Beside Alexander, Nicholas spotted something, someone, in Dare’s group and let out a feral growl. “How the hell did he—”
“Move in!” Alexander commanded. “And don’t touch Dare. He’s mine.”
In a rush of muscle and movement, the three advanced on the scene, Alexander in the lead, his speed unmatched by his brothers. Time barely existed, and the minds of the patrons were temporarily shut off as Alexander stalked forward, disengaging the safeties on the Glocks in his fists. But before Alexander hit tableside, Ethan Dare pulled his own gun and fired. He hit the eldest Roman in the shoulder with a sharp rip of flesh.
“Fuck. You.” Alexander raised the Glocks and fired—one, two, three shots, straight at Dare’s heart. But the strange Impure was quick—eyes shut, arms spread-eagle style around his crew, and in a breath, he was gone—Alexander’s bullets hitting leather.
“What the hell just happened?” Alexander roared, staring at the now empty table.
“Trainer was with them,” Nicholas said, nostrils flaring. “Did you see him?”
Alexander didn’t answer. As long as Trainer stayed away from Sara, he didn’t give a shit about who the skinny human hung out with. He was more concerned with Ethan Dare’s abilities. “Where did they go?”
“How did they go?” Nicholas said, his gaze still focused on the chair Tom had been in only moments ago. “Only morphed Purebloods can flash like that. And only outside.”
“Dare is an Impure, isn’t he?” Lucian interrupted, glaring at Alexander like he’d left something out of the battle plan.
“I don’t know what he is,” Alexander uttered, motioning for them to follow as he headed for the back door of the restaurant, his shoulder leaking blood. “But this job just became a helluva lot more interesting.”
“Well, there you have it, Luca,” Nicholas said dryly as Alexander dipped into his mind and returned normalcy to the restaurant, staff, and patrons. “Seems as though you’ll get your epic battle, after all.”
21
Sara had been home all of thirty minutes, and after changing her clothes and running her freezing hands under warm water in the sink in Alexander’s room, she headed downstairs to find something to eat. Instead, she found Evans dusting a pretty cherrywood table in the entryway.
“Good evening, Doctor,” said the old paven, inclining his head. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
Sara’s stomach chose that exact moment to alert not only herself, but Evans, of its emptiness, and she laughed at the odd sound. “I am pretty hungry.”
“Oh my, yes, of course you are.” Evans’s expression changed dramatically, from reserved to highly embarrassed. “Please follow me.”
He led her through a few rooms that were large and windowless and appeared to be office space before finally going through a set of double doors. Sara took in the enormous well-lit living room they entered, a living room that just screamed MEN LIVE HERE. The walls were painted in a dusty red and gold, and the dark wood floor was draped in contemporary ivory and green hand-knotted wool rugs. At one end of the room, a pool table and a few black leather club chairs were set up. At the other end, a grouping of comfortable leather couches sat facing a massive flat-screen TV positioned a few feet above a beautiful river-rock fireplace. The room was masculine to be sure, but not in an off-putting way.
Evans turned around to face her then, looking a bit sheepish. “This used to be the kitchen, but when the Romans moved in . . . well, there was really no need for it.”
Sara understood his meaning at once, and was surprised at herself for not thinking of it sooner. “Sure. Of course.” She shrugged. “It’s no problem. All I need is a menu for some good Chinese and a phone.”
There was a sudden movement behind her, a whoosh of paper, and then a sober female voice that uttered, “No deliveries.”
Sara whirled around, saw Dillon seated on a couch, her nose deep within the pages of the Wall Street Journal , and sighed. Had she been there the whole time? Sara wondered. Lying down or . . . hidden? And why was she still in the house? “I thought you were gone,” Sara said.
“Unfortunately not.” Dillon’s face remained hidden in the paper.
Sara glanced over her shoulder at Evans, who appeared uncertain about what to do next, or how to deal with his new guest. “No worries,” Sara told him. “I’ll go pick up something.”
“No,” Dillon said harshly, flipping a page of her newspaper.
Sara turned back to face the irritating female vampire. “So what do you suggest, Dillon? Starvation?”
She shrugged. “Not my problem.”
“What is your problem, then? I mean besides being a huge bitch?”
Unfazed by Sara’s anger, Dillon stated evenly, “Bring you here. Keep you here.”
Sara took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m hungry. As in, my gas tank’s on empty. I need food, and I’m sure as hell not going on your diet, so—”
“I’d be happy to share what I’ve brought with me.”
Both Sara and Dillon turned to see who had spoken. Standing in the doorway, dressed in skinny jeans, a long, pale gray wool sweater, that same white neck scarf, and high-heeled boots, was the vampire perfection known as Bronwyn. Smiling boldly, she entered the room with a black travel bag dangling from one petite, scarf-wrapped wrist.
Evans inclined his head. “Miss Kettler.”
The black-haired beauty came to sit on the couch opposite Dillon. Sara watched as she took out what appeared to be a bento box, opened it, and began to assemble a meal.
Confused, Sara stared at her. “You eat food?”
“Certain foods,” Bronwyn explained, spooning what looked like a squirrel’s diet onto her plate. “In the credenti—our community—these basic staples—grains, berries—come from the earth and help us keep clarity and strength of mind, while keeping our bodies pure.”
From behind her newspaper, Dillon snorted.
“Not everyone’s into that kind of thing,” Bronwyn said with no embarrassment, no censure.
Fascinated, Sara came to sit between both the veanas on the third couch. She wondered about Alexander. Did he eat like this too? “Is this all you have, or do you still drink ...”
“Blood?” Bronwyn finished for her.
“Yes.”
“Yes, it is blood of the Order, extracted and placed in small vials, then rationed out to the citizens of the credenti.”
A hum of unease moved through Sara. The Order. That group seemed to have their hands in everything—everyone’s lives, everyone’s futures.
“We don’t drink from each other,” Bronwyn continued, taking a bite of some kind of seed bar. “That honor is saved for our true mate.”
Unease changed into a perfect storm of irritation and jealousy within Sara. Bronwyn was waiting for her true mate—Alexander—waiting to drink from him, fill her body with his potent red blood.
Sara stared at the beautiful vampire. The idea of taking another’s blood into her mouth, swallowing the metallic liquid and wanting more should’ve made her nauseous to say the least, but it didn’t. Not with the picture she had of Alexander in her mind—his naked chest, massive shoulders, and long, thick, waiting neck.
She glanced over at Dillon, who remained headfirst in her paper. “Are nuts and berries what’s for dinner at your house?”
“Fuck no.”
“Why not?”
Dillon ignored her, but Bronwyn quickly offered an answer. “There are some who don’t agree with this way of life and its benefits. Some who think our breed should live on blood alone.”
“What happens to them?” Sara asked.
“They decide to leave the credenti.” Bronwyn chewed her food, but didn’t seem to enjoy it much. “They walk out and choose another life.”
Sara wondered if it was really as simple as all that. She eyed Dillon again, who remained still and silent behind her paper. “You walked, Dillon?”