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She grunted.
I kept staring. Somehow, she managed to look both delicate and edgy. And beautiful. Stunningly, jaw-droppingly beautiful.
A blur of motion. The sharp point of her switchblade pressed into my sternum. “Let me put that another way. I want you to stop staring at me. Now.”
I made a scoffing sound. “We both know you’re not going to use that.”
She bared her teeth. “Yet.”
Her scent filled my head, fresh and green, like summer grass after a rain.
My gaze went to her mouth. It was soft and full. Unpainted. Bitable.
I wanted her. Maybe because the tranq had messed with my brain, but I wanted her.
I gave her a slow smile. “Whatever you say, cher.”
“Don’t. Flirt. With. Me.” She pressed the point in harder. The tip pierced my T-shirt but not my skin.
I raised a brow, innocent as fuck. “Was I flirting?”
“Yes.”
“Mm.” I forced my gaze back to her eyes, trying to see them through the dark glasses. “By the way, I’m impressed.”
I heard the sound of her back teeth grinding together. “At what?”
“Your control with your blade.”
Her scowl deepened. She sat back, shook her head. “I can’t figure out if you’re too dumb to know you’re in deep shit or if you just don’t care.”
I moved a shoulder. “Does it matter?”
“No.” She retracted the switchblade.
Snick.
I waited for the second snick, but she shoved the blade into her pocket. I decided to take that as a positive sign.
I strained against the cuffs one last time, twisting my wrists in opposite directions to break the plastic, but it was too thick. Military grade. I was definitely in deep shit. I gave up and leaned my head against the side of the van.
The burst of adrenaline that had brought me back to consciousness had worn off. I’d been dog-tired at the airport, and now I had whatever they’d injected me with to contend with as well. I slipped into a groggy, half-awake state.
A half-hour passed, maybe more. The van slowed and joined the halting Paris morning traffic—or at least, I assumed we were in Paris. Trucks rumbled, motorbikes accelerated, and pedestrians hurried past, heels tattooing the pavement. From somewhere nearby came the nee-eu, nee-eu of a French emergency vehicle.
The van stopped and the vampires got out of the front seat. I straightened up. My hands had gone numb. I rolled my shoulders and flexed my fingers, trying to get the circulation going again.
Reaper rose to her feet, head bent so it wouldn’t hit the roof.
The back door opened. The vampires had put on hats to protect themselves from the morning sun, to go with the sunglasses and gloves they already wore.
They’d also dropped their glamours.
I strained to focus. The blond man looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him until his companion said his name.
Étan. The Tremblay Syndicate lieutenant.
My stomach lurched, and not from the drug this time.
