Twisted

mush inside the supposedly indestructible skin. This time, the beasts raced for Aden.

He stood, cast a quick glance over his shoulder to ensure that Victoria was safe—she’d pressed herself against the far wall, her eyes wide with fear. Chompers stood beside her, clawed feet scraping at the dais as he tried to hold himself back, his nostrils flared, his fangs exposed, his saliva blowing at Victoria with every exhalation he made.

“To me,” Aden reminded him.

That beastly head swung around, and their gazes met. Like a favored pet who knew he’d get a treat, Chompers lost his air of aggression and clomped his way over. His tongue rolled out and his tail wagged. Then Aden was surrounded, being licked and nudged by others.

Chompers shoved his way to the front, snorting once, twice. He seemed to…frown?

“What’s wrong?” Aden asked him.

The beast sniffed, sniffed, and yes, he was indeed frowning.

“Do I smell different, boy?” Like a vampire?

A nod.

“And you don’t like it?”

Another nod.

The cold part of Aden took offence. The other part of him, still buried so deeply, wanted to fix it. “Come on,” he said, scratching behind Chompers’ ear. “Let’s all go outside and play. Maybe that’ll help.”

None of the vampires protested as he led the beasts outside the throne room and through the hallway and foyer. The floor shook, and the furniture rattled. Knickknacks—probably priceless vases and things collected throughout the ages—fell and shattered.

Aden didn’t pause, didn’t ask them to be careful, and finally stepped into the gloomy morning, his army behind him, practically ripping the front door from its hinges as they hurried to once again surround him.

He picked up a few sticks and tossed them. Those sticks were chased and grabbed between strong jaws in seconds, then brought back to him. How surreal they must look out here, playing fetch. A true stranger-than-fiction moment.

For a while, he was able to forget his troubles. But deep down, he suspected that the moment he left this clearing, his life would change—again—and still not for the better.

EIGHT

RILEY OF THE MANY NAMES raced through forests, along paved, graveled and dirt roads, through neighborhoods, congested shop ways and back alleys, his stride never slowing. Not when the sun fought free of the patchwork sky and burned him despite the chill in the air, not when that same chill agonized his lungs, and not when the moon at last appeared, a half crescent of gold he so wanted to howl at. Hour after hour disappeared, the miles eaten up.

To distract himself, he let his mind roll with everything he’d been called throughout the years. His brothers called him Riley the Randy. Or Riley the Shut the Hell Up. Victoria had recently begun to call him Riley the Pain Who Never Lets Me Get Away With Anything. And it was usually said with a stomp of her royal foot.

To enroll in Aden’s school, he’d taken Connall as a last name. Connall meant “great, mighty hound” in the ancient language. Victoria had suggested Ulrich, which meant “female warrior.” One of the first jokes she’d ever cracked. He’d been so proud of her, he’d almost done it. But Riley Ulrich was a little too foreign-sounding when he’d wanted only to blend in.

Maybe he should have gone with Riley Smith. Or Riley Jones.

Some of his past girlfriends had called him Riley the Asshat. Or, his personal favorite, Riley the I Hope You Contract VD, You Rotten Piece of Shit.

His relationships never tended to work out, for whatever reason. “Whatever” was always his fault, he knew. And not just because the girls told him so. He purposefully kept himself at a distance, for their good as well as his own. He had a possessive streak that went bone deep, and if he ever decided a girl was his, well, he’d keep her. Forever.

Sure, the girls might have wanted him in the moment, or even for a few weeks or months into the relationship, but that could change. She could change.

He wouldn’t change.

You couldn’t teach old dogs new tricks because the old dogs just freaking didn’t care to learn. Riley had lived over a hundred years. Among humans, he was old. Therefore, he wasn’t learning anything new.

Among his own people, he was still a babe, but that didn’t help his argument, so he wasn’t going to toss that into the equation.

Also, the girlfriend, when she truly got to know him, might not understand his lifestyle, might not like it and might decide to leave him. But if he’d taken things to the next level, it would be too late. Anyone you brought to Vlad’s home stayed in Vlad’s home.

Vlad wasn’t calling the shots anymore, but Riley understood the reasoning behind the edict. Protection of the species. Still. By bringing someone into the fold, you opened yourself up to challenges.

Look at Vic and Draven.

Riley hated challenges. What was his was his, and he didn’t share. And maybe he felt that way because he’d grown up in a pack, and every scrap of food, every piece of clothing, every room, bed and unmated female—and yes, every unmated male—had been considered community property. That had gotten old fast. So, like he’d said, he kept a part of himself distanced from his girlfriends and never allowed himself to consider one exclusively “his.”

Until Mary Ann.

Somehow she’d snuck past his defenses. Hell, maybe she’d muted them like she muted everything else. He’d wondered, finding it strange that he’d been intrigued by her since the beginning. And yeah, he’d also been panting for a little action. All that dark hair he’d wanted to fist, those so-deep-you-could-be-lost-forever eyes of fall-brown he’d wanted to search. That olive skin, pale with the slightest hint of color, he’d wanted to lick. (Hey, he was a dog.)

She was tall and slender, pretty in a quiet way, graceful in an even quieter way. Like, she might trip while she was walking, her mind lost in thought, but when she reached up to brush her hair out of her face, her fingers tracing over her cheeks and temples, she was all fluid motion, a study of sensuality.

She didn’t know her own appeal, and that had been obvious in the beginning, too. She sometimes looked down at her feet, shyly kicking stones. She never purposely sought attention; she sometimes blushed. She was reserved and nervous, yet determined to overcome every test tossed her way.

At first, he hadn’t known how smart she was. He’d just thought, wow, she’s pretty…and sweet…and more concerned with others than she is with herself. But he’d learned fast. Real fast. Her mind worked at an amazing speed. She took nothing at face value, researched everything and, though reserved and nervous, had no problem voicing her opinions with people she was comfortable with, believing what she said one hundred percent.

What’s more, she told the truth, always. No matter how harsh. He admired that trait because he was the same way.

She was emotional, too. Something he was not and had not realized he liked. Until her. She wasn’t afraid to cry all over him or hug him. Or to laugh and twirl around a room with happiness. Quite simply, she held nothing back. The complete opposite of him and everyone he’d ever dated, really.

She was vulnerable, and she didn’t care. She just…lived.

Leaving him hadn’t been about protecting herself. He knew that. Leaving him had been about protecting him. She didn’t want to hurt him, and he got that. He did. He didn’t want to hurt her, either. But separation? That wasn’t the answer.

So she was a drainer. So what? They’d deal. Every couple had their problems. And okay, okay. Her problem could kill him. They’d find a solution before that happened. Guaranteed.