Shadow Hunter (The Execution Underground) (3 page)

He forced her toward the wall again. She turned around before he even told her to do so. She was trying to show her lack of fear by taking the lead, not waiting for directions. Not surprising, with her overly trigger-happy attitude, but her confidence was her weakness. Her gaze met his in a show of defiance, but he wouldn’t let himself be fooled into picking a fight. He was easily twice, if not three, times her size. Though she well trained in fighting, she would never be a match for him.

He held her stare until finally she looked away.

“Tell me your name,” he demanded.

She closed her eyes, glanced at the floor and let out a deep breath. Her eyes flickered up to meet his gaze again. “Sandra—”

He pushed her harder against the wall. “Real name.”

She gaped at him as if he’d slapped her. “How do you know that’s not my real name?”

“Everyone has a poker tell.” One of the things he’d learned in his time at the E.U. headquarters was to interpret body language. It came in particularly handy when trying to distinguish vamps from humans, though detecting lies was always advantageous. She glanced down and to the left when she lied—a classic sign for many people and overly predictable. But he wasn’t about to tell her that.

“What’s your
real
name?” he asked again.

Her jaw clenched. Her anger at her current position was apparent in her eyes, but her voice was a sexy feminine alto when she finally said, “Tiffany Solow.”

The air rushed from Damon’s lungs as if a high-speed bullet had hit him straight in the abdomen. His head spun, and it took every ounce of self-control he had not to shake with anger. He couldn’t believe the night had actually gotten worse, although he knew he deserved the massive beating the universe had just dished out to him.

Tiffany Solow...Mark’s baby sister. His own Achilles’ heel.

Rochester was a huge city. Though it was her hometown, when he transferred there in order to hunt Caius, he’d hoped like hell he would never run into her. What the hell were the chances? And what was she doing hunting vampires?

The memories flashed through his head in a nonstop pulse. His training officer’s voice rang in his ears.
Brock, see a therapist or find someone to tie yourself to. Pronto!

With no family to support him, Damon had been deemed at risk of “low morale” by the Execution Underground. They’d thought the pressure of hunting might turn him into some crazed psycho if he didn’t have someone to talk to. They covered their asses by insisting on “therapeutic ties.”

Rather than see the resident shrink, he’d opted for Choice B: to forge a bond, anonymously, with someone outside the E.U. He’d preferred to write a few BS letters to a stranger than have the E.U. psychiatrist record his every thought. The Execution Underground already rode his ass about everything. He didn’t need them inside his head, too. And being his usual giving self, Mark had volunteered to help his best comrade and had contacted his baby sister.

Headquarters was all about “family contacts.” In other words, they ensured that their hunters had something to live for besides the hunt alone. It was a numbers game to them. An overwhelmed hunter who committed suicide forced the E.U. to shell out money to train a replacement, not to mention compensation for the family. They were saving their pocket change.

Tiffany was in the same age group as many of the female victims the hunters set out to avenge, so the E.U. found her an appropriate contact. Because she’d known already that vampires existed, because she’d lost her parents to a vampire attack and had a hunter for a brother, there had been no security breaches involved in writing to her. According to the E.U., it also benefited her to know there were other men out there, aside from her brother, keeping her safe at night. Damage control, really.

Headquarters called it personalization and bond forging. He called it a load of crap. Like he’d needed any more incentive to do what he’d been trained to do. He would never forget the first letter he wrote to her.

Tiffany,

They say I need to write someone, so here it is.

Yours truly,

B

She’d replied with an eight-page letter telling him all about her. Little did he know when he’d signed that first damn letter “yours truly,” he really
would
be hers. In a matter of weeks she’d clutched his heart in her hands.

The last picture Mark had shown him of Tiffany, she’d been only seventeen, long before Mark’s death...before everything fell to shit...before she grew to hate Damon. Now she was twenty-two. He met her gaze and took in the breathtaking woman standing before him.

