Page 50 of Bound in Blood (Vampires of Boston #1)

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H e watched from the shadows across the street from the bar as his entire grand plan unraveled.

He’d been standing outside for hours, but the cold hadn’t bothered him in decades, and it wasn’t planning to start now. There was blood drying on the collar of his coat—not his. Human. Alluring. The scent curled in his nose like a promise.

It belonged to the man currently unconscious against the brick wall of the alley.

The vampire— not the one he wanted to see—walked out of the bar with the feral clinging to him. Quiet. Controlled. Docile, even.

Not so feral anymore.

A sigh ghosted past his lips. Not quite disappointment. Not quite regret.

Something colder.

What a waste. All that chaos. All that glorious, beautiful destruction. Snuffed out by something as insipid as love. As a mate bond.

Primitive.

He should have expected this. He had expected this, hadn’t he? Nothing ever went the way he wanted. The second that Feral locked eyes with the Russian, he softened. Turned pliable. Peaceful.

Useless.

He looked down at the unconscious human again.

Still breathing. Damaged, but intact. His pulse fluttered as his temperature began to spike. He’d stop struggling after he’d been force-fed his first taste of blood.

Good. He’d be much easier to transport now that he wasn’t squirming.

He hadn’t meant to take him. Not really. He’d been here to recall his Feral, but second he’d gotten close enough to grab him and try again another day, the desire to steal the human had devoured him whole.

Now, he was back at square one.

Square negative one, really. A new pet took time to train.

But he’d been angry for eighty years, and he could be angry for eighty more.

Whatever it took.

This wasn’t part of the plan. None of this was. But perhaps it was the start of a better one.

The tattooed degenerate on the ground was important to the boy. That much was clear. And well-trained with a blade, at that.

Even better.

The feral meant nothing to the boy. But this one had employed the human. Broken bread with him. Spared him when he shouldn’t have.

So when he fell, when he was turned and twisted and brought to heel, the victory would be so much sweeter.

There would be no inconvenient sentimentality this time. No muddy bond or emotional loyalty. Not if he was right.

And he was always right about these things.

No, the next time he came at the twins and their little mate , he wouldn’t have to rely on ferals or bloodlust.

He’d have something sharper.

Something personal.

Something fate-bound to him.