Guild Hunter 01 - Angels' Blood

view, draping them in night. “And while we wait, I’ll indulge my need to see if you taste as tart as you sound.”
    The sensual web snapped. Not giving him warning, she used her agility to slide backward and off the other side of the desk, scattering paper as she went. “I told you,” she gasped, heart thudding at the narrow escape, “I don’t want to be your snack, your chew-toy, your fuck-buddy. Find a vampire to sink your fang into.” She strode out of the room and down the hall without waiting for an answer.
    Somewhat to her amazement, no one stopped her. When she reached the ground floor, she found a taxi waiting—for her. She was about to tell the driver to get lost when she realized she had no money. Since she had no desire to walk home in the creeping chill of midnight, she got into the backseat. “Get me the hell out of here.”
    “Of course.” The driver’s voice was smooth. Too smooth.
    She glanced up to meet his gaze in the mirror. “Vamps drive taxis now?”
    He smiled but couldn’t pull off Dmitri’s effortless charm . . . and he definitely couldn’t pull off the dangerous sensuality of the archangel who seemed determined to turn their “relationship”—hah!—sexual.
    It’d be a cold day in Lucifer’s personal kingdom before that happened. Sex was not on the menu. And neither was Elena.

9
     
    Raphael watched the taxi pull away, surprised she’d taken it. Elena was proving the most unpredictable of all those under his command. Of course, she’d argue with that description, he thought, amused in the way only a lethally powerful immortal could be.
    The door opened behind him. “Sire?”
    “Dmitri, you are to stay away from the hunter.”
    “If the sire so wishes.” A pause. “I could reduce her to begging. She would no longer disobey your orders.”
    “I don’t want her to beg.” Raphael was surprised to find that to be true. “She’ll be more effective with her spirit intact.”
    “And after?” Dmitri’s voice was full of sensual anticipation. “May I have her after the hunt? She . . . draws me.”
    “No. After the hunt, she’s mine.” Any begging Elena would be doing would fall on his ears alone.

10
     
    He was going to kill her.
    Elena sat bolt upright in her beautiful artwork of a bed. The headboard was a one-of-a-kind design of the most delicately formed metal, while the white-on-white sheets and puffy comforters were embroidered with tiny, tiny flowers. To the right of her bed were sliding French doors that led out onto a small private balcony she’d turned into a miniature garden. And beyond that lay the view of Archangel Tower.
    Inside, the walls were papered in a heavy cream design with accents of blue and silver that echoed the deep blue carpet. The curtains on the French doors were gauzy and white, though there was a heavier set of brocade curtains she usually kept tied back. Huge sunflowers bloomed against the white porcelain of the large Chinese vase in the opposite corner of the room, bringing the sunshine inside.
    She’d been given that vase by a grateful Chinese angel after she tracked down one of his wayward charges. The young vampire—having barely completed her Contract—had decided she didn’t need angelic protection anymore. Elena had found her huddling terrified in a sex shop that catered to a very weird set of clientele. The job had taken her into the bowels of the Shanghai underworld, but the vase was a piece of light, unblemished by time. The whole room was a haven, one she’d spent months getting just right.
    But right then, she could’ve been sitting on a dirt floor in a hovel somewhere south of Beijing. Her eyes were open but all she saw was a frozen image of that vampire in Times Square, the one not a single fucking person had dared help. She knew she wouldn’t end up that way, not if Raphael wanted the whole thing swept under the rug, but she was most certainly dead.
    He’d told her about glamour.
    As far as she was aware, no hunter, no human , knew about that particular little piece of archangelic power. It was akin to seeing the face of your kidnapper—no matter what he says after that point, you know you’re done for.
    “No. Fucking. Way.” Clenching her hands on her beautiful Egyptian cotton comforter, she narrowed her eyes and considered her options.
    Option 1: Attempt to back out.
    Probable result: Death after painful torture.
    Option 2: Do the job and hope.
    Probable result: Death but probably no torture