting. “If you preyed on fear, then you would have fed. Instead, you gave him a quick, painless death.”
“What good would it do to make him suffer?” Leandra asked softly. Before he could answer, she shrugged. “Life is life. No, he wasn’t a good man; his life was a cruel waste. And I pity that more than anything else.”
More than most, Leandra understood what it was like to look back on a wasted life and see nothing but blood, evil, and lies.
Turning on her heel, she moved away, keeping to the shadows out of habit. Mike fell into step beside her, and she sent him a narrow look. “I don’t want company,” she snapped shortly.
Mike laughed. “Leandra, I don’t think you’d know what you want or didn’t want if it bit you.”
You.
That simple reply leaped to her mind, and it was all she could do not to blurt it out. Leandra hadn’t wanted much in life, but she did want him. With a violent, blinding need that was going to drive her insane before too much longer. Wearily, she sighed, looking down at her feet for a minute. Thick black braids fell forward, obscuring her face, and she absently pushed them back.
“Nobody knows what they really want in life, do they, Mike? Why should I be any different?”
YOU JUST ARE
.
Whether Leandra liked it or not, she was different. Not because of her exotic, erotic looks or because that lilting voice that made him think of beaches and sex.
But because of who she was: arrogant, proud, noble . . . compassionate. And if anybody tried to tell her she was any of those things, she’d likely laugh in their face. It was the truth, though he doubted she’d relish hearing it.
Nobody knew quite what to make of Leandra, this enemy turned comrade-in-arms. A witch who had spent half of her life serving the Scythe and now fought as a Hunter, the warriors she had been raised to hate.
She’d been born a witch and she’d die a witch. Four years ago, she’d become something more. Witches didn’t often survive the change from mortal to vampire. It was actually very rare—Leandra was the first in centuries.
Just another way in which Leandra was different. Malachi had sired her and now he trained her. Not too many others would be quite suited for the task. While Malachi wasn’t a witch, he did have powers that went beyond that of a vampire’s, so they made a good match.
It kept Mike awake at night, wondering just how true a match the two were.
Trying to shove those thoughts aside before she picked up on his mood, he said, “What are you doing around here? I thought it was your night off. Did Eli send you?”
She flicked him a glance and snorted. “Hardly. I wanted some silence.”
“And you came
here
?” Mike asked with a disbelieving laugh.
She just sneered at him. “Perhaps I should have said anonymity—and I wanted a drink.”
Mike had to smile. “You found a bit more than a drink, baby.”
Her lips pursed in a scowl Mike found adorable as she drawled, “Really?”
He started to reply, but a sound caught his ears. Sirens. Distant, but heading their way. “Hell, that was fast,” he muttered as he cupped his hand around her elbow and started to urge her into the alley just ahead of them.
She tugged on her arm and pointed down the street to a neon sign glowing. “That is where I want to go—not into another dark alley.”
She scowled, her head cocking, eyes narrowing as she picked up the sound of the siren as well. Then she glared at him, those amazing eyes sparking as though the sirens were his fault.
Still, she resisted his efforts to guide her into the alley. “Hiding in an alley is an excellent way to not look suspicious, I take it?” she drawled, looking toward the bar. “Not a dark, anonymous bar.”
Mike sighed, shaking his head. “You really want that drink, don’t you?”
Wine-red lips curled in a smile. “Yes. I really want that drink.”
So he followed her down the road, listening to the sirens as they grew ever closer. As the door to the bar swung shut behind him, he caught sight of flashing red and blue as the patrol car turned down the street.
Leandra gently disengaged her arm from his hand, and he fell in step behind her, watching as she sauntered up to the bar. How in the hell did a woman make a pair of plain old black fatigues look that good? Mike was pretty damn sure when the military designed that sort of uniform for their enlisted boys, they hadn’t counted on what a woman could do to them.
Of course, most women didn’t wear them with a form-fitting black shirt that ended inches above the waistband. It revealed a sexy, lithe abdomen with warm brown skin that looked incredibly soft.
Even the thick-soled combat boots on her feet looked sexy as hell.
Man, you got it bad.
Shaking his head, he caught up with her just as somebody tried to take the empty seat at her side. The big ugly guy was built like a brick wall, his hair skimmed back in a ponytail that revealed the snarling jaguar tattoo on his neck.
And he was studying Leandra with entirely too much interest. There was a predatory air about him, and even though Mike didn’t really sense any serious violence in the man, it pissed him off. Anybody who looked at her like that was going to piss him off. Sexual hunger and rage were a bad combination for a shape-shifter. Mike closed one hand into a fist, jerking up his iron self-control before something else started to show on his face besides the possessiveness boiling inside him.
Instead of reaching out and grabbing the man and hurling him into the street by his oily ponytail, Mike simply stared at the man for a long moment. Finally, enlightenment appeared in the guy’s murky brown eyes, and he shrugged and mumbled, “Sorry,” before disappearing into the crowd.
“You don’t understand the concept of being anonymous, do you, Mike?” Leandra drawled, studying him with pursed lips.
Lifting one shoulder in a shrug, he answered, “I understand the concept. I just don’t always see the point.” Taking the stool next to her, he met the bartender’s eyes. The old man ambled their way, limping.
“The usual?” Conrad asked, his voice raspy from years of smoke.
Mike nodded and glanced at Leandra with a raised brow. “Rum and coke, heavy on the rum,” she told Conrad.
