“Not interested,” Chris told her before she walked out.

She had gone to the library, however, and borrowed every book she could find on anxiety and how to deal with it. Which was why she now imagined herself as the center of a lotus flower, drifting delicately on a pool of still water. As she tried to float, she remembered the mantra of affirmations she was supposed to say out loud along with the visualization.

“My thoughts are quiet; my mind is clear. I am in control of my emotions, my decisions, and my life. I am filled with confidence. I am blessed with friends. I am rich with hope. I am starting to sound like a bad Hallmark card. Or someone who has taken too many happy pills.” So much for the mantra. She really needed to get a new meditation book from the library on her next day off.

Once the doors opened, she stepped out and walked toward the reception room, but stopped in her tracks as soon as she saw the teenage boy standing with Burke in the hall.

The Kyn lord standing beside Burke, Chris absently corrected herself. Jamys Durand hadn’t been a teenager since the Dark Ages.

She had written at least two hundred private posts on her LiveJournal with a thousand minute details about Jamys, so she noticed the changes first. His black hair, which she’d envied and adored, was no longer in that devastatingly edgy who-gives-a-shag; he’d let it grow out so long he now wore it tied back in a ponytail. Under the time-burnished brown leather of his jacket his shoulders and upper arms showcased some serious new muscle, as did the white tee he wore under it. As he handed a scroll to Burke, the front of his jacket opened a few inches more, flashing his now beautifully sculpted abs. His hands looked rougher, harder than she remembered, and he’d left off wearing the gorgeous old ring with his family’s crest in silver. Her gaze drifted down the long legs, which the fitted cut of his plain black trousers showed to be more powerful than lean now. No, now he looked like he could run a couple of New York City marathons before breakfast.

She saved his face for last, not that she needed to ogle it. The young, handsome features were just as she had kept them in her memory: the black slashes of his eyebrows, the angular symmetry of his cheekbones and jaw, the imperial nose, the full, almost passionate mouth that rarely smiled but always made her think of kissing. When other mortals looked at Jamys, they saw a boy, because he had been a teenager when he’d made the transition from human to Darkyn, and like his body his face would be forever young. But Chris saw more; she saw the shadow of the man he would have been, lurking just beneath the surface. A big, dangerous, definitely scary man, exactly like his father.

Chris saw his head start to turn toward her and darted around the corner out of sight. She covered her mouth with her hands, trying at the same time to take in some air, but her lungs were already full and waiting to exhale. She couldn’t remember how to breathe for a full five seconds.

Why is he here? He can’t be here. I’m not ready.

She’d expected time to plan and prepare, to buff and polish herself, to show him what he’d been missing for the last three years. She’d never be gorgeous or heart-stopping—Chris had accepted that long ago—but she’d grown past cute and quirky, and had been carefully cultivating an Audrey Hepburn–Winona Ryder look that made the most of what she had. She’d given up on Goth and gone for sleek and chic, and had an entire wardrobe of the right looks, all of which were now sitting at home in her apartment.

I can’t let him see me like this. I’ll bore him to death at first sight. The silver chain around her neck sawed against her skin, and she looked down to see she was clutching the cross through her blouse so tightly the edges bruised the insides of her fingers. Or he’ll think I’m crazy.

Like an answer to her prayers, her mobile buzzed in her pocket. She rushed to the end of the hall and stepped inside the freight elevator, closing the doors before she answered it. “Christian Lang.”

“Miss Christian? It’s Connie.” Burke’s receptionist sounded nervous. “I have a video call from Italy waiting on hold.”

“Then you’re costing them a lot of money, Connie.” Chris frowned. “Are they calling for Lord Lucan?”

“No, miss. It’s for you.”

Chapter 3

Penthouse Suite

Alenfar Stronghold

Fort Lauderdale, Florida

“Why are you dressed and out of bed?”

“I have to go to work.” Samantha Brown smiled as the scent of night-blooming jasmine crept into the bathroom where she stood brushing her hair. “And they don’t let me do my job in the nude.”

Once the domain of corporate executives, the top two floors of the Alenfar Building had been renovated into luxurious penthouse accommodations. Wraparound panels, made of specially reinforced safety glass, provided stunning views of Fort Lauderdale, from the skyscrapers that soared into the skyline to the west to the wide ribbon of shell-speckled amber sand to the east that bordered the gilded jade edge waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

Three years ago Sam had never imagined living in a high-rise penthouse. The salary she made as a homicide detective had barely covered her living expenses and the rent for a small apartment in a decent neighborhood. It didn’t bother her; she hadn’t joined the force to get rich.

