Page 1 of Hot Blooded

Chapter 1

For the fifth time, Amos found himself adjusting the floral arrangement on the coffee table, twisting it ninety degrees to the right, frowning, then twisting it back. He clenched his jaw, still dissatisfied. He shouldn’t have gone with red. He’d thought the big, scarlet roses looked vibrant and lively on the florist’s website, but now that they’d been delivered, he realized they were the exact color of fresh blood.

Blood.

A jolt ran through him, making his spine stiffen and his hands shake. “Stop it,” he muttered to himself, curling his hands into fists until the jittery feeling passed. He stared at the flowers, wishing he’d gotten something more cheerful, something colored like daylight and happiness—sunflowers, maybe. Or daisies.

Too late now. The donor from the blood matching agency was due any minute. The sun had set an hour ago, and he’d spent the entirety of that hour fidgeting around his house. God, he wished they’d get here already. The longer he waited, the worse his fangs ached and the higher the hunger rose inside him. He was old enough to control himself, but it’d be a more enjoyable experience if he didn’t have to control himself. If he could just have a nice, luxurious drink without terrifying the donor.

Amos hadn’t had live blood in nearly a century. Not since he was a young vampire, freshly turned. He’d spent a few decades living as a predator, taking victims indiscriminately. He wasn’t proud of those days, but at least he hadn’t been as bad as some. As far as he knew, he’d never killed any of his victims. Just left them injured and traumatized.

He clenched his fists again.

The donor was a willing participant. They were getting paid. They knew what they were getting into. No harm was being done.

The doorbell rang suddenly, and Amos nearly jumped out of his skin. He leapt up from the settee, smoothed his shirt, his pants, his hair, and then hurried to the door—tripping over the rug on his way and then nearly knocking over a bookshelf as he righted himself. He took a second to breathe, to steady himself.

The doorbell rang again. His fangs throbbed. Saliva pooled in his mouth. He ran a shaking hand through his hair again and went to the door. Feeling as if he might snap the doorknob clean off, he somehow managed to open it smoothly. He put a polite, non-predatory smile on his face to greet his donor. But as the door swung open and his visitor was revealed in the soft glow of the porch light, his stomach dropped.

Oh no.

She was a woman. A very pretty woman, with abundant curling black hair and dark eyes that shone like molasses and warm golden-toned skin that spoke of summer sunshine. She was nearly as tall as Amos, with a lushly curved body that, even beneath the loose cover of pale blue scrubs, looked soft and warm and inviting.

Another shiver ran through him. He stiffened, suppressing it.

“Hi,” the woman said, looking wary. She stood with hunched shoulders, her hands knotted together in front of her. Her big, dark eyes regarded him like a rabbit before a hawk. “I’m here from HemoMatch. Are you Amos Hansen?”

Amos couldn’t tell how old she was. He’d been turned at forty-two years old and would perpetually look it, but people didn’t seem to show their age as quickly nowadays as they had when he’d been mortal. She could’ve been anywhere from twenty to forty, for all Amos could tell. Whatever her age, there was something about her that made him want to put a blanket around her shoulders and bring her a hot drink. There was a weariness to her, a hunted quality that evoked protective instincts he’d thought long lost.

He made himself relax, trying to look as cheerful and non-threatening as possible. “Yes, that’s me. And you are?”

She blinked. “You don’t know who I am? Didn’t they tell you I was coming?” She shifted slightly, looking as if she wanted to bolt.

Amos nodded slowly, trying not to startle her. “Yes, of course. But they only told me that they’d matched a donor for me and the time you would be here.”

“Oh.” She gripped the strap of her bag tightly, uneasy. “Okay. That’s weird.”

He frowned. “Is it?”

“Yeah. I’m a stranger. They didn’t tell you anything about me? You’re just going to let some rando into your house?”

He laughed. “You couldn’t hurt me.”

Her eyes went wide.

Appalled by himself, he quickly tried to backpedal. “Er, I mean, the agency does very thorough background checks.”

She arched a skeptical brow at him, but the fear had lessened in her eyes.

“I believe they withhold information about donors to prevent predatory clients from abusing the service as a hunting ground,” he added.

And just like that, she blanched again. Christ, he was stupid.

“Look, I promise you don’t need to be afraid of me. I have no desire to harm you. But if you’re uncomfortable—“ he was choked into silence as the breeze shifted, sweeping her scent towards him.

She smelled divine. Like Christmas dinner and birthday cake and the finest pinot noir, but really, like none of those things. Her scent was uniquely her and it made his fangs throb and his hands shake. He needed to taste her. It’d been so long, and she smelled like the best thing in the world. He swallowed convulsively before he started drooling.

“If you’re uncomfortable,” he managed to continue, his voice slightly hoarse, “You can leave. I’ll understand.”

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