Page 12

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A large mountain of sailor-level profanities wouldn’t have been enough to express the deep shit Tiffany was in. Damon slumped against her shoulders more heavily each minute, quickly losing blood. He needed to get to a hospital as soon as possible. The bleeding wasn’t slowing, despite the makeshift pressure bandage she’d placed on it.

As if that wasn’t enough, pure horror clutched her hard as she stared at the familiar face looking at her from inside Caius’s Bugatti Veyron, the metallic finish of the limited-edition Pur Sang glaring beneath the orange streetlights. Damn it all to hell.

Caius had brought his chauffeur.

Carl looked at her and then Damon, taking in all the blood. His eyes widened, and she could practically see the light bulb flicker on inside his head. Once an average man who’d served as Caius’s Host back in N.Y.C, Carl flashed his elongated fangs. He’d been a vampire for two years now, and there was nothing average about him any longer.

A fiery blaze lit behind his eyes. His master was dead, and he knew it.

If Carl reported Caius’s murder to the local coven, the death would infuriate the local vamps. With every vampire in the city on their tail, Tiffany and Damon would be dead within hours. And apparently Carl knew that, as well, because he ripped his gaze away from them and shifted the Bugatti into drive.

Shit.

Damon groaned and swayed, barely holding himself upright as Tiffany released his weight. Pushing aside his leather trench coat, she snatched the Desert Eagle and her stake from his belt. She wasn’t bad with guns, but she sure as hell wasn’t a sharpshooter.

Still, she had to try.

Carefully but quickly aiming, she shot at the passenger-side rear tire, her bullet hitting the diamond-cut finish of the hubcap, before it ricocheted.

Damn.

She squeezed the trigger again, hitting closer to the hubcap.

Come on, just a little closer.

She held her arms steady as the Bugatti rounded a corner.

Last chance.

“Give it here, goddamnit,” Damon growled.

“What?”

“I said, give it here, Shortcake,” Damon snarled, reaching for the gun.

Without hesitation, she thrust it into his hand, trusting him as he had her.

Despite that he was unsteady, with one eye closed for a more accurate aim, Damon pulled the trigger for a third time.

The rear tire of the Bugatti exploded. Rubber flew in all directions. The awful scrape of metal against concrete hit her ears, more nerve-racking than nails on a chalkboard. Damon passed her the gun, and she gripped his elbow, pulling him forward, though he swayed a little.

“Come on, solider. You have to run.”

She kicked off her heels and bolted full speed toward the damaged car. Like a champ, Damon jogged behind her despite his bleeding wound. Carl threw open the door, briefly locked eyes with her, then ran full speed down the nearest alley. A grin crossed Tiffany’s face. He was fast, but not fast enough. He might be strong compared to what he’d been like as a human, but he wasn’t nearly as strong and fast as an ancient master like Caius. Having been the star of her high school track team never failed to be useful when hunting.

A loud groan echoed from behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Damon crumple to his knees. All the color had drained from his face, leaving his lips a pale white. He gasped for air. Tiffany skidded to a stop. Should she give up the chase?

The image of the victims’ mauled flesh seared its way to the surface of her mind. If she didn’t stop Carl, the news of Caius’s death would race through Rochester like wildfire, and there would be no way in hell she and Damon could ever destroy the viral bloodsuckers before the virus spread out of control.

Damon was a hunter, a member of the Execution Underground. His wounds would heal.

She ran after Carl.

Bursting into the alley, she spotted the vamp racing along the far side, in the shadow of an office building. She launched herself into a full-on sprint. The muscles of her legs burned in protest, and the freezing concrete tore through the bottoms of her feet.

But she had an advantage: Carl didn’t think she could take him.

When the leech reached the end of the alley, instead of rounding the corner onto the next block, he halted. Spinning to face her, he bared his fangs and hissed. The bastard was fooling himself if he thought she was scared. Two minutes of sitting with Caius across the dinner table was scarier than this guy threatening to kill her. The man couldn’t weigh more than one-seventy soaking wet. It wasn’t him she was scared of. It was what his words could do.

Before she stopped running, the vampire lunged. He knocked her to the ground, snapping viciously at her neck as he writhed on top of her.

Really? That was all he could do?

She jammed her elbow upward and clocked him straight in the jaw. His head flew backward, and before he could return to attack, she pulled the Desert Eagle and fired a shot straight into his forehead.

