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D amon held the Desert Eagle steady. “Don’t move.”

The bass of the club’s music thumped distantly, the dark shadows in the room obscuring his view. Damn it. The evening wasn’t exactly going to plan, but he knew better than to let an opportunity pass when it was presented to him.

And she’d made herself such easy bait.

“Drop the weapon,” he ordered.

With slow, tentative movements, she spread her arm to her sides, so he could see the firearm. She released the gun’s magazine, and it fell onto the floor before she dropped the gun.

“Good.” He pushed the barrel harder against the base of her skull. If he was going down this unexpected road, at the very least, he would leverage it to his advantage. “I want names,” he growled. “All the higher-ups in the Rochester coven.” It wasn’t a formal introduction to the new city he found himself in, but it was a start.

She turned her head, glancing over her shoulder at him. “Fuck off, asshole,” she snarled.

Without warning, she spun out of range, grabbing hold of his hand and digging her fingernails into his metacarpals. He dropped his gun, surprise causing him to miscalculate.

Shit.

His weapon clattered onto the floor. The sound of the club’s music covering the commotion.

Even through the darkness, the haughty, satisfied look that crossed her face betrayed her. She thought she’d disarmed him.

But two could play at that game.

Damon smirked, chuckling to himself as he lifted one dark brow.

“Impressive.” He grinned. Quickly regaining the upper hand, he drew his switch blade, watching as her eyes grew wide. “But you’ll have to do better than that.”

“Fuck,” she muttered.

Surging forward, she threw a roundhouse kick.

But he blocked the blow from his face. “That the best you’ve got?” He huffed, placing his knife hand over his heart. “I’m disappointed. Truly.”

“Quit playing and fight me, asshole,” she snarled, throwing another kick.

This one was twice as strong as the last. Thanks to her fury.

But he swatted her blow away easily.

“Better,” he growled. Though still not enough.

He had to admit. He was impressed.

Whoever she was, she could pack a helluva kick.

She was trained, strong. Far stronger than she looked, but she also wasn’t even half his size. She’d need to do a lot better than that if she expected to pull one over on him. She threw another vicious sidekick, this one narrowly missing his nose, but he ducked at the last second. She rounded, following through as she tried, and failed, to punch him in the balls.

He frowned.

How come it was always the small ones who were the feistiest opponents?

“That was a cheap shot, and you know it.”

“Says the pretty boy who can only block me,” she shot back.

Pretty boy?

He scowled. “Fine. You asked for it.”

Side-stepping, he caught her on the next kick’s rebound, grabbing hold of her leg, before he twisted. She kept her guards up, but her stance was way too open. With her balance lost, she let out a sharp shriek as she stumbled, but he was there to meet her, catching her mid-fall.

Just as he pushed his blade against her throat.

“Motherfu—”

“Are you finished?” he snarled, making sure she felt the blade’s presence.

Not enough to make her bleed, just enough so she wouldn’t forget it.

She went still in his arms.

Good. At least he had her attention now.

“If you want to live, this time don’t make any sudden movements. Got it?”

She swallowed hard, before she gave a reluctant nod.

Slowly, he backed her into the corner nearest the light switch, uncertain of his next move. She was no vamp, that was for sure, not with those shoddy but well-intended moves, yet her amateur training meant she likely wasn’t your run of the mill human either. Maybe a shifter? Though she wasn’t nearly strong enough for that. If he got lucky and she was angry or afraid enough, her irises would reveal the true answer to him.

“Turn around.”

She did as she was told, and he pushed her body against the wall with his own, the dagger still at her throat. With his free hand, he did a quick frisk, checking her for more weapons, before he flipped the light switch.

Then wished he hadn’t.

Damon’s breath rushed from his lungs, his heart skipping several beats as adrenaline kicked into his system like a lightning strike. In an instant, every inch of his skin electrified. He was a live wire, all senses enhanced and awakened from their deadened state.

He knew that face.

Had dreamed of it so many times that he almost felt the urge to shake himself to see if he was truly awake.

Tiffany Solow. Mark’s baby sister.

His own fucking Achilles heel.

His gaze raked over her, his cock growing hard as the sweet scent of her perfume hit his nose. No. No. It couldn’t be. Clearly, he was seeing things. He’d only ever seen her in pictures after all, known her through their letters. But fuck, she smelled good. Like baked cinnamon apples, autumn spices, and vanilla. Sweet and desirable. He reached out, his hand poised to brush over the curve of her cheek.

