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Carla shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her hip jutting out in a way that makes my mouth water. She crosses her arms over her chest, pushing her breasts up, though I doubt she realizes the effect.

I smooth my hand over my beard, watching Carla’s eyes follow the movement.

“Our latest innovation combines traditional barriers with magical reinforcement, creating a defense system that adapts to the specific threats it encounters. The more it’s tested, the stronger it becomes—not unlike supernatural beings themselves. ”

Her eyes narrow slightly, skepticism clear in those vibrant green depths. I find myself wanting to prove her wrong, to show her exactly what I’m capable of. To demonstrate my mastery not just of technology, but of her body.

“It’s quite remarkable,” I continue, warming to my subject. “The system learns from each attack, developing countermeasures specific to the threat. We’ve successfully neutralized everything from radical human assaults to rogue supernaturals attempting to breach protected areas.”

The phone on one of the desks rings, but no one moves to answer it. The tension in the room is too thick, too potent to be interrupted by something as mundane as a telephone call. After four rings, it goes silent again.

“I’ll need to properly assess the problem at the border before I can offer a specific solution,” I continue, watching how Carla’s eyes track my every movement. “That’s why I’m here—to see firsthand what we’re dealing with. Every situation is unique, requiring a customized approach.”

Carla looks to Damon and shakes her head, a curl falling across her face.

She pushes it back with a quick, irritated gesture.

“I don’t think technology will solve the problem at the border.

The radicals are becoming more resourceful, developing weapons specifically designed to counter supernatural abilities.

How is your tech supposed to stop that?”

Her dismissal of my expertise lights a fire in me. Who does she think she is? Damon called me here precisely because she couldn’t handle the situation. The audacity of this woman to question my capabilities when her own have clearly failed is infuriating—and strangely arousing.

“Damon asked for my assistance because the current security measures—your measures—clearly aren’t working,” I say, my voice hardening as I step closer to her.

Close enough to smell the sweet peach scent more strongly, but not so close as to invade her personal space.

Not yet. “Perhaps it would be best if you took a step back and allowed me to complete my assessment without your biased assumptions getting in the way.”

Her eyes narrow dangerously, flashing with a fire that matches the heat building in my core. “You’re an asshole.”

I laugh, genuinely amused by her directness. Most people, even supernaturals, tend to dance around my ego, aware of my power and position. Not this woman. She calls it like she sees it; consequences be damned.

“I’ve heard that many times over the centuries, so it must be a fact,” I reply, enjoying the way her nostrils flare slightly with anger.

Kade laughs at her, and I look to Damon for a moment.

He’s just grinning at me, amusement dancing in his eyes.

What the hell is going on? Is this some elaborate game they’re playing?

I decide to steer the conversation in a different direction, genuinely curious about this unfated witch who’s gotten under my skin so quickly.

“What coven are you from?” I ask Carla, studying her face for any sign of deception. Witches tend to be deeply connected to their covens; their power often tied to their familial lines.

“I don’t have a coven,” she answers, her voice cooling. “I’ve spent centuries in the shadows, but I’m a Blackwood witch. I’m not formally connected to any coven, though.”

Surprise ripples through me, genuine and unfiltered. The Blackwoods were legendary—one of the most powerful witch bloodlines in history, rivals even to the Baileys. I’d heard stories of their power, their ability to harness natural magic in ways that defied conventional understanding.

“I thought all the Blackwood witches were dead,” I say, reassessing her with new eyes. This explains the unusual power I sense in her, the ancient quality that seems at odds with her youthful appearance.

Damon chimes in, “You’ve been out of the loop since you refuse to join us on Wintermoon. There are more living Blackwood witches on record now.”

I look at Carla again, amazed and intrigued. The pieces start to fall into place—why Damon would call on me for help despite having a Blackwood witch in his ranks. Why she might be struggling with border security despite her heritage.

“This is interesting. And will be fun. Working with a Blackwood witch...” I pause, my curiosity piqued. “But if you’re a Blackwood, why do they need my help? You’re supposed to be from one of the most powerful bloodlines in existence, aside from King Amir.”

Her eyes flash, a flare of green fire that seems to light her from within. I’ve hit a nerve, touched on a hidden insecurity. “Are you calling me weak?”

I don’t answer, and my silence seems to irritate her even more.

I watch the emotions play across her face—anger, embarrassment, defiance.

For some reason, her irritation turns me on.

The flush rising in her cheeks, the subtle quickening of her breath.

Who is this woman, and why does she have such an effect on me already?

Through the station windows, I can see the tourist area of Wintermoon—streets, quaint shops designed to look like something from a fairy tale.

