“Let’s hope not. I have hexed cuffs in my pocket, or—“
He taps his firearm as if he’d use the gun if I were in danger.
I inch closer, the drape of cloth brushing my fingertips. “Promise me you won’t use your weapon.”
Instead of acknowledging my request, he juts his chin toward a partially open curtain exposing a few men. A bit of laughter wafts through the cell as the comedy sitcom streams. “I’ll be right over there.”
Just his touch of confidence in my husband serves to calm me. Maybe Ben hasn’t changed all that much. I lower my shoulders a tad, and I take a much-needed breath. Behind Ben’s curtain, I hear cloth rustle and bedsprings shift. I’m positive my husband is awake. A noise resonates from within, sounding almost feral, which Tricia has debriefed me to understand. A hiss precedes a growl, which precedes an attack. The sound is more of a purr, which Tricia’s explained signifies pleasure. With all my focus and hope rolled into a nervous ball trapped in the pits of my belly, I grip each panel, exposing a single vertical steel bar.
“Ben? I’m here. It’s Camille. Your wife.”
I spread the curtains with trembling hands, pledging my strength to accept my vampire husband. But as my brain attempts to wrap around what I see—A somewhat emaciated, skimpily clothed male, who’s too thin to be my Ben, but who’s positioned himself between a woman’s bare legs, his head flush to her exposed thigh.
I scream.
Chapter Two
Ben
Snaked around a female donor, my fangs plunged gum-deep against her bare inner thigh, my primal hunger shatters into a thousand pieces. Before I realize the sound of my wife’s voice isn’t a well-coddled illusion, but her terror-filled scream, I shove the donor to the floor and white-knuckle the steel bars. I open my mouth, drawing up my fangs so I can speak. “Camille, my precious Camille.”
“Your mouth. On that woman. Your teeth. Your eyes.”
I spin, shame darting through me as I swipe at the blood dripping from my lips, but when I face Camille, I know I’m too late to reverse what she’s seen.
Blatant betrayal shines in her accusatory expression. She shakes her head too fast, her blond ponytail beating her shoulders as she staggers away from me. Shock apparent by her big blue globes.
She hugs her arms. “I never believed you’d died. I waited, I hoped, and I prayed you’d come back to me, but this… You must be truly dead to be so alive and to have never once reached out to me. Never once gave me the briefest clue you existed. Do you know how many times I’ve sat against our tree, pleading for a sign? Wanted to find something there you’d left for me?”
A warm droplet falls from my lip, trails down my chin, but when I glance to the floor, it’s a bloody tear. “I want to talk to you. I want to tell you everything, but…”
She eyes the cadet, who’s fixing her pants in my peripheral.
“It’s classified. I’ve heard. But my husband wouldn’t let anything come between us. Not the US government, not even death.”
I jerk the door, quickly realizing I’m locked behind bars, as I’m protecting the cadet from the other vamps, her blood as attractive to them as spring blooms are to a desert hive. “It’s not what you think. She’s a donor. Food.”
Any remaining blood painting Camille’s cheeks a peachy glow turns ashen. “Now I know what happened to the guard—”
Before I can demand the cadet to unlock the cell door, Camille’s legs buckle, and she crumples as her eyes roll back.
Anderson’s faster than I’ve ever seen him as he dives, grabbing her before she slams onto the concrete floor.
He eases her gently into his lap as he stoops. “Ben, stay back. Cadet, head to the infirmary. That’s an order.”
Fuck if I’ll let a lower-ranked officer tell me what to do. “Give me the keys. Now.”
While the donor fumbles in her pocket, Camille’s eyes flutter as she attempts to bring me into focus.
I snag the jangling keys as soon as they’re exposed. In a blur of speed, I kneel over my wife as I shove Anderson and send him sliding down the hallway.
He’s knocked out, his limp body propped against the far wall, but I know him. He’s as quick to heal as I am. Even though he acts human, I believe he’s something else.
“Ben, I’m sorry,” she murmurs.
Hell, she’s the last one who should be apologizing. A disapproving groove cuts her forehead, and I don’t need telepathic abilities to interpret what she’s thinking: My husband’s a cheater, a freak, a violent monster, a vampire who can’t control himself. He deserves to be locked up. He’s a danger to the world. But I’m too screwed up by his loss to do what’s right for me and leave his sorry vampire ass.
I rock her, cradle her head to my cold dead chest as I’ve dreamed of our reunion every night for five torturous years. “This isn’t how I wanted it to go down. I love you so much.”
I stroke her beautiful blond locks, wishing I could right any negative experience she’s endured, including the shit I’ve put her through, as well as holding accountable the one who created that new scar above her brow. Yeah, I’m melodramatic, but this is my Camille. “I’m here, baby. I’ll never leave you again. You don’t know how many times I tried to escape and come home to you. You don’t know how I’ve suffered to protect you. I need you to believe I’m protecting you now. I’d never hurt you.”
But I’m not sure, even accidentally, I’d never harm her. Anderson’s unmoving, and the donor hasn’t managed to retreat as swiftly as I wish she had. As I’d imagined