Mark had loved her more than anything in the world. She had been the only family he had left, and he would have wanted her cared for, protected. Not in the line of fire of the same vampire who had killed him. Damon lowered his eyes. How could he look her in the face when he held the blame for her brother’s death? And if she knew Mark had turned...

No. She would never know. Damon had sworn to Mark that if he were ever turned, he would drive the stake through Mark’s heart himself. A small part of him would die as he did it, but his promise stood firm. But she couldn’t know any of that, which meant he needed to get her out of Club Fantasy, away from Caius. An overwhelming need to protect her surged through him, accompanied by the desire to claim her as his own.

No.

Without a doubt, he could not seduce her. Not only for the sake of his job, but because he owed that much to the memory of his fellow hunter and best friend. Taking Mark’s sister into his bed? He might as well spit on his grave. Her eyes showed she didn’t know who he was. She’d never met him in person, never seen his face. There was no way she would recognize him, and it needed to stay that way. Not even his name would give him away. He was thankful revealing his full identity had been against the rules during their correspondence. He would protect her anonymously and nothing more.

He inhaled a deep breath to cool his head. He tried not to think of how sweet her voice would sound saying his name as he drove himself into her.
No.
He wouldn’t get attached to anyone again, then he couldn’t fail anyone, then protocol couldn’t get in the way of relationships. Hunting, protection. Nothing more. “What are you doing here?”

She scoffed. “Shouldn’t I be asking
you
that? I’m here every night. You’re the new vamp on the block.”

He growled, low in his throat like an animal. Anger boiled inside him at the accusation. “I am
not
one of those worthless leeches.”

She froze. Her eyes widened. “You’re too strong to be human.” She scanned his body, her eyes stopping on the muscles of his arms, chest and abs. “Prove it, then.”

* * *

T
IFFANY
STARED
AT
the stranger before her, her eyes locked on to his icy gaze. A shiver ran down her spine, but heat pooled between her legs. That alone made him dangerous.

“Go on. Prove you’re human.” Her pulse began to race from excitement instead of fear as she challenged him. Her gut screamed not to fight him, that he was no threat to her, but the knife at her throat and the ferocity in his eyes said otherwise.

“Just trust me on this,” he said.

Not a chance. “Well, unfortunately for you, I don’t trust people easily.” With as much force as she could muster, she stomped on his instep.

He didn’t cry out, but the move surprised him enough that the knife shifted slightly away from her throat. She seized the advantage and grabbed hold of his arm, pushed his sleeve up and dug her fingernails into his skin. She wasn’t against fighting dirty. Not if it saved her sorry ass.

Her assailant didn’t even curse at the pain, only grunted in response as her sharp acrylics dug into the flesh of his arm. Blood pooled around the edges of her nails before she released him. She lunged forward, knocking into his midsection like a linebacker. Damn, that had been a stupid idea. The man was built, and running into his abdomen was like hitting her head on a solid concrete wall. That would really hurt in the morning.

He tucked his knife up his sleeve instead of using the weapon against her. What was that about? He grabbed at her as she stumbled back, but she was short enough that she managed to duck out of his reach. He towered over her and was probably twice her weight with all the sexy muscle he was packing.

Regaining her footing, she threw a spinning roundhouse kick. He blocked it with ease as if he often fought third-degree black belts without blinking an eye. He was fierce, no denying it. She continued going at him, throwing nonstop kicks and punches, but he blocked every one, and she was running out of options. Wait! Her gun. Her gun was lying on the floor.

She rushed to reach the weapon. Seconds later, he loomed over her, trying to grab her. Why wasn’t he fighting back? She was sure that if he really wanted to, he could kick the living shit out of her.

She snatched the gun from the floor, but she had no time to aim. She threw a sidekick, but he caught it, then swept her other foot out from under her. She toppled to the floor, landing with an audible
oof
as the wind rushed from her lungs.

Before he could make his next move, she spun around and kicked his ankles. Pain shot through the edge of her big toe, despite her high-heeled boots; even his legs were pure muscle.

