Objects Of His Obsession (27 page)

~~***~~

BONUS
MATERIAL

His (The
Hellfire Vampires Bloodline)
Standalone 1

Some loves cannot die.

Nix DeAngelo has always known that vampires existed.
Hell, they’ve been out since the sixties. He just never knew he’d fall for one.
And Alexander Roark, a fiercely alpha, magnificent male, is way out of his
league.

Even when he first meets Roark in the VIP section of an
upmarket club and believes he is human, Nix knows that. It may be lust at first
sight, but tough, independent Nix walks away from the devastating male. He has
enough trouble in his life. Like dealing with the aftermath of family tragedy
and being a big brother to his sister, Samantha. And raising money to pay off
the mountain of debt the siblings have been left with.

Some of the ways he pays those debts aren’t pretty. When
he meets him again, Roark is his purchaser for the night. And not concealing
his true identity as a vampire. What Nix doesn’t realize is that the two have a
history that goes back for centuries. One of a dark, vicious love. Even those
of Roark’s own bloodline, the Hellfire Vampires, do not trust him. They
remember just what his previous incarnation, Nikolai was. A killer. A
slaughterer. The infamous Bloodletter.

To save Roark from his enemies, Nix must let go of his
human existence. Become a vampire. But if he does so, will his dark side, the
Bloodletter, be let loose?

Even Roark cannot answer that.

HIS is a standalone Hellfire Vampires Bloodline novel
incorporating the following, rewritten and with additional material:

His Claiming (The Hellfire Vampires Bloodline: Novella
1)

Claimed, Bled & His (The Hellfire Vampires
Bloodline: Novella 2)

His Claimed, His Consort (The Hellfire Vampires Bloodline:
Novella 3)

Approx. 60,000 words or around 220 print pages. Contains
two males scorching hot for one another and fierce m/m human/vampire action.

(HLL) *TBA* (The Hellfire Vampires Bloodline)
Standalone
2

Release date: as fast as these typing fingers can free it, my
lovelies.

Chapter
One… Excerpt sample

Easton Caird, powerful witch, sharp empath, and expert
assassin, prowled down the lush bespoke carpeting of the exclusive London
hotel. There was a lithe, purposeful roll to his hips.

From the gleaming brass, wood and marble lobby
downstairs to the night lit, starry view of the verdant park down across the
street his targets suite no doubt afforded him, this place stank of money.

Easton’s plush lips were fixed in a small, meaningless
smile.

They hid the murderous slaughter readying in his heart.

The adrenalin pumping.

Even a witch with a heavy touch of the darkside got
wired at times like this.

Witch. Not warlock, a term he detested. It reminded him
too much of certain cheesy fucking sitcoms. Sixties
shit
.

He felt the weight of the silencer fitted Ruger hidden
at his back, holstered in the specially made belt slung about his narrow hips.

Ahead lay his mark. His kill.

His assignment. And the way he paid his bills. In that
department white-way spellcasting just didn’t cut it.

His metal studded Burberry leather overcoat, worth more
than he’d paid for his first car, swung unbuttoned about his lean, tightly
muscled, tightly denim covered thighs.

A door in the corridor to his left opened and he tensed
inwardly, barely glancing at yet taking in everything of the shaven headed,
beefy man letting himself out of his suite and heading for the lift he had
vacated.

Oily eyes slid back over Easton’s long, lean body in a knowing
way that made him want to grab him and slam him, vicious hard, through one of
the paneled walls.

And then maybe headbutt the fuck just for that bloody
one-look insult.

Cue-ball would try to repeat a description of him to the
police later, once his business here was done anyways, but somehow, he’d never
get the details quite right. They’d be just a little scrambled. As would be any
CCTV footage.

Easton continued on, knowing that the mark, Grisha
Vasiliev, occupied the sprawling prime corner suite and therefore the next door
he saw would be his.

Close now.

He knew what Vasiliev would see.

A young man with a velvety crewcut of golden-red hair
and wide set, hazel eyes, wearing a ratty vintage Joy Division T. Tight black
jeans. Slick Cuban heeled black boots. That stunning yet necessary overcoat.

To only the most cynical, he didn’t look like the high-class
plaything he was impersonating.

He looked a little too punk. A little too edgy.

A wealthy trust fund brat, maybe. But hell, yeah, maybe
even a cashed up slut. Designer threads were something he used as a uniform for
assignments such as this.

To his mark, he
would not look like a killer.

Disconcertingly, the heavy door swung open before he
reached it and the suites occupant stepped into the doorway, one big hand
coming to rest high up on the jamb as he blandly studied him take the last few
yards.

“Scarlet,” he drawled in a low, rough, accented caress.

Hazel eyes widened on black lashed, jewel bright,
blazing blue ones.

At the sound, the sight of him Easton felt as if he’d
been punched in the gut.

Not an unfamiliar sensation, considering what his
miserable, bloodied teenage life had been. So many bruises hidden. So much
blood wiped away.

But hot blood was on his mind right now. Hell hell
hell
. Oh sweet Jesus and all the angels
above, it truly was.

For Grisha Vasiliev was the most magnificent looking
thing he had ever seen.

No, not a sheerly beautiful male animal – make
that master vampire – such as his one-time, one-off fuck Nix DeAngelo’s
consort Alexander Roark was. Roark, the uber controlled, uber dangerous vampire
leader. Not to mention that male was the favored pin-up of every bloodsucker
groupie out there in this deluded world.