Until she promptly spit in his face.

“You’ve gotta be fucking me,” he snarled, frustration tearing through him.

A smug grin curled her lips. Lips that were far too kissable if you asked him.

He raked a rough hand over his chin, wiping the spittle away, before he pushed closer, his free hand coming to her throat. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why not?” She lifted one dark brow.

A prolonged beat passed, the air between them thick with tension as she gazed up at him.

They were no more than an inch apart, the rise and fall of her chest matching his own. If he wanted, all he’d need to do was close the distance.

His gaze fell to her lips.

“You gonna kill me or kiss me, asshole?” She lifted her chin in defiance.

A devious smirk twisted his lips. “Haven’t decided.”

She blinked. Clearly, she hadn’t expected him to call her bluff.

“Kiss me and I’ll bite off your lower lip,” she snarled, quickly recovering. Though even as she said it, she leaned a little closer, drew a little nearer. Enough that it almost felt like she was asking him to.

This time, it was her turn to glance at his mouth.

“Would you?” He cast her another playful grin. Obviously, he wasn’t the only one affected by this little game. “I might be willing to risk it, are you?”

His gaze fell to her lips once more.

So close he could feel the warmth of her breath on his face.

He inched closer.

“I don’t know you,” she whispered, calling uncle as she stayed him with a single hand to his chest.

The words were enough to still him.

Did that mean she didn’t…

No, of course she didn’t recognize him.

He growled, the realization returning some sense to him. He’d won their little game of cat and mouse, but somehow, that didn’t thrill him. He stepped back a little, offering some of the space between them. “You’re right. You don’t.”

She glanced to his knife, clearly thinking about running again. He scowled. Didn’t she realize her every emotion, her every feeling played out on her face?

It was the only reason why he couldn’t look away.

Why his heart was racing inside his chest.

Or so he kept telling himself.

“Try that little escape attempt again and see what happens.” He pushed the blade a little harder against her throat. A harsh reminder of who was in charge here.

A sharp intake of breath tore from her lips, and then…she whimpered.

Fucking whimpered.

Guilt shot through him, instantly making him regret the decision.

As if she hadn’t just spit in his face, and then called him an asshole.

“Fuck me,” he swore under his breath. This. This was why he’d never fought a woman he cared for before. When push came to shove, as soon as she shed a tear, he became a weak link.

But she didn’t miss a beat. “Is that an invite?”

“It depends.” His gaze dropped to hers once more, his voice going low. “Do you want it be?”

This was insanity. Pure fucking insanity.

Who was this woman? This fierce, trained little spitfire who was unafraid to play wicked games with dangerous men in the dark.

Surely, not his Tiffany.

Staring up at him, she watched him with wide, weary eyes, assessing his every move. “You don’t want to hurt me.”

She said it slowly, as if she were testing the truth in the words.

He stared down at her for a long beat. “No, I don’t.”

His gaze fell to her lips once more, before he shook his head, trying to rid himself of this spell.

What the fuck was wrong with him? He’d never been one to be distracted by a pretty face, though he was certain this woman was more gorgeous than anything he’d ever laid eyes on. Tiffany was no young girl anymore, that was for certain.

Her thick, dark brown hair fell just past her shoulders, and from that alone he recognized her as the woman from the bar earlier. His eyes trailed over those gorgeous locks, which stopped just above a pair of small perky breasts that were pushed against him. Fuck, she felt amazing pressed beneath him like this.

Lithe and strong, yet soft in all the right places.

But it was her eyes that really did him in. Large and honey colored. Rimmed with dark layers of full lashes so familiar that staring into them felt like coming home. Though they’d never even been in the same room before, that didn’t matter.

His heart knew her.

Even if she didn’t recognize him.

Yet. That single word pulsed through him.

He swallowed hard. “You going to make this easy or difficult?” he asked, though he was afraid he already knew the answer.

Is that an invite?

Her earlier question lingered between them.

She gazed up at him. A slight hint of fear showed behind her irises, mixed with that stubborn drive to fight, and he immediately hated himself for being the one to put that fear there. She didn’t need to respond for him to decide the answer himself.

Difficult. Always fucking difficult.

His gaze raked over her. God, she was gorgeous. Breathtaking, really. Everything he’d ever wanted and more, but…

He cursed silently. What were the chances?