The kick from the larger-than-average gun slammed her shoulder against the pavement, and the wind rushed from her lungs. That was going to hurt in the morning. The monster screamed, falling onto the ground in pain as blood and brain fluid seeped from his head. Though the wound sealed itself within seconds, he clearly wasn’t used to being shot in the head.

Wimp.

As he clutched his healing skull, she threw her body weight forward and landed on top of him, her stake held tight. He gripped her neck, cutting off her breath and holding her off him, but not before she positioned the stake between her breasts. With all the strength she possessed, she contracted her abs and shoved the weight of her chest downward. The sharp end of the stake pierced his skin and into his flesh.

He released her throat and grabbed her shoulders to push her off, but it was too late. One more good shove and her weapon sank through to his heart. His undead body shattered in a burst of blood, and she flopped onto the concrete, her elbows scraping the asphalt, as fresh blood coated her hair, face, and dress.

For a moment she lay sprawled on the pavement. She squeezed her eyes shut. Her heart thumped, and she felt a slight soreness in her chest where she’d braced her weapon as she stabbed Carl. There was sure to be one hell of a bruise there later. The skin of her elbows burned, and she let out a small groan.

Her lids shot open.

Damon.

She scrambled up from the pavement and ran back down the alley, a small cry ripping from her lips as she rounded the corner. Damon was lying on the cold winter ground, unmoving. She rushed to his side. Her heart stopped, and bile rose in the back of her throat.

She couldn’t tell if he was even breathing.

Dislodging his arm from beneath the dead weight of his body, she fingered his wrist, searching for a pulse. A faint beat still remained, though she could tell it was quickly fading.

Somewhere in her mind, she was vaguely aware of the sound of her own screaming as she pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed 911. She tried desperately to lift him. They needed to get out of there so the cops, who were surely headed to the restaurant already, couldn’t find them. All she needed was an ambulance. Tears streamed down her face, clouding her vision.

She couldn’t think straight. Only one thought held firm in her mind.

She was hypocrite.

Because she’d left B to die....

An incessant beeping noise echoed in Damon’s ears, sounding in rhythm with every thump of his heart. The pounding in his head matched his pulse.

Man, he felt like shit.

A blinding light hovered overhead, his vision so blurred he couldn’t tell what it was. He squeezed his eyes shut. It felt as if there was tubing in his nostrils. Fuck, maybe there was. Though his arm weighed a thousand pounds, or at least it felt like it, he gripped the thin tube and ripped it away from his face.

“Damon, no!” a panicked voice cried.

The smell of antiseptic assaulted his nose. It smelled almost as astringent as a...

His eyes shot open, as he frantically scanned the hospital room. He was wearing an awful white hospital gown, barely long enough to cover his upper thighs, let alone his…

Before he could say anything, the smell of Tiffany’s vanilla perfume hit him as she threw herself into his arms, wrapping herself around his neck. The smell and feel of her against him was comforting, relaxing even, bringing to mind memories of the perfume-scented letters she’d used to send him.

Her body shook as she cried into his shoulder.

Damon blinked, taking it all in, before he gripped her by the waist and dragged her from the chair she sat in onto the bed beside him.

She curled into him, tears filling her honey-colored eyes. “I failed you. I failed you,” she sobbed into him.

“What the hell are you talking about, Tiffany?” he grumbled.

Glancing up at him, her lip trembled before she burst into another round of tears.

Damn it.

Pulling her into his arms, he cradled her against his chest.

Though she’d obviously washed herself off, her gown was crusted with blood, but damn, the slinky thing still looked good on her, even with her losing it like this. “It’s alright, Shortcake. Tell me what happened.”

“It’s alright? It’s alright?” She sputtered, echoing his words like he’d gotten it all wrong. “I nearly got you killed!”

He shook his head. He wasn’t even going to entertain that thought.

“Are you all right?” he said.

She stared at him for a long moment, her lip quivering, before she repeated, “I almost killed you.”

Okay. Clearly, they needed to address that.

He shrugged. “Oh. That.”

“‘Oh that?’ That’s it?” Tiffany nearly shrieked. “That’s all you have to say?” She wiped at her eyes frantically.

“What else do you want me to say, Tiffany?” He caught her chin in his hand, forcing her to look at him. “I forgive you. Is that what you needed to hear?”

She shook her head. “I’m just so sorry, Damon. I’m such a hypocrite. I feel like a fool. I should have known better, but the moment I get the chance, I did exactly what you—”

“Tiffany, don’t,” he said, cutting her off. Urging her to meet his gaze again, his fingers tightened on her chin once more. “You can’t do that to yourself. That kind of thinking, it…it…” He shook his head, sighing a little. “That way lies the path to madness. Trust me.”