Following in close second by Nix.

Nix and Roark had been a couple near on a year now.
Their combined sexual wattage grabbed the cameras every time they appeared in
public. Turned up at the fundraisers, became the public face of the charity
work they’d become known for.

The kinder, sexier face of the vamp world. The
publicists loved them.

The slash fiction that got written about those two…

Of course, Easton mused cynically, the human population
could have no idea just what hellish twists, turns and bloodletting the vamp
universe and politics had descended to behind the scenes since those two had
coupled up.

It had ignited the vamp war to end all wars.

And Nix had matched up to his consort’s reputation as a
ruthless slaughterer, when required.

Not that Easton would ever go near Nix again. Not from
fear of Nix, vamped out or not.

But Roark. That male was very protective of his mate.

Easton hadn’t seen Nix in damned near two years.

But even he could feel the electricity between the
couple, prickling through the screen of his iPad or laptop.

Arcing up his witch’s radar.

Fledgling, consort to a master vamp Nix may have been
now, if Nix had known the truth about Easton back then, what would he have
been? Shocked? Disgusted?

Probably not. Human then, he’d had his own demons.

And Easton had already chosen an assassins life. Years
of domestic brutality had convinced him that there were some people in this
world born evil.

Who it was a public service to remove from it.

The man who’d done those things to him had never seen
the inside of a jail cell for his crimes. Nor a police station.

This was his way of making up for that imbalance.

Besides, his powers as an empath ratified his choice of
mark. He never, never,
ever
, hurt the
innocent.

But still, Vasiliev… Evil he may be … and not handsome.

But magnificent,
yes
.
Damn near six feet six, he guessed, and built to match. And that face … it
would have held his eye under any circumstance.

Even with that deep, vicious scar running down one side
of it.

In fact, his cock was responding to it right now.

~~***~~

“I did not get it wrong, did I?” Vasiliev drawled
lazily. Teasingly. His strong accent caught erotically at the redheads nerve
endings. Who the hell teased a bought and paid for hooker? he wondered, as
Vasiliev continued, “You must be Scarlet.”

Easton had halted before him.

Halted, and pulled his composure about him. An actor, like
any good whore. Fake or otherwise.

“Oh, I
am
Scarlet, in every way,” he purred. He gave him a filthy little smile. “Your
father must be very fond of you. And very,
very
broad minded. So accepting … that’s nice. Especially since I’m what you could
classify as a luxury expenditure. I am also his early birthday present to you.
So happy birthday for tomorrow, Grisha.”

Those astonishing, jewel deep blue eyes, such a contrast
against his olive skin, swept down over his long, lean, black clad body, caught
the designer threads, the Cuban heeled boots that bumped his height a fraction
over six feet and one corner of that beautiful mouth curled.

“I had been warned to expect something special,
something out of the ordinary, and that you most certainly are.” He quirked a black,
well shaped brow and his teeth flashed white. “I like to play a game with new
acquaintances. A little personality test. My guess would be that your favorite
thing in the world is freedom. You don’t like feeling caged up and you have to
know that you can walk out of any situation, any time, anywhere, anyway you
please. The clothes are expensive but you don’t really care about them. You
like money only because it buys freedom. What you truly love are fast cars and
even faster motorcycles. You live for speed – and not the chemical kind.
Am I correct?”

He’d read him like a book.

Blood was rising like a bloom, flushing his long pale
throat, washing into his cheeks. How long had it been since he’d actually
blushed?

Never. Fuck
Vasiliev–

He forced himself not to look away from that direct blue
stare.

“Yes,” he said throatily.

Act, he told himself. You’re not a hooker but act like
one. You’ve done it often enough.

The client isn’t paying for chit chat. Just the bullet
in the brain. And the fat, ugly file on Vasiliev he’d received via encrypted
email had sealed the deal.

Magnificent beast or not, the man was scum.

The life he’d read of in the dossier had been brutal.
Contemptible.

Perfect, that the Agency had known he’d be the exact
operative for the task.

Now to get him inside that suite and finish this.

“That’s a … fascinating accent,” he said huskily.

Vasiliev’s mouth quirked at his change of subject. “Only
outside of Russia, Scarlet.” He used the name as if amused, taunting at the
clearly fake alias, one Easton had needed, so picked, because of his damned red
hair. Scottish blood. Part of the heritage. The white scar running its path
down one high cheekbone, into Vasiliev’s cheek and running just short of his
mouth tightened. “Within Russia I am just one amongst the millions. Much
better, I think, to be in a foreign country and be thought exotic. Is that not
so,
Scarlet
?”

His blue, blue eyes swept down over him as if he was
still, at this point, considering whether or not to allow him into the suite.

Easton felt uncharacteristically awkward. And that name
clearly supremely amused the other man.

The way he kept using it in that sexy, accented drawl
pissed him off.

Scarlet. The identity he used with the Agency.

The dark, sinister pun had amused him when he’d chosen
it. And wound up some of those homophobic, humorless turds at the Agency
tighter than the spring in an analogue watch. A big plus.

As an assassin, he spilled blood literally to earn his
very good keep.

As a would-be whore he could be labeled a scarlet man,
if not woman.

Scarlet had seemed appropriate.

But right at this moment, he was forcing himself not to
be intimidated by the sheer physical and psychological presence of Vasiliev.

Because Vasiliev was no fucking silk-smooth Rhett
Butler. Nah, waaaay too many jagged edges–