grain of the oak. The thick slab of wood would make a racket if he punched his fist through it. Sam growled deep in his chest. Too bad vampires couldn’t actually turn to smoke and slip through a keyhole. The base part of his nature wanted back in that bedroom. Fool.
He turned away, pacing down the hall and back again, trying to burn off the energy jumping along his nerves.
He’d nearly kissed her. Thank God for that last sliver of self-control. It had been all that kept his beast on a leash. He hadn’t fed properly since arriving at Oakwood, relying on the suitcase of bagged blood that was an agent’s portable kitchen. It just wasn’t the same as the real, live thing. When confronted with Chloe, the combination of hunger and desire gave the world a fuzzy-edged glow, a bit like being drunk. And, like a drunk, he obviously wasn’t thinking straight.
He snarled into the darkness. Biting Chloe was the last thing he wanted on his conscience. Heedless, his fangs descended, sharp against his tongue. He wished he’d caught the thief. He would have been enough of a snack to take the edge off.
That last thought burned in his already overheated brain. How by all the dark powers had that thief escaped? The Horsemen never let that happen.
And here Chloe was, digging into the case rather than staying safely away from it. She’d found an interesting connection to Jack’s designer friend, but Sam couldn’t risk encouraging Chloe in her research. As much as it galled him, the only safe thing to do was shut her down, and as firmly as possible.
He’d seen the hurt in her eyes and hated himself for it.
This ridiculous situation had to end, and that would only happen when the thief was caught. Kenyon might have lost the villain’s trail, but Sam hadn’t had his turn at playing bloodhound.
He pulled out his cell phone, quickly dialing Kenyon. The connection rang and rang.
“H’lo?” the werewolf grunted when he finally answered.
“Get over here. Guard her,” Sam said in a low voice. He didn’t bother to identify which “her” he meant. There was only one that mattered.
“Why? Aren’t you already there?”
“I’m going outside. I need to know who the intruder was.” I need to put miles between me and her, before I slip from bodyguard to predator.
“I’m already all over it.”
“I need to get out.” He couldn’t put it any plainer than that. “You know what I mean.”
There was a significant pause. “Okay. Get one of Jack’s men to babysit.”
“I don’t trust them like I trust you.”
Kenyon grunted with resignation. “I’ll be there.”
“Now.” Sam thumbed off his phone, shoving it back in its belt holster. His shoulders ached from tension, making the movements awkward.
Barely a minute later, an enormous gray wolf came trotting around the corner, tail and ears held high. Kenyon plopped onto his haunches before Sam and lifted his front paws in a classic begging gesture.
Sam stared, huddled in his bad mood. It was hard to keep up in the face of a grinning timber wolf. “Smart-ass. What happens if someone wanders down the hall? I’m tired of bribing animal control officers.”
Kenyon flopped down in front of the door, rolling on his back to expose a hairy belly.
“Whatever.” Sam gave up and went outside. Annoying or not, Kenyon would keep Chloe safe.
He’d meant what he said about a leak. Someone in the household had tipped off the thieves about the dress. Finding out the traitor’s identity was top of his to-do list.
But, right that minute, he needed a break. He was no more domesticated than Kenyon’s wolf. There was a reason he steered clear of jobs that forced him to mix among humans. He was the knife in the dark, the menace lurking on a rooftop. A predator. The only reason he was here was out of respect for Jack.
But somehow, Chloe had touched him. She’d seen a glimpse of the beast tonight and hadn’t known enough to run for it. He’d seen her face, his own darkness reflected back at him through the desire in her eyes. She wanted all of him, even if she didn’t understand what that meant.
That alone meant he owed her protection. He couldn’t articulate why; it was simply a fact. Long ago, when he had been a man, he’d had a wife. He’d adored Amy from childhood, and he kept her memory deep, deep inside where he hid the treasured memories of his human life. But whatever drew him to Chloe was different. It was as primal a response as his hunger for blood.
Sam stood a moment under the night sky, letting the crisp air cool his face. The night smelled of the nearby forest, the scent of pine sharp and clean. Jack’s estate covered around two hundred acres, enough room for even a vampire to feel free for a moment.
He set out for the patch of ground beneath the broken window of Chloe’s old bedroom, passing a rose garden and a patio set with table and chairs. His gaze swept the ground, hunting the shadows for any sign of the intruder.
He looked up, calculating the distance the intruder had jumped. There was a low roof a story above, then another dozen feet to Chloe’s window. A two-part leap to safety—one a trained human could achieve without much trouble. Except this one was wounded. Sam had winged him.
He knelt and examined the grass. This part of the lawn was well trampled. The security guards, once roused, had given enthusiastic chase. Footprints would be hard to track. Blood, however, would not.
Taking a quick look around, he checked to make sure none of the guards still roaming the grounds were in view. Then he crouched until his nose was mere inches from the lawn. A vampire’s sense of smell wasn’t as good as a werewolf’s, but it was better than that of a werewolf stuck in human form. There had been too many people around during the chase for Kenyon to get hairy. Sam might have better luck picking up the trail. Hopefully it wasn’t too late to matter.
There. He caught the scent of blood, memorizing its unique signature. Sam crept forward, following the trace in a diagonal line across the lawn. Now that he knew what he was looking for, the muted glow of lights from the house showed him a particular set of tracks—a medium-sized man wearing soft-soled shoes. Drops of blood dotted the path, keeping the scent strong.
The path led up to a garden wall. It was brick and a good fifteen feet tall. Scuffed dirt at the bottom made it obvious that the intruder had climbed it—no doubt a painful process for a man shot in the shoulder.
Sam took a running step and bounded lightly to the top. He squatted for a moment, scanning the view before dropping to the other side. The wall drew a line between the order of Jack’s gardeners and the wild kingdom beyond. Sam landed in a clump of weeds beside a gravel road. Across the road was untamed forest.
He could see where the intruder had stood. Blood had pooled there, but no trail of drops led away. Sam swore. The intruder must have had enough of a head start on his pursuers to risk stopping to bind his wound. Then, he’d splashed whiskey on the ground, drowning what scent there was in a fog of alcohol. Alcohol mixed with something that made Sam’s nose numb.
That made Sam’s job much, much harder. Was the guy using the smelly substance for disinfectant, or was he expecting