Sam was still a cop, although everything else had changed. Including her life, which thanks to her bioengineered DNA and a transfusion of vampire blood was now virtually immortal.

She tried not to think too much about that, or the fact that the man who had saved her life was one of the deadliest creatures on the planet.

As Sam gathered up her straight, dark brown hair with an elastic band, a shadow loomed behind her, and huge hands covered by black velvet gloves reached around to unfasten the waistband of her trousers.

“I’m only working a half shift,” she said as she straightened her ponytail. “So I’ll be home in a few hours. Stop that.”

Cool, wickedly talented lips drifted down the side of her throat. “Call in sick.”

“My boss is a tresora, and he knows I don’t get sick.” She shrugged into the leather straps of her shoulder holster. Feeling the pointed edges of his dents acérées against her skin made her sigh. “No biting. You’ll get blood on my collar and I’ll have to change.”

“No.” He nipped the lobe of her ear. “You won’t.”

“Lucan.” She turned around to face six and a half feet of naked, aroused male, and let him gather her against the front of him. Mainly because it helped block the incredible view to the south.

Not that the view to the north was any less impressive. A lion’s mane of corn silk hair framed the heartrending, impossibly beautiful face of a fallen angel. The thin, almost cruel line of his mouth balanced the outrageous splendor of his features, while his ghost-gray eyes simmered with sensual knowledge, as if the man could provide every pleasure ever dreamed by a woman.

Which he could, something else she didn’t need to dwell on right now.

“I want you, and I love you,” she said, putting her hand against the broad muscular vault of his chest, “but if you make me late for work again, I’m going to hurt you.”

“Hurt me exactly how?” His golden brows rose. “Your gun is still over on the nightstand. You don’t carry a blade. Clouting me on the head will only bruise your knuckles.”

“I heal fast.”

“So do I.” He brushed his lips over her ear, lowering his voice. “I know. You can bite me.”

It wasn’t only the suggestion that sent a shivery thrill through her. Just the whisper of his breath on her skin made her throat tighten and her insides ache. If they had been a human couple, by now they probably would have settled into a comfortable, routine relationship. But even after six years, looking up into Lucan’s silver eyes made time rewind, as if this were the very first time he’d touched her.

It delighted her. It worried her. More than anything, it baffled her. “Are we always going to be this intense?”

“One can only pray.” One velvet-covered fingertip traced the full crescent of her bottom lip. “It’s the same for me, love,” he murmured. “I can never have enough of you.”

A discreet chime from the door in the front foyer effectively broke the spell, and Sam eased out of Lucan’s arms. “That’s probably Burke.” She whisked a kiss against his jawline before she slipped around him and went to retrieve her gun and jacket. “I’ll see you later.”

“Samantha.” He waited for her to look back at him. “If you’ve not returned by midnight, I will come and get you.”

That he would. Lucan didn’t make threats; he made promises.

As Sam had suspected, Lucan’s tresora stood politely waiting in the foyer. “Hello, Herbert. How’s it going?”

“Very busy tonight—thank you, my lady.” Burke darted a look past her before he asked, “Has the suzerain risen yet?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s up.” She took hold of his arm. “Why don’t you come downstairs with me for a few minutes. He needs some time to . . . settle down.”

Burke winced. “Much as I wish I could, my lady, I must relay news. A group of Kyn has just arrived from Europe and they seek an audience with our lord.”

“More refugees.” Lucan appeared beside Sam, his big frame clad in black trousers and a full-sleeved white shirt he was still fastening. “Does Cyprien intend to send to my doorstep every immortal made homeless by the Brethren?”

“I cannot say, my lord,” Burke said. “But I am happy to report that Lord Jamys Durand has just arrived from North Carolina.”

“Thierry’s son?” Lucan stopped buttoning his shirt. “Why has he come to me? His father made no mention of a visitation when last we spoke.”

“He did not provide me with any details, my lord, but he travels alone.” Burke glanced at Samantha. “He also asked to see you, my lady.”

“I’ve really got to run.” Sam checked her watch. “Tell Jamys I’ll catch him later.”