He shook his head. No, it couldn’t be. No way was he this lucky. Fate didn’t give second chances. Not to men like him.

A sudden thought came to him unbidden, like someone had doused him in something cold.

Maybe she was a vamp.

Vampiresses were impressive beauties. Maybe this was some kind of screwed up vampire trickery, some seductive glamour projecting the deepest longing of his heart. It wouldn’t be beyond a powerful vampire to fuck with a hunter’s head.

But if it really was her…

No.

He snapped his attention into focus, coming back to himself. The sight of her Mark of Caine would shock him back to normal. To the version of himself that had little interest in women when there was a job at stake—and there always was, especially now.

At least ever since she’d refused to return his letters.

“Turn,” he said, making a rotating gesture with his free hand.

When she didn’t move, he increased the pressure on her neck further. “I said, turn around.”

“The back door’s off limits, buddy. Don’t get any wise ideas.” With a glare in her eyes, she cast him an expression that was pure snark before she turned away from him.

He bit his lower lip, trying hard not to encourage her.

Definitely not his Tiffany. Right?

He needed to get this over with quick.

Locking his arms around her, he pressed her back against his body, ensuring she couldn’t escape. He held the knife to the front of her throat and forced her against the wall.

If the mark was there, he wouldn’t hesitate to use the necessary force to get answers from her. Then, female or not, he would do what he had to do.

His gaze trailed the length of her spine, searching for the telltale mark, but soon he caught himself admiring the curve of her ass, the way her round bottom rubbed against him. Fuck. What kind of spell was this? Had he ever wanted a woman this badly? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been interested in sex.

Not since her at least.

No distractions, he reminded himself.

Careful to keep his hands to himself as much as possible, he lifted the hem of her black tank top. With the same free hand, he hooked two fingers beneath the edge of her leather pants, then slid them down an inch.

Fuck me.

The two cute dimples just above her ass were enough to leave him wanting for days, but…Her skin was smooth and unmarred.

No mark. A female vampire’s Mark of Caine always appeared on her lower back.

He blinked several times, finding himself at a loss for words. “Where’s your...?”

“My what? My vamp stamp? News flash, buddy, I don’t have one.”

Which meant….

Shit. He swallowed hard. This situation was going from bad to worse.

That she even knew what a “vamp stamp” was gave him pause. He released her shirt, allowing her to stand up straight, while still maintaining the knife at her neck. This couldn’t possibly be happening. His mind was playing tricks on him, that’s all.

“Who are you?” he growled.

She shook her head. “You first.”

He pressed the sharp blade against her skin, reminding her of its presence. He didn’t have the patience for this. “I’m the one with the knife.”

She went still, nothing but the rise and fall of her chest giving away her agitation. “Touche?.”

Whoever she was, he needed to hear it.

Make certain he wasn’t seeing things.

Confirm that he wasn’t blinded by the grief of what he’d done.

She turned to face him again before he even told her to do so, trying to show her lack of fear by taking the lead. Not surprising, with her overly trigger-happy attitude, but her confidence was her weakness. But he’d always known that though, hadn’t he?

Her gaze met his in a show of defiance, but he wouldn’t let himself be fooled into picking another fight with her. He was easily twice her size. Well trained or not, she would never be a match for him. And he wouldn’t hurt her.

Not again, at least.

He held her stare until finally she looked away. “I said, tell me your name,” he demanded.

She closed her eyes, before she glanced at the floor. “Sandra—”

He shoved her harder against the wall.

Goddamn it, Tiffany.

“Real name,” he growled.

Why was she making this so difficult?

She gaped at him as if he’d slapped her. “How do you know—?”

“Everyone has a poker tell,” he bluffed.

Though she glanced down and to the left when she lied—a classic sign for many people and overly predictable. But he wasn’t about to tell her that.

“What’s your real name?” he growled, punctuating each word slowly, hoping, praying that she said something other than he expected she would.

Her jaw clenched, her anger at her current position apparent in her eyes when she finally said, “Tiffany Solow.”

The air rushed from Damon’s lungs. It took every ounce of self-control he had not to shake with anger. He deserved the massive beating the universe had just dished out to him with the news about Mark. But this?

No one deserved this.

For the one thing he wanted more than life itself to be dangled under his nose, when he knew without a doubt, he couldn’t have it. Couldn’t have her.

What the hell were the chances? Rochester was a huge city. Though it was her hometown. But what was she doing hunting vamps?

