Undying Desire (3 page)

“Eve Devonshire…” She shook her head. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard the name.” Eve held his gaze. She knew from years of practice that hers remained unreadable. After spending more years than she cared to remember on her own and in hiding from those who wanted her either dead or only alive long enough to take her apart piece by piece, she’d learned how to mask her expressions and her emotions. “Can you describe her?” She shrugged. “Perhaps I’ve seen a woman who might match the description.”

“No. Unfortunately, I can’t.”

“You’re searching for a woman, but you have no idea what she looks like.” Eve eased back, placing some distance between them. “Sounds like you are searching through quite the haystack for that proverbial needle.”

“True.” Guerin stroked the dark shadow of a beard at his chin. He studied her, his dark eyes drinking her in, sliding over her skin like warm melted chocolate, making her feel just as decadent. “But for some reason, Fallon, I get the feeling you might be the one person who could narrow the search.”

“Do you, now?” Eve lifted her brows. “Then I suggest you see someone about those…‘feelings,’ because they’re leading you astray.”

“Well, damn.” Guerin slowly shook his head. “Guess a man’s instincts can’t be right all the time.” He rose from the table with a nod. “It’s been a pleasure.” A smile tugged at his lips as he turned and moved toward the bar.

Eve’s gut twisted. Would it never end? She scanned the club for Ingrid and found her a few tables over with one of the regulars. As if sensing she was needed, Ingrid’s gaze drifted in Eve’s direction. With a lift of her chin, Eve called Ingrid to her table. Eve grabbed the bag sitting beside her on the bench. She reached inside and pulled out a notepad and pen. Quickly, she jotted down a message—one that was short and to the point.

“Ja, Mistress,” Ingrid said as she neared Eve’s side.

“Remember our visitor who wanted to speak with me a moment ago?” Eve checked to the side of Ingrid, making sure she wasn’t being watched by the man—vampire—of whom she spoke. She spotted him tossing back a shot at the bar, his attention tuned to the crowd and not in their direction.

“Ja. How could I forget?”

Eve ripped the note from her pad and folded it in half before handing it to her manager. Ingrid clasped the slip of paper between her fingers and glanced back at Eve with an inquisitive look.

“In a few minutes, I want you to give this to tonight’s bartender and ask him to place it in the hands of our handsome guest. “Do not”—Eve gripped Ingrid’s hand—“I repeat, do not say it’s from me. If asked, tell the bartender to say that perhaps the gentleman has a secret admirer.”

Ingrid nodded and tucked the paper inside one of her long bloodred gloves. “Right away, Mistress.” She turned on her heel and weaved through the crowd.

Eve poured another round for herself, and without hesitation, tipped it to her lips. The slow burn rolled over her tongue and down her throat. If only the fire could incinerate the empty feeling inside. Or at least numb her mind, so she didn’t have to endure the ugliness that was about to be her life once more. There were times she hated her other side. But if she wanted to stay alive…unleashing that beast was an unavoidable evil.

…

She was good.

Very good.

But Guerin had been playing the game a hell of a lot longer, and he knew when someone was trying to shovel a lie his way. The moment he’d mentioned the name Eve to Mistress Fallon, tension had swelled so thick and sour he could’ve tasted it in the air. Her heart rate and respiration never changed, though. Highly unusual for a human who was lying. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something didn’t seem right. She knew more than she was willing to share.

Guerin turned his beer up for another swig as the bartender stepped up to the counter. He leaned in, the halogen beams bouncing off the silver loops piercing his nipples. Without a word, he pushed a folded slip of paper his way.

“What’s this?” Guerin held it up between his fingers.

“Secret admirer,” the other man replied, his words thick with a heavy German accent. “Maybe, ja?”

“Right…” Guerin unfolded the note and gazed down at the lines of red ink.

If you want to know about Eve…

Meet me in five minutes.

Behind the club. Alone.

Adrenaline slammed into his system, kicking his heart rate into a pounding percussion in his head. Guerin shoved the slip of paper in his coat pocket and cranked his head around in Mistress Fallon’s direction. She appeared engrossed in a stack of work an employee must have placed in front of her.

Had she sent him the note?

