Page 3 of Savage Thirst

This isn't how vampires act when they think you're under their influence. They bite and feed. They don't draw it out like a goddamn seduction.

His lips linger, his breath warm against my skin. He's savoring the moment, not rushing it. That's my window. He's distracted. Vulnerable.

The nightshade spray is tucked in the hidden pocket of my dress. All I have to do is reach…

His teeth graze my neck, and a full-body shiver crashes through me. Not fear, because I know how fear feels all too well. It's anticipation, ecstatic and dangerous.

My fingers tighten around the spray bottle, but I don't move.

I feel his fangs, razor-sharp tips, breaking skin.

Then, a slow pierce. A sharp sting. My breath catches in a choked whimper, the sound raw and strangled.

What the hell am I doing?

Kayden pulls back slowly. Blood smears his lips. My blood. His eyes clouded with something I can't read, search mine.

"You're not…" he starts.

I move.

The spray hits him full in the face—thick, concentrated nightshade, strong enough to bring down an ancient vampire like a drugged bull. He jerks, stumbles, and collapses, body hitting the floor hard, limbs slack, eyes rolling back.

I press on the ring.

Seconds later, the door slams open.

Darlene barrels in first, with Johnny right behind.

"He bit you," Darlene snaps, voice sharp with fury at him. But I feel the burn of guilt because I was the one who let him.

I've never let a target kiss me, let alone bite me. That rule exists for a reason. Vampires can tell when something's off—that I'm not human.

Tonight, I broke both rules.

"Yeah," I mutter, hopping off the ledge. My fingers brush the bite—two small punctures, already starting to close. "Doesn't matter."

I stare down at the vampire sprawled on the floor, still gorgeous even while unconscious.

"Let's get him out of here," Johnny says, and we start moving.

We fall into the usual routine, dragging out a "drunk friend," all laughter and half-hearted apologies. No one questions two women hauling a glassy-eyed guy out of a club. Not in L.A.

Johnny's already got the car running. We shove Kayden into the backseat between Darlene and me. I keep the nightshade spray clutched in my palm, just in case. But considering the dose I hit him with, he should be out for at least a few hours.

The drive to the shipping yard takes just under thirty minutes, even with traffic. Our target site is one of the prepped containers, gutted and rigged for blood extraction.

The car rolls to a halt. A rusted metal door swings open, revealing fluorescent lights, medical gear, two bulky men—Piotr and Konstantin—and the nurse, Vanessa, already gloved up and scowling.

"Took you long enough," she mutters, grabbing the catheter and blood bags without looking at me.

The two goons say nothing as they strap the vampire into the chair, chains clinking as they lock him in place. They don't speak much. When they do talk to each other, it's in some old Slavic dialect that sounds like curses.

"He's the oldest target we've pulled," I say, defensively, without meaning to be. "We had to be careful."

Vanessa snorts. "Sure. Careful. Sipping cocktails and dancing. Some of us have been stuck in this damp box for hours." She preps the draining gear with practiced hands. "I hate L.A."

Darlene observes with focus, her jaw clenched tight. "This is not a vacation. It's a job."