Page 1 of Blood Moon Heat

Prologue

Mina

Two years ago

I lay still as my bedroom window silently lifted.

It was him.

He was back.

The first time he came was the night of my sixteenth birthday. He’d stood outside, watching me through the pink lace curtains. I’d been afraid, unable to move, clutching the covers to myself as if that could protect me. He’d stayed out there for several hours, soundless, unmoving, then finally left.

The next day the vampire court informed my parents that my mate had come to them, that he was powerful, one of The Five, and he’d notified them of his intention to claim me when I came of age.

It was a full year before I saw him again. Once again, he’d stood at my window, so impossibly still, his deep violet eyes glowing through the shadows. He’d remained there, watching me for so long, I hadn’t been able to keep my eyes open, and somehow, I’d drifted off with that cold, hard gaze burning into me.

I probably should have been scared then, and I should be now, as he opened the window wide and stepped into my room another year later. I’d been expecting him, it was the night of my eighteenth birthday, but he’d never come into my room before.

My heart thudded wildly in my chest. My father always said I was too curious for my own good, that fear was healthy, that it stopped us from doing idiotic things that would get us killed. But I hadn’t been made that way. I mean, obviously, I felt fear, and the first time my mate came to the window, I’d definitely felt it. But fear had always…excited me, exhilarated me. And it wasn’t like he’d ever actually done anything besides watch me.

Was he going to talk to me this time? I inwardly cringed. My bedroom looked like someone had projectile vomited lace and silk all over it, but worse, all of it was in eye-watering shades of pink. Princess-chic my mother had called it. I hated it, and I hated pink—or at least I did now—but that didn’t matter to her. It was as if she thought a pink, lacy horror show of a bedroom would make me the female she wished I was. I only hoped the male soundlessly moving across the room didn’t think it was a reflection of my personality. I was no delicate little princess.

He stopped at the foot of my bed, and I kept my eyes screwed shut, gripping my covers to my chest, but the way my heart raced, he had to know I was awake. Still, I wasn’t afraid, not really. This was my mate. He wouldn’t hurt me.

My skin prickled and a wave of heat washed over me out of nowhere. I flushed hot, sweat immediately prickling my skin. I wanted to shove the covers off, but I couldn’t; he was just there, and it wouldn’t be proper for me to lie here in only my nightgown.

My mouth was suddenly bone dry. There was a glass of water on my bedside table, but I didn’t dare reach for it. I kept up my pretense of sleep, waiting for what would come next.

I listened for the sound of him breathing, but he wasn’t. I listened harder. His heart wasn’t beating, either, which meant he was very old, or he’d been so badly injured at some point that his heart had stopped. Maybe both. I barely contained a shiver at the thought.

As the hours ticked by—he stood motionless, utterly silent while I feigned sleep—my overheated skin grew hotter and tingly, and my shallow breaths turned to pants.

There was an ache between my thighs that had been slowly increasing as well and now it throbbed. I tried so hard not to move, but if I didn’t squeeze my thighs together to relieve the terrible ache, I’d cry. I couldn’t bear it another moment and gave in, squeezing my thighs together tight. A whimper escaped. It was small, but as soon as it left my mouth, a growl long and deep rolled over me from the foot of the bed.

Oh gods.

Finally, gathering my courage, I opened my eyes—but he was gone.

* * *

One year later

* * *

I was dying.

My body was burning up, and the deep, throbbing pain between my thighs had me squirming in my sheets. I lifted my head, refusing to pretend I didn’t know he was there, not this time.

My mate stood at the foot of my bed, his face concealed in shadow. He said nothing. He didn’t move. Not an inch. He just watched as I writhed and panted and sobbed in pain.

God, I wanted to beckon him to me, I wanted him to…gods, to touch me, to help me. He’d done this. Somehow, he was doing this to me. Last time, I’d suffered for days after he left. Sweating and crying, the pain in my lower belly and between my thighs so acute I thought I’d die. In my mind, I’d screamed for him. I’d screamed and screamed, but he never came. My parents didn’t know what was wrong with me, and I’d been too afraid to tell them the truth.

His head tilted to the side, studying me coldly, like I was some kind of fascinating insect, or an experiment.

Why was he doing this to me?

I shoved the covers off, too hot to stay beneath them a moment longer. My skin was on fire, my hair plastered to the sides of my face. My nightgown, damp with sweat, clung to my body, and when I squeezed my legs together, they were slick. Embarrassment filled me, and heat rushed to my cheeks.

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