As Conrad limped away, Leandra asked, “You come in here often?”
Mike shrugged. “Often enough. Told you I patrolled around here. I get thirsty.” And often desperate to drink her out of his mind. This was his chosen den when that was the plan. Conrad didn’t water the drinks, and the liquor wasn’t so cheap it damn near killed the lining of the stomach.
Plus it was far away from any place he had ever expected to see Leandra.
Not that it mattered much whether he expected to see her or not. He knew that. Mike saw her everywhere he went, every time he closed his eyes, every time he took a woman and pretended she was the one he really wanted.
And now every time he came in here, he had a bad feeling he was going to remember the image of her straddling the barstool, her skin smooth and dark as chocolate, that smirk on her lips as she met his eyes in the mirror hanging on the bar.
And her eyes . . . that warm, golden shade of amber, always so sad.
He’d remember that, probably more than anything else.
She had to come to his favorite dive, didn’t she?
As Conrad slid their drinks in front of him, Mike stood, intending to lose himself in the shadows and try to dull his mind a little.
But she followed him, and Mike was certain his control would snap before the night was over. He leaned against the wall, staring at the sparsely crowded dance floor as though the dancers there enthralled him.
Even through the air reeking of smoke, sweat, and alcohol, he could smell her. The stuff she used in her hair, the lotion she smoothed on her skin, and
her
, that sweet scent that was simply Leandra. She stood at his side, staring out at the dance floor as she sipped her rum and coke.
Mike couldn’t think of a damn thing he wanted more than to touch her. To caress the naked flesh exposed between shirt and pants, thread his hands through the thick wealth of braids that fell down her back . . . tear those damned clothes away from her so he could feast on that long, sleekly powerful body.
“There’s an exit at the back if you don’t want to hang around,” he said flatly. Not even ten minutes ago, he’d been dying to keep her with him for just a few minutes. But she’d always taken off running in the opposite direction after less than two. He hadn’t had to lash so tightly onto his control before, and it was tearing at him.
The hunger rising in him teased the creature that lay deep within him, and Mike found himself battling both his own lust and the driving hungers of the wolf. The wolf—that odd entity that had placed a mark on him before Mike was even born, marking him as different, giving him the power to shift from man to wolf whenever he chose.
It had been that part of him, that deep and primal part, that had recognized Leandra years ago. That last day, when she had come back to Eli’s, prepared to accept her judgment. Prepared to die.
Mike had known it then. She would be his: his mate, his woman, his partner.
Wolves mated for life, and he wanted this woman with everything he had inside him.
Getting her to understand it, though, had proven harder than hell. She wouldn’t slow down enough for him to even speak with her, much less try to develop any sort of relationship. He needed that, to establish some sort of trust. Until he had that, he really didn’t need to be touching her.
But keeping his hands off of her was a tougher job than Mike had ever imagined anything could be.
If she stayed so close, he was going to lose control and grab her. He’d been edgy all night anyway, and this was shooting his control straight to hell.
Leandra shrugged. “I haven’t finished my drink yet. And I plan on having more than one.”
Fuck. Tossing back the rest of his drink, he tossed the bottle into a nearby trash can and gave her what he hoped was a nonchalant smile. “I’ll be heading out then.”
She cocked her head, studying him with dark eyes. “What’s wrong with you?”
Mike forced a smile. “Nothing. I’m gone. Got work to do.”
As he tried to brush past her, she shrugged. “Have fun.”
But he hadn’t taken two steps before he spun back around, staring at her hungrily.
Fun . . . have fun . . .
Screw this. Keeping his distance when he’d been trying to get close to her for the past three months? Hell, the past five years.
He’d lost count of how many times he almost went after her. He’d always stopped though, a quiet little voice telling him she still wasn’t ready. If he kept waiting to see that despair fade from her eyes, he’d die an old man without so much as kissing her.
Approaching her, he had the small pleasure of seeing her eyes widen just a little as she fell back a step. “What? What’s wrong?” she demanded, and unless he was mistaken, she was suddenly a little nervous.
Mike just kept moving toward her until she had backed herself into the wall. Lifting his arms, he caged her between the wall and his body, lowering his head to breathe in the rich scent of her skin.
“You’re what’s wrong, Leandra,” he whispered, brushing his lips against the small tattoo by her eye. She hadn’t bothered to have it removed, that sign of what she had once been.
Her hands flew up, pushing him back. Mike only moved back a breath, staring down into her face as he stroked his fingers down her jawline. “You’re what’s wrong,” he repeated. “I think of you. Night and day. All the time. Wondering . . .”
Lowering his mouth, he brushed his lips against hers. She gasped, a soft, startled little sound, and her hands tightened into fists against his chest. Barely a heartbeat passed before she tried to shove him back, harder this time. Mike didn’t budge, but he did lift his head to meet her gaze. “And what do you think about? Ways to get back at me?” she demanded hotly.
Mike smiled. “No. Ways to get
to
you.” Leaning into her body, he pulled her flush against him. He cuddled the throbbing length of his cock against her abdomen and whispered, “Ways to make you feel what I feel. All I have to do is look at you, and I ache.”
He felt it—a slight tremor in her body just before she started to soften against him. Then her body stiffened and she shook her head. An odd light entered her eyes just before she lowered her lashes, shielding herself from him. “That is something that cannot happen,” she said quietly.