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Then I froze. Backed up.
But Stefan and Martin had ranged themselves behind me, a solid, immovable wall.
My hands fisted at my sides. “You’re not Gabriel,” I rasped as the man turned to face me.
2
Gabriel
My brother Rafe and I stared at each other, slit-eyed.
“Well?” I smirked. “Is that the best you’ve got?”
We were alone in my private gym, stripped to the waist. A training fight, but with real knives—switchblades long enough to plunge into a vampire’s heart. The only elongated blades were stainless steel, not silver. Even a deep wound wouldn’t kill us, although it would hurt like a motherfucker.
Rafe prowled around me, torso damp with sweat, and then lunged, knife out.
I twisted aside. The blade drew a thin red line across my ribs. I pivoted, slammed an elbow into his kidney—and with my other hand, jabbed my knife into his back beneath his rib cage. Not deep enough to do any real damage, but enough to draw blood.
Rafe grunted and dropped into a forward roll, springing back up to face me. “Got you,” he taunted, his gaze flicking to the blood on my abdomen. His fangs lengthened.
“That papercut?” I snorted and glanced down at where the thin line was already healing over. “You’d be dead if this was silver.” I brandished my blade at him.
Rafe danced around me, searching for an opening. “Like hell I would.”
I crouched, instinctively peeling my lips to show my fangs. This might be a mock fight, but that didn’t mean we didn’t take it seriously. Winning was in our blood.
Father had made sure of it. Me and my two brothers had been home-schooled, with half our day given to boot-camp-style training: martial arts, street fighting, and how to handle the special silver switchblades that were the most efficient way to stake a vampire. His three sons might be dhampirs—half-vampire, half-human—but he’d honed us like weapons.
Rafe feinted—and I leapt, deliberately overshooting him. Mid-stride, I flipped the blade in my palm and slammed the base into the back of his head. He stumbled forward and dropped to his knees.
I grabbed his chin and yanked back his head. “Give.” I touched the sharp point to his throat.
He snarled and gripped my wrist. I dug my knee into his back to block whatever evasive maneuver he was planning. Last week, when I’d gotten him in a similar hold, he’d managed to toss me over his shoulder. I was damned if he’d do it again.
On a nearby ledge, our phones buzzed in unison. I stilled, breathing hard, and released my brother.
“That’s Father.”
Rafe nodded and came to his feet in a single fluid motion.
I strode to the ledge, tapped the screen. “He wants me downtown ASAP.”
“Same,” Rafe said, looking at his phone. “Wonder what bug he’s got up his ass now?”
I jerked a shoulder. “Hell if I know.”
But we duly headed for the showers. When the Primus of the Kral Vampire Syndicate summoned you, you obeyed. Even if you were his sons.
No, especially if you were his sons.
Ten minutes later, we were tricked out in suits and ties. Father was old-fashioned that way. Business was conducted in the proper attire.
The private gym was directly below my penthouse in the apartment building I owned on the Upper East Side. We ignored the elevator to jog the eight flights down the service stairs to the underground garage.
“I’ll drive,” I said as we entered the garage.
Rafe pulled out a quarter. “Flip you for it.”
