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Holy Christ.
She'd drugged him.
But as bad as that news was, Dante registered something even worse as his blurring gaze struggled to hold on to the small hand that had managed to fell him with one blow. Between her thumb and forefinger, in that fleshy juncture of soft skin, the female bore a small birthmark.
Deep scarlet, smaller than a dime, the image of a teardrop falling into the bowl of a crescent moon seared into Dante's brain.
It was a rare mark, a genetic stamp that proclaimed the female sacred to those of Dante's kind.
She was a Breedmate.
And with her blood now pulsing within him, Dante had just completed one half of a solemn bond.
By vampire law, she was his.
Irrevocably.
Eternally.
The very last thing he wanted or needed.
In his mind, Dante roared, but all he heard was a low, wordless growl. He blinked dully, reaching out for the woman, missing her by an easy foot. His arm dropped like it was weighted down with irons. His eyelids were too heavy to lift more than a fraction. He moaned, watching his erstwhile savioress's features blur before his eyes.
She glared down at him, her voice edged with defiant fury.
"Sleep tight, you psychotic son of a bitch!"
* * *
Tess leaped back from her attacker, breath heaving out of her in a raw, rapid pant. She could hardly believe what had just happened to her. Or that she had managed to escape the crazed intruder at all.
Thank God for the tranquilizer, she thought, relieved that she'd had the presence of mind to remember the syringe in her pocket. Not to mention the opportunity to use it. She glanced at the spent needle, still clutched tightly in her hand, and winced.
Shit. She'd plugged him with the entire dose.
No wonder he dropped like a ton of bricks. He wasn't going to be waking up anytime soon either. Eighteen hundred milligrams of animal tranq was one long kiss good night, even for a massive guy like him.
A sudden pang of worry stabbed her.
What if she'd killed him?
Unsure why she should be concerned about someone who seemed bent on tearing her throat out with his teeth just a few minutes ago, Tess inched her way back to where the man lay.
He wasn't moving.
But he was breathing, she was relieved to note.
He was sprawled flat on his back, his muscular arms flung out on the floor where they'd fallen. His hands--those large mitts of brutal strength that had held her in a vise grip as he'd attacked her--were slack and still now. His face, which had been concealed by the fall of his dark hair, was almost handsome at rest.
No, not handsome, because even unconscious, his features held their stark angles and knife-edge planes. Straight black brows cut dark slashes over his closed eyes. His cheekbones were razor sharp, giving the slope of his face a lean, feral quality. His nose might have been perfect at one time, but the strong line of its bridge had a faint jag in it from an old break. Maybe more than one.
There was something strangely compelling about him, although she was certain she didn't know him. He wasn't exactly the kind of guy she'd associate with, and trying to picture him coming into the clinic for pet care seemed absurd.
No, she had never seen him before tonight. She could only pray that once she called the cops to come and collect him, she'd never see him again either.
Tess glanced down, and her gaze caught on the glint of metal concealed beneath his sodden jacket. She moved the leather aside and drew in her breath to see a curved blade of steel sheathed under his arm. An empty holster on the other side seemed to be missing a gun. Other hand-to-hand implements studded a wide black belt that wrapped around his slim hips.
This man was a menace, no doubt about that. Some kind of thug, who made the hard-asses down here on the riverfront look like rank poseurs. This man was hard and deadly, everything about him throwing off an air of violence.