He fisted his beer, then tossed back another swallow. Guerin pulled out his cell, checked the time, and section by section, continued his survey of the crowd around him. Most of the club’s patrons were focused on the various activities available in one of Nuremberg’s hidden fetish nightspots. The others, a couple of women and a few men who’d met his gaze, looked more interested in coaxing him to play than divulging information. He shoved his cell back inside his coat’s interior pocket.

The sound of leather cracking across flesh split the air of the club and sent a chill down Guerin’s spine. A loud moan followed, and Guerin jerked his head toward the pleasure/pain-filled utterance. His gaze landed on a St. Andrew’s cross that stood spotlighted in the back corner of the club. Shackled to each upper limb of the device hung a blindfolded, shirtless man with his back to the crowd. His thin pale arms, wet with sweat, glistened in the harsh light. A crowd formed a semicircle around the display, fixated—mesmerized—by the petite bare-chested brunette and her submissive.

Before Guerin realized he’d even moved, he found himself working his way to the front of the group of voyeurs.

Crack.

The whip sang out before its Mistress hit her mark with expert precision across her sub’s right shoulder blade. The man writhed and groaned as another red welt blazoned to life across his back, followed by a trickle of blood from the thin slice in his flesh.

Arousal rolled off the humans in waves, mixing with the sensual and haunting melody emitting from the sound system like a hypnotic spell. His cock swelled to life. At that moment, a songstress crooned something about the devil making us sin.
Shit.
If Satan were the only thing he had to worry about, Guerin’s existence would be much less complicated.

But there were darker creatures of the night that didn’t exist merely in the fiery pits of hell. They walked the streets and were capable of getting inside your head, creating a craving within your soul that even a century-long abstinence could never cure.

Crack.

The single tail uncurled through the air once more and struck its target. The sub shuddered, threw his head back, and released a loud groan. Guerin’s pulse roared in his ears. His breathing was reduced to pants, and his fingers curled at his sides into tight fists.
Christ.
He had to get the hell out of here.

Swinging around, he barreled through the crowd, heading straight for the club’s main entrance. Beads of perspiration formed on his brow, and he swiped them away with a muttered curse. How many decades had to go by before he could let go of his past? Before the sights and sounds of what he’d just witnessed didn’t crawl under his skin and press every one of his
fuck-me
buttons.

Focus.

He had to stay on track. Remember why the hell he was there in the first place. Guerin jammed his palm against the club’s front door lever and stepped into the cold night.

Five minutes, the note had said. He reached inside his coat, pulled out his phone, and glanced at the display. Right on time: 1:15 a.m. The cell vibrated in his palm, signaling an incoming call. The screen lit with a single name: Arran. Guerin shook his head.
Dammit.
He didn’t have time to deal with the warrior right now. Guerin slid his index across the lower half of the screen, answering the call.

“What?” he barked into the cell.

“What do you mean, what?” Arran growled. “You were supposed to report two hours ago.”

“Well, excuse the fuck out of me, Daddy.” Guerin spat the words out through clenched teeth. “I’ve been a little busy.” He sucked in a calming deep breath. He knew Arran was in an ugly situation as well, keeping their secret from Kenric. Not an easy task. Silence lingered between them for a few tense moments, each man reining in the need to lash out. Guerin was about ready to chew out an “I’m sorry” when the sound of a prolonged exhale reached through the phone, and Arran broke the ice.

“Where are you?”

“A club called the Rose’s Thorn on the outskirts of Nuremberg. The female Markus arranged for me to meet said this was the last place she’d seen Eve.” Guerin shoved his hand in his pocket, going for the crumpled note inside. “At least the asshole has been good for something besides a fucking knife in our back.”

“Solid lead, then?”

“Maybe…” He tightened his grip on the thin slip of paper. “When I know more, you’ll be the first.”

“Guerin, how long—”

“I can’t do this right now.” He was already late. “I gotta go.” Guerin tapped end call, not bothering to wait for a reply. There wasn’t time for an explanation. He dropped the cell back inside his pocket and flipped the collar up around his neck, eliminating some of the cold bite of air against his exposed flesh. If all went well in the next few minutes, he’d have something to call home about.

