from a well a few miles away.
But more than anything he smelled her.
The sweet scent of cotton candy and warm, ripe woman clung to him and filled his head and made him want to haul the bike around and head back to the inn.
To her.
Eight hours, and he still hadn’t had enough. When he’d left her, she’d felt as hot and vibrant as the moment he’d met her, and so he’d had a hell of a time tearing himself away. Shit, he’d stayed an extra ten minutes. Touching her with his eyes. Tracing her features. Watching her sleep. Wanting to touch her again with a desperation he’d never felt before.
He gunned the engine faster, eating up gravel at a frenzied pace.
Ten friggin’ minutes.
He still couldn’t believe it. One had turned to two, and before he’d known it, the alarm on his watch had gone off, sending a jolt of reality through him. He had to get to shelter before he burned to a crisp.
He saw his turn just up ahead. It was little more than a break in the trees, but the path up into the hills was smooth and wide enough for his bike. He slowed and swerved and then he hauled ass again, ducking every so often to avoid a low-hanging branch. Time ticked away and soon pinpoints of light broke through the trees. A few deadly rays needled him here and there as he rushed for cover.
Faster.
Faster.
There.
The trees thinned, and he saw the mouth of the large cave he’d scoped out the night before. A burst of heat washed over him as he broke into a clearing and zoomed the last few feet into the welcoming blackness. The pain blinded him and he skidded to a stop, barely missing the rock wall to his right. The engine ground to a halt and died.
Jake sat there for several seconds, letting the darkness swallow him up and cool his burning flesh. The smell of smoke faded and his vision soon returned. He blinked, and his eyes quickly adjusted to the pitch-black interior.
He shifted into neutral and walked the bike several feet. Rounding a corner, he headed deeper into the cave. The faint sound of running water lured him until the small tunnel he traveled finally opened up into a large black cavern. Water bubbled from an underground spring nearby, dribbling over the rocks and splattering into a small, crystal clear pool.
He killed the engine and parked the bike. Grabbing the leather saddlebags draped over the gas tank, he retrieved his sleeping bag and stretched it out on the dirt floor. He tossed his hat to the ground and pulled off his T-shirt before turning his attention to the rest of his body. He’d suffered only minor burns—his hands, his neck, the bottom of his face—thanks to his unplanned delay back at the inn, but the pain was still excruciating.
Enough to make him wince as he lowered himself onto the soft down.
Enough to distract him from the delicious scent of her that had rubbed off on his skin and the sugary taste that lingered on his lips and the vision—her lusty body flushed and ripe, her eyes closed, her full lips parted on a moan—that filled his head.
He was injured. Even more, he was fully charged and satisfied, and so the need for her—for any woman—had been completely and totally satisfied.
But as he stretched out on his back, tucked the edge of his saddlebag beneath his head and closed his eyes, he couldn’t seem to relax. The minutes ticked by and instead of focusing on tomorrow—he planned to scope out Town Square and see if he could get a sense for the exact spot where the turning would take place—he found himself thinking about the past few hours.
He heard her soft voice in his head, saw her stretched out beneath him and felt the velvety softness of her skin against his lips. He tasted the ripe essence of her sex as she came against his mouth, and for the first time in his entire existence Jake McCann had the incredible urge to go back for seconds.
Not that he would, of course.
One night was all that he could and would give to any woman.
Even one as sweet and lush as Nikki Braxton.
Particularly one as sweet and lush as Nikki.
The way she’d stared up at him, as if he were a man rather than a monster—as if he were the man—made him forget his past and the torment that ate at his soul.
But he wasn’t a man.
It was a truth he’d managed to escape for a few blissful moments, but it was back. In the pitch-black blanket of darkness that engulfed him. And the burned flesh that made his head throb. And the bloodlust that gnawed away inside of him. While he’d satisfied his carnal appetite, he’d denied the need to drink.
Barely.
Jake forced aside the unsettling thought and focused on the exhaustion tugging at his body. He needed to sleep. Now more than ever. It was Saturday morning. He had exactly eight days—the following Sunday—until his sire returned to Skull Creek.
As he’d done every morning since he’d started his journey to hunt down the vampire who’d cursed him, he replayed the various outcomes of their final meeting. Death. Destruction. Freedom.
While Jake had never seen the curse broken with his own two eyes, he knew it could be done. He’d met a man just ten years ago who’d claimed he’d once been a vampire. He’d killed his own sire and, in doing so, had freed himself and all the others who’d been turned by that one vampire. It was like a computer virus. Destroy the mainframe and kill the virus at its source.
Jake had never put much faith in people, until he’d become a vampire. He could look into someone’s eyes and tell if they were lying.
The man had been telling the truth.
His outrageous story had been the fuel to jump-start Jake. He’d stopped feeling so doomed and started to think that maybe, just maybe, he could set things right.
Garret, Jake’s business partner in his motorcycle design business, hadn’t been half as hopeful. Garret had been a vampire even longer than Jake and he was much more jaded. He hadn’t believed a word of the story—but then, he hadn’t been the one to stare into the old man’s eyes and see the truth.
Despite Garret’s discouragement, Jake had started searching right away. He’d known little about his sire except a name. The name carved into the ornate Spanish dagger that had been used to slice open a vein and force the curse upon Jake.
Sam Black.
Jake had traced every Sam Black recorded in history, marking off names along the way until he’d reached his last prospect.
This was it. The Sam Black.
The skilled soldier who’d fought hand-to-hand in several battles for Texas independence. Sam had been notorious for taking souvenirs from his enemies—namely the ornate Spanish daggers supplied by Santa Anna himself.
A bronze plaque sat in Town Square honoring the man who’d been killed by a band of renegade Mexican soldiers just as he’d arrived home from the battle of San Jacinto. The words To defend is the greatest honor had been carved into the plaque beneath
