Page 24 of Hunting His Vampire Mate

They—we—didn’t need to breathe.

Another possibility slid into place. And I knew it had to be true.

It was Michael, outside. He was digging a hole. A hole large enough for a body, from the sounds of it. For my body, most likely.

That was a good thing. Though, I would have preferred that he destroy my bodybeforeI woke back up, but he’d made me a promise that I would never become a monster like we hunted. This was him keeping that promise. After he was done digging, he’d come back in and do what had to be done.

The thought didn’t fill me with any fear. Instead, I felt crashing relief.

I had done the right thing, trusting him. Loving him. There was no way in hell he’d let me spend even a single day walking the earth as a monster.

But why let me wake up at all? Michael knew what to do: sever the head. Or burn the body. Or drive a wooden stake into the heart. Any one of those things and I never would’ve woken back up.

Or maybe he didn’t know for sure that I would turn? Maybe he thought I was just dead, full stop, and he was out there digging my grave?

But that didn’t make any sense, did it? Because why would he have tied me up, then?

And why the hell would he have left my arms free?

The thought was unsettling because it didn’t line up with any of the possibilities in my head. If he knew I was going to turn—and he obviously did, because he’d tied me up with silver-coated rope—then why give me any chance to get away at all? He’d knotted the ropes with a good knot, but not that good. I could’ve undone it, if I wanted to. Michael knew I was capable of it, too.

So why even take that chance? Why give me any hope of stopping a blade from taking my head off? Or a stake from piercing my heart? Why give me any hope of delaying the inevitable and making things worse for both of us?

I couldn’t make sense of it.

So, I just sat there, not breathing, my throat on fire, hunger gnawing away deep inside of me, and listened to him outside, fighting the instinct to free myself. I heard the definitivethunk! of metal sliding into soil—probably him sticking the shovel into the earth. Then, a moment later, he grunted faintly and I knew, from the sound of that, much clearer than it should’ve been, that itwasMichael outside. Then there was a faint thud. I recognized the sound perfectly well. I had been raised with it. It was the sound of a body being tossed into an unmarked grave. After a long pause, there was another grunt and another thud, just like the one before.

Make thattwobodies being thrown into an unmarked grave, then. I listened for the sound of a third body—there had been three vampires, after all. But instead, there came more sharp metallic sounds and the unmistakable noise that falling soil makes as it strikes the ground. Michael was filling the grave back in.

So, he’d killed two out of three of the vampires. The third one must’ve escaped. And he’d taken the time to clean up, which meant that he hadn’t been followed by the police.

And we were clearly somewhere secluded but still nearby—easy driving distance from Ontario, at least. And then it clicked for me: we were at the abandoned ranch in southwestern Idaho, practically right on the border between Idaho and Oregon. We’d found it years ago and stocked the farmhouse next door to the barn with some of the basics: a stash of non-perishable food, some water, a large bottle of high-proof whiskey that could double as a better-than-nothing antiseptic in a pinch, a couple of the more essential toiletries, some blankets, a length of nylon rope—which was obviously what was securing me to the post, now that I thought about it—and a first aid kit. And, of course, we’d also stashed a pair of machetes—because you never know when another weapon might come in handy. Maybe he’d use one of them on me. They were sharp enough that it wouldn’t be such a bad way to go. Better than if he doused me with gasoline and lit me on fire.

It was smart of him to come here, too. There was nothing but desert in all directions, surrounded by low foothills, and not a neighbor for miles. Hell, the ranch wasn’t even visible from the main road. It was an ideal setting for this. And the country around us was desolate, but pretty in its own way. Not a bad place to be buried.

After what seemed like an eternity, Michael stopped filling in the grave outside. I heard footsteps as he came into the barn. He was moving cautiously, almost warily. Like he expected that I might jump out at him or something. I watched as his eyes raked the barn, a gun in his hands, already at the ready, held in front of him with both hands on the grip and one finger on the trigger, so he could fire at a moment’s notice. It was filled with eitherwooden or silver bullets, no doubt. He carried both on his person at all times.

In movies, you’ll often see the good guys with their gun in one hand, at waist level, when they’re hunting down a bad guy during the climax of the film. That’s mostly wrong in a life-or-death situation. Because then you have to spend an extra couple of seconds to bring the gun up, put your other hand on the grip, and aim. Those extra seconds could cost you your life, especially if the other guy is armed, too. That’s triply true when dealing with creatures that can move with blinding speed and don’t even need a weapon to kill you.

Good. He was being smart, then. Cautious. He knew what I was, now. He had no illusions that I was safe to be around, just because he had known me in life.

I watched him as his gaze landed on me, right where he’d left me.

He let out a long exhale. It sounded way too relieved. He stepped closer and then paused, eying the ropes that held me. I clearly hadn’t even tried to undo the knots and I was certain he saw that.

“You had to wake up alone. I’m sorry about that. I overestimated how long it would take you to come back.”

I frowned.

Why was he apologizing for that? Shouldn’t he be apologizing for letting me wake up at all? And where the fuck was that machete? A gun wasn’t going to do a goddamn thing, unless he had a wooden bullet in the chamber, and he got me right in the heart with it. Michael was a great shot, but anyway, why would he waste bullets when he didn’t have to?

“I’m guessing you’re upset,” Michael said, settling down cross-legged right in front of me, just outside of reach.

“Not upset,” I corrected, feeling my eyebrows pulling together in confusion. “I’m just waiting for you to get on with it.”

“On with…” Michael trailed off, frowning back at me. Then, a moment later, understanding dawned in his eyes. His expression went grim. “Oh. Right.That.”

“Yeah,” I said stiffly, feeling dread squeezing up my insides. I had the horrible feeling that I knew exactly where this conversation was headed. “Preferably before I murder you for your blood.”

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