He shoots his gaze up at me. His fierce rage boils into something else, something... like lust. His lips move into a lopsided smile that doesn’t make it any easier for me. Donatello unfolds himself from his chair and gets to his feet. I do the same, unaware my body is moving. This is one hell of a potent attraction. If he told me to lie down and part my legs, I would.
Step by step, he ends the space between us. Hooded eyes meet mine. He licks his lips. “I better take a cold shower,” he murmurs against my face, and, no, he doesn’t have bad breath. Damn it. “Or we won’t be leaving this room today. You look too good in my shirt.”
I hold back a purr in the last second. Fuck, I’ve never been a girl to purr. Every sexual encounter I’ve ever had was mediocre at best, and I never bothered faking it. People wouldn’t start liking me just because I lied and told them they rocked my world. All the sexual tension I’ve never felt builds up inside my chest, making my legs tremble. Donatello brushes his arm against mine as he leaves, and I hear the bathroom door closing a moment later.
My heart beats erratically inside my chest, and the nerve endings all over my skin buzz with electricity. What the hell happened here? Are my panties on fire? I peer down to make sure I’m alright, patting my covered mound for good measure. This stand-off was hotter than all my last dates combined.
I sit back down, reaching out for the thermos. As I snatch it off the table, it hits something against the tray. Donatello’s phone. My lips press together. It’s rude to use other people’s phones without their permission.
In my defense, I want his phone to check the web, not what dirty texts he exchanges. With luck, I could find a nude pic on the gallery, but I promise I’ll keep it PG-13 and use it just to make my way to Google Search.
Bless his undead heart, the phone is unlocked. A boring picture of nice hills and a river somewhere far from here takes the background. I click on the search bar and type the thing that’s been eating on my mind.
How to find out if you’re a mage.
Ludicrous, I know. The answers Google brings me don’t help. The signs come early, never after puberty, and I’m way past that train. Minor accidents related to the element may happen, but I’ve never set anything on fire or almost drowned a bully. That would have been useful during high school.
I shake my head. No way I’m a mage. I would have noticed it earlier. I leave to the home page and click the search bar again. Now, something more personal. With higher stakes.
I type my name, and the results are the opposite of what I hoped for because I hoped for nothing. I just wanted to keep being anonymous. Instead, my name is all over the news, followed by the wordsmurderandChosen One. There’s even a link to Twitter, where I’m trending.
Fantastic. Worse of all, my name is all over Twitter.
I go back to the results page and comb the rest of them. They’re no better. They have images from the casino of me following the jerk, even though they don’t have any of us sharing a table. Convenient. The girl who made me stumble yesterday has just released a video talking about how I looked like a jealous ex, ditched for being too ugly.
A shitshow. They have my phone and my ID and my favorite jacket. The only thing I have is a price on my head because, surprise, surprise, the Chosen One was important. I click the power button and put the phone down. My stomach churns, hunger forgotten. Not only the human police but the supernatural police will be after me in no time. The human cops I can run from. The supernatural ones? Not so sure about it. I don’t understand their powers. They could instantly travel to this very spot and arrest me for all I know.
My leg bobs, foot tapping the ground. I can’t stay. The second Donatello gets out of the shower, I’ll tell him we need to leave.
I stop tapping my foot. This is stupid. Why am I counting on the vampire again? He saved me yesterday, sure, and something deep in my belly makes me want to stay close to him. My brain takes over my girl parts and shoves all these thoughts out of the window. I shouldn’t trust him. I don’t know him. Before I woke up, he had enough time to call the cops and let them know I was here.
The icy finger of dread touches my spine, making me stand taller. I can’t stay, and I can’t trust Donatello. I have to go home. Shooting to my feet, I race to the living room and pick my shoes up. There’s no way I’ll put them on again. Something tells me I’m not done running yet, and it’s early enough people will think I was out partying.
With one last glance at the closed bathroom door, I leave. Donatello’s great, but there’s no way he can fit in my life right now. The life of a murderer running from the world.
CHAPTER4
CASSANDRA
My feet hurt from the pebbles and the cracked asphalt by the time I get home. I’m lucky the city is small enough to cross on foot, but it’s still such an uncomfortable experience I almost put the heels back on. Keyword: almost.
I keep to the side alleys and empty streets I know from living here the last couple of years. Patting my breast, I search for my keys in a tiny pocket cut into the fabric. I keep the keys and extra money in here, just in case. My lungs expel a sigh the second I put my feet on the porch.
“Home sweet home,” I breathe out from the shadow of the porch, fishing out the key and unlocking the door. Now all I need is to pack up a small suitcase — one I could carry while running — and leave. I don’t know where to, but I need to keep moving.
The house is cold as I walk into the living room, flipping the lights on. They’re soft, yellow lights that put me in the mood for reading my smut, which is the only action that has happened on the premises since I moved. My dining table is covered with clothes to fold, and two empty cups decorate the corners of my armchair. The hardwood floors are beautiful, and the room is wide and open. It’s pretty empty in here. Guess I should put down a rug or something.
Suitcase, jeans, socks, don’t forget socks... I make a list in my head as I walk into my bedroom, so large I could fit a king-sized bed if I wanted to. Or one of those round ones people use for gang bangs. Not that I’ve ever been in one, which is a deep shame.
The second the floorboard in front of the door creaks under my foot, I know there’s something wrong. Not because my things are messed up and turned upside down because that’s the usual. No, there’s something else, and it’s infuriating how I can’t tell what. Like an itch I can’t scratch.
It explodes into my face next. The punch comes so fast I can’t even dodge, slamming my eyes shut as knuckles connect to my nose. Pain erupts, and my head snaps back. I stumble back until I find my balance and open my watering eyes.
“Motherfucker,” I hiss out, covering my throbbing nose and checking my palm. No blood. Good. I search for my assaulter, and a tall, dark and handsome type catwalks out of my bedroom. The smirk on his face reveals two things: he’s as sure as I am that he could beat me, and he has pointy fangs that make me choke.
Fuck. Another vampire. And this one doesn’t look half as interested in my titties.
He stops, leaning into the door frame with a challenge on his face. He watches me pull my fists up in a defensive stance I copied from movies, and he chuckles. “Come on. Is that all you can offer? I thought you killed the Chosen One.”