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Hammer’s gaze softened. “Thanks. See you when you get back.”
“Sure.”
They both understood that if Nick was truly done, no force on earth could make him stay. Many immortals—vampires and born shifters included—met their demise by their own hands sooner or later. Forever wasn’t all it was imagined to be.
But as Nick stripped off his clothing and shifted, then took off through the forest, he knew his friend was right—Nick did care. Maybe too much.
Whether that would prove to be his downfall or his salvation remained to be seen.
Two
Calla Shaw swept through the corridors, fuming.
Gods! What the hell has that high-handed, arrogant brother of mine gotten me into now? Who does he think he is?
Just because Tarron Romanoff was the leader of their coven—as well as prince of all the vampires in North America—didn’t mean he had the right to tamper with her life. To destroy her hard-won peace.
Even their toughest guards had the good sense to move out of her way as they took in her murderous glare. She usually considered herself a calm, pleasant person, but that flew out the window with the phone call she’d received. Eviscerating her brother with a rusty spike sounded like a pretty good idea.
When she barged in, Tarron was seated behind his desk in his office, reading some papers, head down, shoulder-length dark brown hair falling around his face. The door banged into the wall and his head snapped up, expression startled.
“Calla! What’s wrong?” He stood.
“What’s wrong?” She stared at him incredulously. “Are you serious? I get a phone call from the Russian vampire prince himself thanking me very enthusiastically for inviting him to our party, saying he’s looking forward to seeing me, and you ask what’s wrong?”
“Calm down and have a seat, would you?”
“I’ll calm down when you tell me you aren’t playing matchmaker.” When he shifted in his chair, surprise turning to guilt, she marched up to his desk. “Way to throw me face-first under the bus, big brother.”
“Rolan Stanislav is a great catch,” he said defensively.
“That old fogie is nine hundred years old!”
“So what? We’re over four hundred, which doesn’t exactly make us spring chickens,” he said evenly. “You know very well he’s quite attractive, and any number of female vamps would kill to mate with him.”
That, at least, was the truth. Rolan was tall, powerful, with long white blond hair and jade green eyes. She didn’t know him very well personally, but he was widely considered kind and honorable. Admirable.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t Stefano. The thought of replacing her dead mate made her sick with guilt, though it had been decades since he was killed.
She shook herself from taking that nightmare trip down memory lane. “Then they’re welcome to him.”
“Just one problem with that—he wants you. Has for ages, Calla, ever since he recovered from his mate’s death. How long are you going to avoid him? Hell, not just him but the entire male population?”
“I don’t care what he or anyone else wants! European vampires are stuck in the Middle Ages when it comes to just about everything, including their views on women.” That wasn’t necessarily true anymore, and it felt like the lame excuse it was. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not mating with him and that’s final.”
“I’m not asking you to mate with him. Just meet with him, socialize a bit. Give him a chance, for me? He’s a suitable match who would bring two vampire covens together as one unbeatable force. Nobody would mess with us then.”
“Nobody would mess with us now,” she insisted. “Except for Carter and his band of thugs, there isn’t anyone who’s dared in the past seventy years.”
“I never take our safety for granted.” His lips thinned in anger.
“Neither do I. But I’m sure there’s another way to merge with another powerful coven besides selling me to the highest bidder.”
At that, he looked shocked and hurt. “I would never suggest such a thing. Calla, I love you. I just want to see you happy again.”
“And if you can kill two birds with one stone, all the better?”
“Yes. Is that so wrong?”
