Predatory (Immortal Guardians #3.5)(64)

As the two sank to their knees, clasping their throats, Richart approached the last vampire.

He had caught the woman a few Dumpsters down, shoved her up against the wall, and sunk his teeth into her neck.

Richart swept over to the vampire’s side. The tip of his dagger pricked the skin above the vamp’s carotid artery.

The vampire froze, eyes darting toward Richart.

“Release her and back away,” Richart advised quietly.

The vampire tightened his arm around her torso and slid one hand up to grasp her chin. Fangs receding, he murmured, “Draw another drop of my blood and I’ll break her neck.”

As Richart watched, the boy backed away with the woman. One step. Two.

Richart remained still, biding his time.

Three more steps. The vampire shoved the woman at Richart with a touch of preternatural strength and took off, his form blurring as he fled into the night.

Richart stumbled backward and wrapped his arms around the woman to keep her from falling.

Clinging to the front of his shirt, she buried her face in his chest. “Is he gone?”

“Yes,” he responded, surprised she was so coherent. When vampires and immortals turned, glands formed above the retractable fangs they grew that released a chemical much like GHB under the pressure of a bite. So she should be slurring her words.

Hell, he was surprised she still stood.

“What about the others?”

“They’re gone,” he assured her. Or they would be soon. A quick glance confirmed that they were shriveling up like mummies as the virus, unable to heal their wounds fast enough to keep them from dying, devoured them from the inside out in a desperate bid to live. By the time it finished, nothing would remain of them save the clothing and jewelry they wore.

Weaving on her feet, the woman straightened and looked up at him. She couldn’t be much more than five feet tall and he was six foot one. “Y-your eyes are glowing.”

Her pupils were dilated, blocking out almost all of the pale green, leaving only a few flakes of brown.

Richart retracted his fangs. “Yes. I know it looks bad, but—”

She shook her head. “I think they’re beautiful.”

Was that the drug talking? Or did she really think so?

“You saved me,” she said, awe and gratitude in her melodic voice. Loosening her death grip on his shirt, she cupped his face in both hands.

His heart skipped.

When was the last time a woman had touched his face so tenderly?

When was the last time a woman had touched him at all? Other than his sister punching him in the shoulder, doing her damnedest to kick his ass when they sparred, or doling out a hug here or there, he honestly couldn’t remember.

“Thank you,” the woman whispered. Rising onto her toes, she drew his head down and brushed her lips against his.

The contact hit him like an electrical shock. His heart began to pound as she tilted her head and increased the pressure, brushing, stroking. She combed her fingers through his short, black hair, sending shivers through him.

He parted his lips, met her tongue with his when she boldly thrust hers forward.

Pure heat.

She leaned into him, clutched him tighter.

His body hardened. His breath shortened. His arms tightened around her.

Her knees went limp. Her lips tore away from his as her head fell back. Her eyes closed. Her mouth hung open, lips pink from kissing him.

Richart stared down at her as his pulse pounded in his ears.

Yeah. She was out.

Damn it. That had been the best kiss he’d had in at least a century.

And damn him for enjoying it. She was drugged, out of her senses. She wouldn’t even remember any of this when she woke up.

Sighing, he examined her neck to make sure she wasn’t bleeding from the vampire’s bite, which would soon heal and fade. He checked her pulse to ensure she hadn’t lost too much blood, then gently folded her over his shoulder.

Since he was finished hunting for the night, he would see if he couldn’t clean up this mess himself instead of calling in the human network that aided Immortal Guardians.

Opening the purse she had dropped, he drew out her keys and wallet. Her driver’s license yielded a name and address. He smiled. Jenna McBride. With her red hair and freckles, it suited her.

Thirty-seven years old.

Really? He would’ve guessed mid-to-late twenties.

Tucking the wallet away, he studied the keys. There weren’t many. Just a generic car key with no alarm to guide him to the right car in the parking lot, two door keys, and a worn Shrinky Dinks keychain that looked as if it had been fashioned by a child.

Was she married?

No. There had been no ring on her finger when she had clasped his face. And the vampires hadn’t stolen it. The only things they had desired were her blood and fear.

It doesn’t matter if she’s single. She’s human. You’re immortal.

No shopping bags littered the ground. The two employees taking a smoking break outside the superstore had worn the same color shirt and pants the woman did, so she must work there.

“Let’s get you home,” he murmured and raced around to the front of the building. So swift the surveillance cameras would only catch hazy movement that would likely be mistaken for a dust devil, Richart sped up and down the rows of vehicles until he came to an ’80s economy car that bore Jenna’s scent on the door handle.