Humans wandering around with cameras and souvenir bags, gawking at supernaturals performing minor magical feats for their entertainment. It confirms everything I’ve ever thought about this place—a zoo where the exhibits have convinced themselves they’re free.

Damon cuts in, sensing the growing tension between us might escalate beyond productive.

“Carla, why don’t you take Amari to the borders for a quick assessment and explain the situation?

” He looks between us, his expression unreadable.

“After that, you’re both required to report to King Amir’s palace for a briefing. ”

Carla looks to Damon with a groan, her shoulders slumping slightly. “You seemed to have left out that particular detail.”

Damon frowns at her, something passing between them that I’m not privy to. “You can’t keep avoiding the palace, and I know why you’ve been doing it.”

Carla huffs in frustration, her eyes narrowing at him. I don’t know what this is about, but Carla seems pissed at Damon. I’ve never seen a woman stand up to him like this, with the exception of Kade.

“Very well,” I say, then look at Kade. I can’t resist needling her a bit more. “I’ll be staying on the Community Lands for a week. I’d like to meet your fated mate as well as Damon’s while I’m here.”

“Hell no, you aren’t getting anywhere near my woman, you womanizing asshole,” Kade snaps, her fangs flashing briefly.

I laugh at that, genuinely entertained by her protectiveness. As if I’d be interested in someone who’s already claimed. But her reaction betrays old wounds, old conflicts between us that have never fully healed.

I eye Carla up and down, making no attempt to hide my appreciation as I lick my lips.

My gaze lingers on the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts, the column of her neck where I’d love to sink my fangs.

I cannot wait to bite into her juicy ass.

And I will—it’s only a matter of time. She holds an attraction to me, and that’s all that matters.

“If you want to feed,” Damon explains, his tone shifting to business, “the nightclub here on the tourist island never disappoints with women willing to offer themselves.”

Carla cringes at that, a brief flash of disgust crossing her features. Interesting. Does she disapprove of the feeding arrangements, or is she jealous at the thought of me with other women? Either way, her reaction pleases me.

“Keep your feeding business off Wintermoon,” Damon adds, his voice laced with a subtle warning. “Human women aren’t allowed off the island.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. More rules, more restrictions—exactly what I expected from this place.

“I’ve only been on Wintermoon thirty minutes, and already, so many laws and guidelines for the gilded cage,” I comment, watching Carla’s reaction carefully.

Her face shifts with irritation, the freckles across her nose seeming to darken against her skin. “Gilded cage? This isn’t a cage—this is a sanctuary. A home where supernaturals can be free.”

I raise an eyebrow at that, unable to let such a naive statement go unchallenged. “You entertain humans like a zoo exhibit for the price of this sanctuary. Wintermoon is, in fact, a cage. Supernaturals should be living amongst humanity, not caged off for their entertainment.”

My words hit her hard—I can see it in the way her jaw clenches, the slight flare of her nostrils. She opens her mouth to say something snarky back, her eyes flashing with indignation.

Damon cuts in before she can respond, likely sensing the argument could go on for hours. “How about that assessment before sundown?” he suggests, gesturing toward the door.

I narrow my eyes at Carla for a moment, finding her maddening yet irresistible at the same time.

I do not like the emotions this woman is drawing out of me, yet I can’t seem to stop yearning for her, and I barely know her.

There’s something about her that gets under my skin, makes me want to both dominate her and please her simultaneously.

I sigh and fix the cuffs on my suit, then flash to the door with my vampire speed and push it open for Carla. The movement is fluid, practiced—a display of power and grace that I know impresses most women. “Shall we?”

Carla looks between Kade and Damon, who simply shrug at her, offering no salvation from my company.

Damon pulls out his coin and flips it, the silver spinning through the air before landing in his palm.

It’s a gesture I’ve seen thousands of times over the centuries—his way of saying fate has decided.

“Go on,” he says, a cryptic smile playing on his lips. “You’d be surprised. You have more in common than you know.”

Carla rolls her eyes at that, then lets out a sigh of resignation. She grabs her sheriff’s jacket from a hook near the door, mumbling, “This is going to be a long-ass week,” as she walks past me.

The scent of peaches intensifies as she passes, and I have to suppress a groan of desire. She leads the way out of the station, and my eyes immediately fall to her ass, watching it bounce with each step she takes. The jeans hug her curves perfectly, outlining every delicious inch of her.

I look back at Damon with a wink, then follow after Carla, closing the door behind me.

By the end of this week, I’ll have that peach spread wide open on my tongue—whether she likes me or not. And something tells me, beneath all that attitude and defiance, she’ll like it very, very much.