Without thinking, she lunged into his legs, wrapping her body around his knees. He started to fall, but he caught himself and landed prepared to kick out, except that...oh, snap...she was attached to his leg!

She scrambled backward, but he was too fast. Within seconds he was on top of her, straddling her hips and holding her hands against the ground.

He let out a long deep growl and leaned in near her face. “Next time, I won’t hold back from hurting you.”

The ice-cold look in his eyes showed he meant it, and she vowed to herself that there would be no next time. The man was pure unadulterated muscle and no matter how good a fighter she was, she knew when to call it quits.

As she stared up into his eyes, she wished she hadn’t charged him, because damn it, her head hurt and her brain was sending all sorts of crazy mixed signals into parts of her body that had never been lit up before. Though he was on top of her and she was clearly in a vulnerable position, he wasn’t threatening her, just pinning her down and, oh, man, what on earth was wrong with her, because she didn’t mind one bit.

Her gaze traveled over his rock-hard body. His chest heaved in and out from the adrenaline. Through his shirt she could see a nicely defined pair of pecs, and she knew from the pain in her head that washboard abs hid beneath.

Even his forearms, which she’d dug her fingernails into, were well defined. She could tell from the fluid way he moved that he wasn’t some steroidal bodybuilder. No, his muscles were honed from serious training. The thought of his nearly naked body covered in a sheen of sweat as he worked out flooded her mind.

Whooaaaa, Nelly. Back up for two seconds. She
never
fantasized about men. Ever.

A small pang hit her heart, equal parts pain and anger. Her thoughts traveled to B, the nameless hunter who’d stolen her heart, only to break it to pieces with his betrayal. She could admit a teenage girl had her needs, and she’d fantasized about meeting B in the flesh so many times that real men need not apply. She’d been solo since she was fifteen, when her brother had left home to hunt monsters, and without B in the picture, she intended to keep it that way. She didn’t need any distractions. Her one goal in life was to avenge her family, not snuggle up all lovey-dovey with some sweet guy, get married and have loads of chubby-faced cherubic babies. Not that Mr. Tall, Dark and Scary would ever fit that scenario, anyway. From the looks of things, he was a grade-A badass.

What was wrong with her? She needed to get back to Caius. If she disappeared for long enough, someone would come searching for her. Wasting time ogling a hot man wasn’t in the cards for tonight—for any night. Not while Caius lived and breathed. Besides which, she chastised herself, she didn’t know anything about this man. He’d held a knife to her throat, for God’s sake.

But when she met his cold ice-blue eyes she thought she could drown in their intensity. She wanted to run her hands over his black buzz-cut hair as he pushed inside her. The thought alone sent a wave of heat rushing between her legs and a jolt of electricity shooting down her spine.

A long silence passed between them as he watched her, those haunting blue eyes boring into her.

“I guess I’m not really in a position to bargain now, am I?” She tried to make it sound lighthearted in hopes that maybe he would release her.

He glared at her. His stare alone was enough to make her want to talk.

Clearly he wasn’t a vampire or he would have sunk his fangs into her throat by now. All her instincts said he didn’t intend to harm her, and no vampire would ever take a no-harm approach against someone who’d attacked him.

She cleared her throat. “One of us has to go first, and from your stiff upper lip, I can tell it’s not going to be you.” She sighed. “If I start talking, will you at least let me go?”

He didn’t reply. But the intensity of his gaze compelled her to confess.

She sighed again. “My name is Tiffany Solow, and I’m a vampire hunter.”

His brow furrowed, as if the words
vampire hunter
confused him. “A female hunter?”

She frowned. Nothing annoyed her more than men who thought women were incapable. She was certainly capable of taking care of herself and of killing supernaturally strong vampires to boot.

“Yeah, buddy. You have a problem with a little girl power?” She wasn’t weak. But this guy had the strength of a vampire and the training of an extremely professional hunter, not someone self-taught.

Could he be from...?

No. What were the chances of
that?

His eyes widened before they narrowed again. “You’re alone? No one trained you?”