Page 22 of The Huntress

If Valerie’s sickness and impending death was real, then Callista as a detective had to be real as well. If she used witchcraft to entice him, she must not be aware of it. He hadn’t changed his vendors or his routine, so it wasn’t potions or tainted blood. Nor had he met any witches of late, taken one to bed, or suffered their companionship otherwise, so charms were also a no.

Only once had he misread the signs and succumbed to an unpleasant lust spell. For decades Sylvester had never let him forget how he’d saved his older brother. Gabriel had learned to be cautious after that.

He brushed his fingers over her delicate nose and across her petal-soft pink lips, the heat of her breath warming them. The urge to kiss her, to taste her again, shuddered through him. It tempted him beyond his current level of control.

He drew in a ragged breath. With a gentleness he hadn’t known he was capable of, he placed her on the chaise, making certain she was comfortable. Thankfully his overindulgence wasn’t enough to kill her. His blood would help her heal, rest, and recover.

Gabriel searched her scalp for her wound, his touch featherlight. When his fingers found the lump, he tugged her forward to lick it. That tiny taste of her life’s essence had him shivering with need, even though he’d had a fair share a minute ago. With a flick of his tongue across her pale skin, he healed the scratches marring her.

He rose but paused to stare at her, a question between his brows, wondering what would happen next.

Could he let her leave? Could he keep her? Would she mind? The idea of enslaving her didn’t sit well, no matter how much she tempted him.

With a start, he jerked back to the present. How long had he regarded her? He left to take a shower—the running water would give him a respite from her enticing scent.

Chapter Eleven

A LIFE ALTERED

CalliejerkedawakewithGabriel’s name on her lips.

How long had she been asleep?

Asleep? She snorted. She had fainted, good and proper. Throwing a hand to her head, she searched for the lump but didn’t find it. There wasn’t any pain, either. If it wasn’t for her blood-matted hair, she would have doubted the memory.

Swinging her legs over the side of the chaise, she blinked at her surroundings. What was she doing when she passed out?

Oh, yes.

She lifted her wrist to study it, seeing no marks or scars. Ignoring the blood smears, hers and his, pleasure zinged through her at the memory of his lips on her skin. She rubbed where he’d bitten her, trying to erase the erotic sensation that lingered.

Damn suckbloods, using their unnatural gifts so willy-nilly. There should be a law for that. She snorted—who would enforce it? Law enforcement was understaffed as it was, which was why she investigated Carter in her private time.

“Gabriel?” she called, standing up and stretching. It had been a while since she had slept so well. With a gasp, she remembered her sister. Idiot. How could she forget?

“Gabe, damn it!” Panic dominated her voice.

Her heart leaped and bounced, affecting her breathing. On trembling legs, she rushed to where the door used to be, but there was no seam, no handle. There had to be a mechanism somewhere, anywhere. Her heartbeat hammered in her ears. She rubbed her hand along the doorframe, searching for a dent, a button…hell, she’d be happy with a crack.

“What is it?” Gabriel asked, leaning against another doorway.

She paused. Clothed, he was gorgeous, but with a towel wrapped low around his hips, his chest bare, his black hair damp...he was devastating.

Focus, Callie.

“Wh-what is the time? Is the race finished? Do you know who crossed the finish line? Have the conversions taken place yet?”

He strode across to her, grasping her shaking hands in his damp ones. “Tell me everything.”

She fought his hold, the fire of his touch. “I don’t have time to explain it. Crap, I shouldn’t have stayed. Val needs me.”

He held firm, peace pouring off him as if time was at his beck and call. “Spare me a few minutes.”

His gaze snared hers, and she nodded, pinching her lips.

After guiding her back to the chaise, he sat next to her. She tried to concentrate, to gather her thoughts in some sort of order, but he smelled so damn good, and heat emanated from him. She trailed his ripped torso with her fingertips where his wound had been. The skin was smooth—there wasn’t even a scar.

His stomach trembled, and he grabbed her hand in his, stilling her stroking fingers. “Start with your name.” His voice was hoarse.

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