Her eyes searched his, her lip still quivering until finally, she nodded. “After you killed Caius, you’d lost so much blood, and I…I managed to get you out of the restaurant, but then Carl was there.”

He lifted a brow. “Carl?”

“He is—was—a vampire. Caius’s chauffeur.”

“What the hell kind of a vampire name is Carl?” Damon scoffed, trying to give them both a bit of levity.

Tiffany smiled a little.

He tugged the edges of the hospital gown, making certain he didn’t expose the family jewels for all the world to see as he nudged her closer a little.

She chuckled. “Who cares how stupid a vampire name Carl is? You almost died!”

Given the pounding in his head, Damon didn’t feel in the mood to bicker. “But I’m not dead, Shortcake. We’ve already been through this.”

Swearing under her breath, Tiffany stood and paced to the other side of the room. Immediately, he wished she hadn’t. The warmth she’d provided slipped away fast, replaced by the frigid hospital air. Why did she have to be so stubborn?

He wanted her here, in bed, with him.

Now and always.

He grumbled, “If you want to make up for almost killing me, get back over here where you belong.”

Tiffany stopped her pacing, taking a good long look at him, tears welling in her eyes once more. But slowly, she crossed the room and sat back down on the bed. Before she could protest, he lifted her legs onto the mattress and tucked her against his side again. She nestled there beside him as if they did this every night. Though he couldn’t know for certain if they’d ever have that, at that moment he couldn’t bring himself to care. He wanted this. Wanted her.

“You know I’d do anything for you, don’t you?” he whispered.

“I think that’s the morphine talking.” She smiled back. The heat of her breath brushed over his chest like a soft caress.

Morphine, hmm? So that was what was giving him that relaxed feeling.

“No, it’s that dress. You’re lucky every man in this place hasn’t come on to you.” He raked his gaze over her, his appreciation lingering. “I’m way less of a gentleman than that.”

She giggled, pushing against his side, until…

Shit. He pulled the covers up to his waist. Whoever thought flimsy hospital gowns were a good idea needed a strong kick in the ass.

Though from the spark of interest in Tiffany’s eyes, she’d noticed. “I think it’s safe to say someone’s feeling better.”

He grinned, his voice dropping low. “I could make you feel better too, if you let me.”

“Down boy,” she said, the sparkle in her eyes promising to circle back to the…other part later. “Back to Carl. He would have ratted us out. And then…”

“Every vamp in Rochester would know where we are,” he finished.

“Yes, exactly.” She nodded. “Don’t worry. I staked him.”

Damon growled his approval. “Good girl.”

“But then, when I came back for you, your heart was barely beating and I…had to call an ambulance.” She twirled a single finger to indicate the room around them. “That’s how we ended up here.” She let out a long sigh. “I thought you would heal quickly—you know, with all the extra Execution Underground abilities—but you didn’t. Joseph said when Caius stabbed you he nicked your brachial artery, which is why you lost so much blood.”

Damon mulled over the current situation. Him in a hospital with all his…extra abilities was not good, and that begged the question how Tiffany had explained his injuries, not to mention what she would do about any fallout from what had happened at the restaurant.

But more importantly... “Who is Joseph?”

“A guy I knew in undergrad. He’s a couple of years older, so he’s already doing his residency. He’s kind of sweet on me.”

Damon frowned. It didn’t matter whether she was his, whether she still hated him for what he’d done to Mark or not, he still didn’t like the possibility of another men, other man who was sweet on her , being a part of her life. He loved her. Whether she realized it or not.

Which meant he had to find a way to tell her. And soon.

To summon those three little words into his throat.

He eyed the way she was nuzzling into him, uncertain how or when to find the perfect moment. But he would. For both their sakes.

“Don’t worry,” she said, misinterpreting his stare. “I told him we were mugged, but I asked him not to call the cops until you woke up. I figured if the cops showed, you’d know how to handle them, but I think we might be able to slip out of here unnoticed before they arrive. I don’t think Joseph bought the mugging explanation for a second, but he’s eager to please me. Plus, I offered him a thousand bucks to keep his mouth shut.”

Damon rubbed the base of his neck to ease the tension. “You usually have that much cash lying around, Shortcake?”

Shrinking in on herself, Tiffany looked away from him. She was flat broke, and he knew it from the way she’d talked in her letters. Most college students were. Now, with Mark dead, all she was living off was Mark’s death insurance.

She bit her lower lip. “Well...I…kinda stole it from your wallet.”

