Becoming an investigator of the supernatural wasn’t something I’d planned on. Not when a Ph.D. in English literature had been my goal. But over the last year, I’d done more investigating. And I’d gotten better at it.
I checked my messages, found a note from Annabelle confirming the video likely showed a ghost but the magic—which she couldn’t analyze from video alone—would tell for sure. I also found a message from Luc confirming ghosthunters—in the form of CPAN—would be arriving at the House shortly, and a message from Mallory advising she and Catcher wanted in on the ghosthunting. I sent along the particulars.
I also found the usual set of e-mails from my mother about the wedding. Since those weren’t our highest priority at the moment, I turned to the Internet.
It wasn’t difficult to find the official Almshouse Cemetery records online, but most were still on old-fashioned ledger pages. While they’d had been scanned and posted online, the data itself hadn’t been pulled out or compiled, so I had to check each handwritten page individually for the number that matched the disturbed grave.
I was staring so intently at a page written in a looping, slanted cursive I didn’t hear Ethan up and around until he walked into the room, his favored silk pajama bottoms slung low on his lean hips, every muscle in his abdomen defined.
“You’re up early.” He pressed his lips to my neck, then offered a teasing kiss that made my blood go instantly hot.
“I’m detecting,” I said, offering it as information and defense. “And breaking my fast.” I pointed to the basket. “The chocolate chip muffins are divine.”
Ethan opted for an apple and peered over my shoulder at the computer screen. “Cemetery records?”
“Yeah. And as it turns out, I think I finally found what we were looking for.” I pointed to the spot on the screen where the plot number—1-CCU49-871—was neatly printed. “Mickey Riley,” I said. “Buried in 1929.”
“Annabelle’s date range was spot-on,” he said, as I ran an Internet search on the name.
First result: his FBI profile.
“Mickey Riley was a brawler who belonged to Al Capone,” I said, scanning the screen. “He was convicted of grand larceny in 1927 and murdered in prison. His body wasn’t claimed, so he was buried by the county in Almshouse Cemetery.”
; One corner of my mouth quirked into a smile. “Trust me. You won’t have to try very hard.” The sight of him—strong and powerful and undeniably gorgeous—was enough for me. But Ethan Sullivan—soldier and Master—was a man of his word.
He clasped my hands in his, lifted them over my head, lowered his mouth to mine as he pinned me beneath him.
“This isn’t so bad,” I said playfully. And it wasn’t, until he let his fangs descend and tugged at my lip, then scraped the delicate skin of my neck.
“No?” he asked, and rearranged his hold on my wrists to free one of his hands. He slipped it beneath the hem of my dress, trilled those long and clever fingers up my thigh, heightening desire and want with movements designed to tease. To inflame.
He sat up again, his eyes silver, his fangs gleaming in the firelight, his face glazed with desire. He was the embodiment of power, of man, of vampire.
And he was mine.
It was my turn to take. And fortunately, I’d learned a trick or two, mostly from him.
Still beneath him, I arched my body, watched his eyes shift down. I took the moment, and I took the control. I shifted my weight and, in one quick move, reversed our positions so he lay in front of the fire while I straddled him.
His expression—surprise, awe, and thrilled desire—was worth the trouble.
“I believe I’m in charge now,” I said, and pulled the dress over my head, tossed it aside. He did the same with his final garments, and then I covered him with my body, pressed my mouth to his, and kissed him until his body thrummed with tension, with anticipation.
His nimble fingers roamed carefully, intently, as if he might memorize the shape of my body by touch alone. He looked up at me, traced a thumb over my swollen lips. “I’m not sure I’ll ever have enough of you, Sentinel.”
“You have all of me, always,” I said, and arched when he touched me, when he drove me over the first delicious wave of pleasure.
He leaned up, skimmed fangs across my collarbone, my neck, then paused to wait for my affirmation. For the consent I’d once been unable to give.
Yes, I said, and he bit, fangs piercing tender skin, and sent me over another crest. Ethan groaned with pleasure, arms banding around me as he drank, as we shared the unique connection of vampires, the union that linked us even closer together.
My body was already warm and limp with pleasure when he covered me again, kissed me slowly as he moved within me. I slid my fingers into his hair, closed my eyes to focus on sensations, on the taste of him, the feel of his body against mine as heat gathered and rose again.
“Look at me,” Ethan said, his voice deep, the words as much order as request. I opened my eyes, undoubtedly well-silvered by desire, and met the molten metal of his gaze. And I watched his pupils dilate, his lips part, as sensation pushed through him.
The sight of him midpleasure, sharing that most intimate of moments with me, sent me flying again. We fell together like angels bound to earth, and bound to each other.
It wasn’t a bad way to go.