Memories flashed through his head in a nonstop pulse, the result of which had led him here, to this moment. His training officer’s voice rang in his ears.

“Brock, see a therapist or find someone to tie yourself to. Pronto!”

With no family to support him, Damon had been deemed at risk of “low morale” by Headquarters. They didn’t want to risk him becoming some kind of cold-hearted killer, so they’d covered their asses by insisting on “therapeutic ties.” Rather than see the resident psychologist, he’d opted for Choice B: to forge a bond, anonymously, with someone outside the organization. He’d preferred to write a few bullshit letters to a stranger than have the psychiatrist at Headquarters record his every thought. He already lived and breathed whenever Headquarters told him to. He didn’t need them inside his head, too. And being his usual self, Mark had volunteered to help and contacted his baby sister.

Headquarters was all about “family contacts.” At least in the paperwork.

Because she’d known already that vampires existed, because Tiffany had lost her parents to a vampire attack and had a hunter for a brother, there had been no security breaches involved in writing to her. According to the Headquarters, it also benefited her to know there were other hunters out there, aside from her brother, keeping her safe at night. It was damage control, really.

Headquarters called it personalization and bond forging. He called it a load of shit. Like he’d needed any more incentive to do what he’d been trained to do. He would never forget the first letter he wrote to her.

Tiffany,

They say I need to write someone, so here it is.

Yours truly,

B

Fuck, he’d been an ass. Arrogant and dismissive, but still, she’d replied with a nearly ten-page tome telling him all about herself. Little did he know when he’d signed that first damn letter “yours truly,” he really would be hers.

In a matter of weeks, she’d clutched his heart in her hands.

The last picture Mark had shown him of Tiffany, she’d been only nineteen, long before Mark’s death...before everything fell to shit...before she grew to hate Damon. Now she was twenty-two. He met her gaze and took in the breathtaking woman standing before him.

Mark had loved her more than anything in the world. She’d been the only family he had left, and he would have wanted her cared for, protected. Not in the line of fire of the same vampire who had killed him. Damon lowered his eyes. How could he look her in the face when he held the blame for her brother’s death? And if she knew Mark had turned...

No. He shut that thought down immediately.

She would never know. Damon had sworn to Mark that if he were ever turned, he would drive the stake through Mark’s heart himself. A small part of him would die as he did it, but his promise stood firm. But she couldn’t know any of that, which meant he needed to get her out of Club Fantasy, away from Caius. Then and only then, could he deal with Mark.

He glanced down at her once more. An overwhelming need to protect her surged through him, along with the need to pull her into his arms, a need so deep he felt it to his bones.

Maybe he should…

No.

Without a doubt, he couldn’t act on whatever this…this feeling for her was. Couldn’t tell her the truth. Beg for her forgiveness. Try to give them a second chance. No matter how much he wanted it. Not only for the sake of his job, but because he owed that much to Mark’s memory.

Taking Mark’s sister into his bed? He might as well spit on his friend’s grave.

From the wary way, she was watching him, she didn’t have even a passing suspicion of who he really was. She’d never met him in person after all, never seen his face. There was no way she would recognize him, and it needed to stay that way. Not even his true name would give him away. Revealing his full identity had been against the rules during their correspondence, which meant he could protect her anonymously and nothing more.

He inhaled a deep breath to cool his head, and tried not to think of how sweet her voice would sound saying his name . No.

No, he wouldn’t get attached to anyone again, then he couldn’t fail anyone, then protocol couldn’t get in the way of relationships.

Hunting. Protection. Nothing more.

“Tell me what you’re doing here, Tiffany Solow,” he said, her name tasting like nectar on his tongue.

She scoffed. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? I’m here every night. You’re the new monster on the block.”

Monster?

He growled, low in his throat like an animal. “I am not one of those worthless leeches.”

“Liar.” She gazed up at him, her eyes narrowing in challenge. “You’re too strong to be human.” She scanned his body, her eyes stopping on the muscles of his arms, chest and abs.

He tried hard not to notice the appreciation in her gaze.

But he failed, miserably.

“I’m not lying,” he said, his voice dropping low.

“Really?” She leaned forward, coming nearly nose to nose with him, like even if he were a monster, she wasn’t afraid. “Prove it, then.”

Damon bit back an approving growl. She may not have been able to match him in training, but she was dangerous alright.

Far too dangerous for her own good.

Difficult , he thought to himself.

She was going to make this difficult.