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The vampires were still scrutinizing me. Another wave of longing washed over me. There was something so seductive about how a vampire watched a human.
Gabriel Kral had watched me like that, his green eyes hungry, and I’d fallen into his lap like a ripe plum.
But I’d been young, then. Barely out of my teens and starry-eyed with love. I was older now, and harder.
My shoulders curved inward, the adrenalin surge that had carried me across the parking lot gone. Almost too exhausted and hungry to be afraid, and mourning the loss of those damn peaches nearly as much as the switchblade, my only silver weapon.
“Fine.” I forced my spine to straighten. “Just tell me there’s going to be food on this jet.”
* * *
They did feed me on the flight to New York.
And I ate, even if I felt like beef-on-the-hoof being fattened for the butcher.
A pretty flight attendant handed me a menu and invited me to order anything I wanted. I started with three appetizers, then moved on to a salad of tender greens topped with cranberries and candied pecans. Next was crab-stuffed flounder with a side of herbed red potatoes that I washed down with what was probably an expensive white wine, given I was on a private jet.
The vampires slouched on leather couches, sipping wine and speaking in undertones to each other.
I was full now, but I stubbornly kept eating, only because I caught Martin’s envious glance. A vampire can drink a glass of wine and maybe have a bite of food once every few days or so. Other than that, they have to stick to blood.
After a while, I’ll bet it gets pretty damn boring.
A chocolate mud pie topped with whipped cream and shaved chocolate rounded out my meal. I held Martin’s gaze as I forked up a large bite.
Eat your heart out, blood sucker.
We landed at La Guardia well after dark, and took another limo into Manhattan. My palms were sweaty now, all that rich food churning in my stomach.
Another limo conveyed us to the Upper East Side, a street right on Central Park that reeked of old money and behind-the-scenes power. Prewar apartment buildings. Carefully trimmed trees. Small rectangles of annuals surrounded by miniature black-iron fences. Even the trash cans were brand-new and of coated green steel.
The heat was still stifling as I exited the limo flanked by Stefan and Martin. They were silent now, cold-eyed. They marched me between two potted orange trees. One doorman let us in, and another pushed the elevator button.
The ride up was so quiet I could hear the frantic pounding of my heart. I pushed my back against the brass bar and stared unseeingly at the shiny metal doors.
Gabriel.
Ironic, that a vampire prince had an angel’s name. And not just any angel, but God’s left hand man. Protector—and destroyer.
I should hate him for dragging me back to him like this. He’d sworn the decision was up to me.
But a small, secret part of me was excited. The part that still wanted him, no matter how wrong it was for both of us.
The elevator reached the top floor. We stepped out into an apartment with high ceilings and a parquet floor polished to a golden sheen. The tall windows were made of that special dark glass that allows vampires to see out even on a sunny day. Right now, though, the view was of Central Park at night, its winding wooded paths dotted by lights.
Stefan and Martin escorted me through a big-ass foyer into a living room. The lighting was dim—vampires have eyes like cats—and the furniture elegant but comfortable. Butter-soft black leather, a plush red-and-black carpet, black metal lamps with shades shaped like tulips and lilies. I suppose if you live as long as vampires do, you appreciate comfort as much as beauty.
Four women in skimpy black dresses lounged on the couches or on velvet pillows near an unlit fireplace. Their necks were bare, the tiny marks from a vampire feeding barely visible. They would’ve been beautiful if not for their empty eyes. They smiled a greeting at the two vampires with me but remained where they were like the obedient thralls they were.
We entered a long gallery hung with dark, moody paintings that together were probably worth as much as the entire apartment building. I glimpsed the name Degas scrawled in the corner of a painting of a woman drinking alone in a bar. Another depicted a hazy river at sunset that even I recognized as a Monet.
We turned into a library filled with wall-to-wall bookshelves. A tall, dark-haired man stood near the windows, looking out at the busy street below.
A tingle went up my spine.
Gabriel Kral.
My lover. My vampire prince…and the heir to the Kral Vampire Syndicate.
