Page 97 of Bought for Blood

The light is gone by half past five.

At six, a car comes up the drive.

I’m at the top of the stairs before it stops, moving so fast I have to grab the rail. The weight inside me pulls hard enough that a short, cut-off sound gets out of me.

Then I hear the engine properly, and it’s the wrong one.

A whine builds in my chest. I have to bite down to stop it from turning into a howl.

The car that stops at the doors is older and darker, with mud up to the sills. The man who gets out is tall and barrel-chested, and moves lightly despite it. His coat has been rained on somewhere. It isn’t raining here.

I’ve never seen him before. The sound that comes up my throat is not human.

Yves has the front door open before he reaches the steps. The two of them stand there, and neither one says hello.

“Crowe,” Yves says.

“Is she here?”

“On the stairs behind me.”

Crowe looks past him and up at me. He goes slowly. My face first, then my hands.

There’s no heartbeat in him. Cold air around him. Another vampire, but not like the others. This one’s newer.

“You’re the one he bought,” he says.

“That’s a hell of an opening.”

“I didn’t mean to offend.” He steps inside and stops well short of the stairs, both hands where I can see them. “Myname’s Gideon Crowe. I work with Bastien. I’m here to take you somewhere safer than this house.”

“Where is he?”

“He isn’t coming back tonight.”

He doesn’t soften it, and he doesn’t repeat it. He just waits, as if that sentence already covers whatever I ask next.

My wolf snarls, and it comes out of my mouth. Crowe doesn’t step back. He waits until I’ve finished.

“Get your coat,” he says.

“I’m not going anywhere with a man who won’t answer my questions.”

“You’ll go anyway. I have instructions, and I’m going to follow them. You can walk out to that car, or I can carry you out to it. I’d rather do the first one.”

“Try the second one.”

Yves comes around to the bottom of the stairs and clasps his hands.

“Mademoiselle. Please go with him.”

I look down at him. In all the time I’ve lived here, Yves has always been the voice of reason.

“You know something,” I say.

“I know what I was told. He said that if it went wrong, I was to get you out and not wait for word.” His hands stay where they are. “It’s gone wrong.”

The pull drags sideways under my ribs, and my knee gives against the rail.