He chuckled. “Never pegged you for a pickpocket, Shortcake. I suppose when I file for reimbursement with Headquarters, I’ll make sure to list it under bribed by pint sized beauty.”

She laughed. “I prefer fun-sized,” she teased. “But then...it was my fault you were almost dead to begin with.”

An uncomfortable silence settled between them.

He lifted her chin with two fingers. “As you said, if you hadn’t brought me here I’d be dead, so I’m thankful for that. Headquarters will pay for your friend’s silence and the hospital bill. Don’t worry about it.” He paused. “Though we need to get me out of this hellhole.”

She smacked herself in the forehead. “I forgot you told me once you hate hospitals.” She scrambled off the bed and pulled out his clothes from the small closet. “Here. I made sure the EMTs didn’t cut them off.” She tossed the clothes to him.

“Thanks.”

She glanced at the floor, refusing to meet his eyes. “You’re welcome.”

He could tell she was upset, knew what was bothering her, but he wasn’t ready to allow himself to go there. Not yet. He swung his legs off the bed and stood. An IV dangled from his arm. Ugh. There was nothing worse than the poking and prodding of annoying hospital staff. Without flinching, he pulled out the needle. When he faced front again, Tiffany stood in silence, staring at him as he untied the back of his robe.

A sly grin snaked across his face. “Admiring the show?”

Her sly grin coupled with her blush was priceless. “Sorry.”

She turned in the opposite direction.

He dropped the hospital robe and examined the bandage across his shoulder. The wound beneath it was probably healing over already. With the extra help from the hospital to keep him breathing, a nick in his artery wasn’t his idea of a fun time, but he’d recover fully in a few days.

He pulled on his jeans. “You can turn around now. I’m dressed.”

Tiffany faced him, and her eyes swept over his bare chest. “I thought you said you were dressed?”

“Shortcake, you’ve seen a lot more of me than this.”

She bit her lower lip and stared at the floor again. “I know.”

As he pulled on his shirt, he eyed the beautiful woman in front of him. “Do I…look anything like you imagined?”

Her head shot up, and she gaped. “What do you mean?”

Damon rolled his eyes. “Come on, Tiff. You wrote to me for years. You’re telling me you never once wondered what I looked like?”

She shrugged. “Yeah, I…guess I imagined a few times.”

“And…?” He wasn’t certain why he was eager to know, but some deep-seated part of him wanted to. Wanted to be certain she wasn’t disappointed that he was B.

She shook her head, flustered. “I don’t know. I guess I imagined you shorter and with more hair. But I was…wrong in a good way.”

He would chop off part of his legs and grow his hair longer if it pleased her.

Anything if it’d make her happy.

That was the sort of thing he used to say in his letters. As far back as he could remember, he’d always been…reserved when it came to his relationships. Distant, even. But over time, when he’d written to Tiffany, he’d begun to confess things to her, to speak to her in ways he’d never spoken to anyone else, in ways he now knew he couldn’t speak to her in person, beyond their playful banter, of course.

At least, if his reluctance to tell her he loved her was any indication.

No, not reluctance. That wasn’t the right word. He just…

Wanted to find the perfect moment.

Wanted to be certain he deserved her.

“What about you?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts. “Am I anything like you imagined?” He smiled a little. In his head, he told her she was more gorgeous than he could possibly have imagined, that the soft curls of her hair and the honey color of her eyes rivaled the divine, that every time she smiled it did things to him. Made him know joy.

“Well?” she prompted when he stayed silent for a beat.

“Better,” he said. “So much better. Though Mark had showed me a picture from a few years back.”

Tiffany looked as if she were about to be hit by an oncoming train. “No. You don’t mean the one he carried in his wallet, do you? The one where I’m wearing the—”

“Grumpy Bear Care Bear T-shirt,” he finished.

She groaned, blushing instantly. “If Mark were here, I’d smack him upside the head for showing you that. What an awful photo.”

He chuckled. “You always look beautiful to me, Shortcake.”

Her gaze shot toward his, the weight of everything they’d both left unsaid heavy between them.

“I guess with Caius dead that means….” She lowered his gaze at last, and something flickered behind her amber irises, something he couldn’t identify. But she didn’t need to say it for him to understand.

I guess this is goodbye.

Damon cleared his throat, trying to remember exactly why they were doing this.

Her safety and her happiness , that was why.

And with Caius dead, would she even want the kind of life he had to offer her? He couldn’t be certain.

“Let’s get you home, Shortcake.”