As Twilight Falls

She decided on breakfast for dinner. Two slices of French toast, a couple of sausages, a glass of orange juice, a cup of coffee. It was quick and easy.

She refused to acknowledge Saintcrow, who stood in the doorway, one shoulder braced against the jamb, his arms folded over his impressive chest.

She carried everything to the table, sat with her back to him, and picked up her fork. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her back, knew he was watching her every move.

She tensed when he pushed away from the doorway and dropped into the seat across from hers.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said.

“ No.”

He lifted one brow. “No?”

“Is something wrong with your hearing?”

“Is this how you want it to be between us?” he asked darkly.

“There is no ‘us,’” she retorted. “There’s you and there’s me. I can’t fight you. I can’t escape, but I don’t have to like you, or talk to you.”

“That’s true.” His eyes narrowed ominously. “I would remind you, though, that this is my town. My house. The vampires do as I say. The humans do as I say. You would be wise to remember that.”

“You can threaten me all you like. It won’t change the way I feel.”

He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “You put on a brave front, but it’s all bravado. I can smell the fear on your skin, hear it in the rapid beat of your heart, see it in your eyes. Try as you might, you can’t hide your thoughts from me.”

She glared at him, hating him because he knew there was nothing behind her bluster but sheer terror. Try as she might, she couldn’t wrap her mind around the reality sitting across from her. If vampires were more than myth, what of the other storybook monsters? Maybe there really were trolls under bridges and monsters under the bed.

Saintcrow unfolded from his chair and rounded the table. He stood next to her, his expression enigmatic, and then he lifted her to her feet. “I’ll show you what’s real,” he said, his voice whiskey smooth.

Before she had time to think what he might mean, he bent her back over his arm and kissed her, his lips punishing hers, his tongue invading her mouth.

There was nothing of tenderness in his kiss. It was meant to humiliate her, to prove he was the one in control.

She didn’t fight him. What was the use? There was no escape from the arms that imprisoned her, just as there was no escape from Morgan Creek.

He deepened the kiss, one hand sliding up and down her back. His lips were warm and firm. His kiss gentled, his arm loosened around her, and she found herself kissing him back, clasping her hands at his nape.

He whispered something that sounded like an endearment in a language she didn’t understand, and then he kissed her again. Heat engulfed her, spreading to every part of her body, arousing a need deep within her unlike anything she had ever known. What was he doing to her?

She was gasping for breath when he let her go.

He stared down at her for stretched seconds, his dark eyes flashing ebony fire. “Go to bed, Kadie,” he said gruffly.

She didn’t argue.

Her first instinct was to run up the stairs as fast as she could, but some ancient sense of self-preservation reminded her that she was prey and he was a predator. With that in mind, she made her way slowly up the stairs and quietly closed the door.

Saintcrow stood in the kitchen, hands balled into tight fists, as Kadie climbed the stairs to her room. He had known hundreds of women in his time, perhaps thousands. Old and young; pretty and not so pretty; sassy and submissive. None had appealed to him the way this one spitfire of a girl did. She didn’t beg for her freedom. She didn’t pretend to like him in hopes that he would relent and let her go. She would never stop trying to escape. He had to admire that.

He drew a deep breath, his nostrils filling with her unique scent. He could taste her on his tongue—warm and sweet, vibrant and alive. He had taken women in the past, used them as long as it pleased him and then thrown them away without a second thought.

But this woman—Kadie—he had known the moment he’d woken to her scent that he had to have her. He had sought her out in the library and other places, making sure she didn’t see him.

He grinned inwardly. One of the perks of being the oldest, biggest badass of his kind was that no one ever dared oppose him.

Which meant Kadie Andrews was now his for as long as he wished it.

And whether she liked it or not, it was going to be for a good long time.

Kadie stood with her back against the door, her thoughts spinning round and round like a hamster on a wheel. She couldn’t escape Morgan Creek. Saintcrow knew everything she did. She wasn’t sure how, but it didn’t alter the fact that her comings and goings, her innermost thoughts, were his. He was like a Greek god and she a lowly mortal, a minor piece on the chessboard of his life.

She trailed her fingertips over her lips. She couldn’t escape from Saintcrow. And now, with the memory of his kiss and her reaction to it fresh in her mind, she didn’t know if she wanted to run from the man or beg him to kiss her again.

She had been kissed before, many times. Most had been pleasant, a few had been remarkable, but none had been as amazing as Saintcrow’s. Of course, he’d had over nine hundred years to perfect it.

Nine hundred years. Feeling suddenly weak, she slid down to the floor. What would it be like to live that long? She shook her head. It wasn’t normal. Or natural. People weren’t meant to live forever, at least not on Earth. Even contemplating eternity in the hereafter was beyond her comprehension. What would people do when forever stretched ahead of them?

Leaning her head back against the door, she closed her eyes. Saintcrow’s image immediately sprang to the forefront of her mind. Piercing dark eyes. Broad shoulders. A massive chest. Long, long legs. Large hands . . . She shivered, remembering the touch of those hands in her hair, on her skin. The hard length of his body pressed against hers. The way his tongue had ravaged her mouth . . .

“Vampire.” She forced the word past her lips. “Vampire,” she repeated, more forcefully this time.

But first a man. Saintcrow’s voice slid through her mind like honey warmed by the sun. A man who wants you. Who burns for your touch. Who hungers for your sweetness.

And with his words came the image of the two of them locked in each other’s arms.

Clapping her hands over her ears, she shouted, “Get out of my head!”

She felt his withdrawal like a physical ache.