Rolling his shoulders, Guerin attempted to loosen the knot of muscles between them and headed toward the rear of the club. His boots thumped against the damp concrete, but there was no reason to mask his presence. This particular informant had sought
him
out, knowing Guerin wouldn’t pass up the opportunity.

The question was: if this meeting wasn’t with Mistress Fallon, how the hell did he or she know he’d come looking for Eve?

No one in Germany was aware of his exact reason for being in the country except for…Ana. His mind raced back to the cinnamon-haired vampire from the previous night. But if it was Ana, why the game? The female could have told him all she’d known twenty-four hours ago.

Except for the low-level thump of the bass vibrating off the club’s walls, the rear lot appeared quiet. A lone black Mercedes sedan sat backed into the only available parking slot, its bumper sitting inches from the rear of the building. A run-down two-story dwelling filled the other side of the lot. The bottom floor seemed deserted. The few small windows facing the club from the second level were dressed with curtains and blinds, though no light shone from the inside.

Guerin reached beneath his coat and slid the dagger free from between the waistband of his jeans and lower back. He palmed the hilt of the blade, enjoying the warm, smooth feel of the metal against his skin. He stepped into the spill of white light illuminating the rear half of the Rose’s Thorn’s back lot—and stopped. The fine hairs at his nape lifted, sending a tingle down the center of his back. He straightened his spine, and his fingers tightened around his weapon. But his boots remained firmly planted. Guerin pulled in a lungful of air through his nostrils.

Human.

Interesting.

“I’m here,” Guerin announced. “So the next move’s yours.” He rotated on his heels, and froze.

Definitely not Ana.

The woman standing in front of him stole his ability to breathe.

Beautiful.
The word formed on his lips, but no sound emerged. Long waves of midnight hair spilled over her shoulders and framed a delicate heart-shaped face. A face that caused his fingers to itch with a desire to caress. She tilted her head slightly, and full red lips lifted at the corners into a semblance of a smile. Except he couldn’t help but notice it failed to reach her eyes. His gaze locked with irises the color of pale-blue tropical waters.
So familiar.
Guerin’s pulse quickened.
Son of a bitch.

Eve!

“Looking for me?” Two pearl-white fangs dropped from beneath her upper lip.

Guerin tensed, surged forward, and slammed into a wall of pain. A roar tore from his throat. His head was going to explode. He stumbled back, dropping the dagger from his hand. Lights swirled around him in a blur of dizzying color.
Shit.
Guerin grabbed his head and blinked rapidly, trying to bring the night back into focus.

What the hell was she doing to him?

His knees buckled. Down.
Fuck.
He was going down… The lights flickered.

Then faded to black.

Chapter Three

A groan vibrated at the back of Guerin’s throat. His shoulders throbbed and his wrists burned. Damn, his head felt as if it had been used in somebody’s perverse version of kickball. He would have laughed at the mental image if his brain didn’t hurt so fucking bad. Guerin dragged his eyelids open, and intense white light stabbed into his retinas. He jerked, slamming his lids shut.
Shit.

“Excellent,” a female voice stated from behind him. “You’re finally awake.”

Keeping his eyes closed, Guerin tilted his head in her direction. “I haven’t had my coffee yet,” he said, his words hoarse, coming out of his parched throat. “So watch out. I might bite.”

Guerin shifted the millimeter his restraints allowed and hissed. Manacles laced with silver seared the flesh surrounding his wrists and ankles.

He parted his eyelids once more and surveyed his situation.

Though from the all-too-familiar stance, Guerin didn’t need his sight to know the deal. He’d been cuffed to a St. Andrew’s cross, both arms raised and spread wide. His parted legs formed a perfect upside-down vee, and were secured to the lower half of the contraption. Except instead of facing his kidnapper, his cheek and chest were pressed into the wood of the cross, gifting his captor a full view of his naked back. Cool air caressed his skin, and he realized his briefs were the only item left covering his ass.

“Enjoy your moment of humor, vampire.” His captor’s hand snagged the hair at his nape, wrenching his head back. The tug at his roots sent a sharp twinge down his spine. The combination of the cross and the pain brought his cock roaring to life.
Fuck.
This was definitely not the time. “For it will most certainly be short-lived if you don’t tell me who sent you looking for Eve.”