Prologue

PROLOGUE

Thirty-three years ago . . .

Bloomin’ Buds Flower Shop

Connelly, New York

E very night.”

Frowning, Milly Trumble put her purse down by the cash register and rubbed her sunburned shoulder. “Every night?”

Her best friend, Judy Descartes, nodded and stepped back to inspect the bouquet of red roses she was arranging on the counter. At the age of fifty-two, the woman had a cap of gray hair, an apron with ivy appliqué on it, and the direct manner of someone who’d raised four boys in a three-bedroom house with a husband who worked for the fire department.

“Yup, he started right after you flew out. He comes five minutes before closing and buys one white flower. Other than that, everything was business as usual—”

“One flower?”

“Yup, and he pays with a ten-dollar bill and leaves the change.” Judy put her hand out. “Could you pass me the baby’s breath?”

Milly glanced around at the shelves full of windowsill plants, scented candles, and cards for all occasions. Then she checked on the glass-fronted walk-in that was stocked with buckets of roses in different colors, as well as carnations and various other blooms. Nothing was out of place, and there were receipts overflowing the in-basket, all ready for her to go through.

“Will you stop.” Judy blew a wisp of hair out of her face. “Did you think I was gonna burn the place down in the last week?”

“Of course not.”

Judy waved a hand toward the pile of baby’s breath. “Hello?”

“Sorry.” She moved the tangle of tiny white sprays closer to her business partner. “Here.”

“Did you really come right from the airport? I figured you’d go home and get a good sleep first.”

“I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

Which was true. But this was also her first vacation since the divorce two years ago, and the idea of walking into that dark, empty house made her stomach hurt. Plus the time away hadn’t been worth it. She’d gotten a sunburn, sand in every shoe she had, and all she’d done was worry about the shop.

And of course, she’d missed Roger. Who was on a honeymoon with the new Mrs. Trumble.

“Did you miss me?” she blurted as she patted at her hair. She’d gotten it cut and dyed it blond before she’d left.

She hated the way it looked.

“Of course I did.” Judy speared the baby’s breath into the arrangement, the tiny buds like fireflies against a red night. “And before you go and start counting peonies, yes, the flowers came in for the Clancy wedding bouquets and that ridiculous planner of theirs has already been in. Twice. That event is going to be ridiculous. We didn’t do ‘planners’ in our day. I don’t know what’s wrong with these girls now. Everyone thinks they’re a Hollywood star.”

“Sometimes it’s more about the pictures and the ceremony than the guy they’re standing next to.” Milly tilted to the side and frowned at the bouquet. “Hold up, that section on the left needs more—”

“I know, I’m working on it—”

Bing!

Judy lifted her wrist and tapped her watch. “Right on time.”

Milly turned to the shop door—and time slowed to a crawl. The man who entered her and Judy’s pastel paradise was dressed in black—was that leather? the whole outfit?—and standing tall and wide as the building itself. He was positively enormous, with shoulders that seemed to press on the walls of the shop, and a tightly shorn head of dark hair that nearly brushed the ceiling. But the holy-crap wasn’t just about his size. His face was harsh in the ways of winter, the bones showing in hard cuts as if he didn’t eat enough, his stare black as the pits of Hell, his expression harsh and aggressive.

Milly jumped as she felt a hand touch her arm.

“Relax, will ya,” Judy hissed. “And stop it. You don’t have to call the police.”

“I wasn’t going to—”

“Then why’s your phone in your hand?” In a louder voice, Judy said, “Nice to see you again.”

She squeezed out from behind the counter and approached the man like one of those circus wranglers who got into the ring with tigers.

“Would you like to enter the walk-in? I know you prefer to take your time picking.”

Judy went over and opened the glass door, standing to the side like an usher. And even though the giant man hardly seemed the type to take direction from anybody, he put his hands into his—leather!—pants, lowered his head, and went forward.

Ordinarily, Milly couldn’t stand that fridge being open for anything other than a quick pass through as you might as well burn money leaking all the cold out, but like she was saying anything?

When he was inside, Judy let things ease shut and came back behind the register. As she punched another sprig of baby’s breath into the roses, she said, “Stop staring.”

“I’m not,” Milly shot over as she kept . . . well, staring.

Inside the glass box, the man was a living shadow that blocked the view of the flowers, the moon not so much eclipsing the sun, but devouring it and leaving nothing on the plate, no crumbs or scraps.

Or that should be petals or leaves, right?

Oh, whatever. She was terrible with metaphors. That’s why she handled the accounting.

“How long does he take in there?” she whispered as she studied his profile. “I think his eyes are closed.”

“He stands there for a while. Then he picks something out, gives me that ten-dollar bill even though I tell him I’ll just charge him two dollars, and leaves.”

Milly glanced at the cash register. “And he’s never tried to . . . ?”

“Good God, you’re suspicious.”

“You didn’t think the same thing the first time he walked in here?”

“Shh, he’s coming out.”

Milly grabbed for her purse and resolved that she’d hit him with it if he started anything. Although that would be like taking a flyswatter into a brass knuckle boxing match. But whatever.

He’d chosen a white rose, she noted. And a good one, one that had just started to unfurl from its tight curl.

“Nice bloom you got,” Judy said. “Milly will take care of you.”

When Milly didn’t move, Judy glared and took over, wiping her hands on her apron and then ringing things up with a series of beeps. The register’s drawer shot forth like the ten-year-old machine was sticking its tongue out, and the money changed hands.

“You sure about this?” Judy held the bill up. “I keep telling you it’s only—”

“Keep the change.” The man didn’t meet Judy’s stare as he turned away. “Thank you.”

“Guess we’ll see you tomorrow,” Judy murmured as she put the tenner in the drawer and closed things up.

“No,” he said over his shoulder.

“No?”

As he paused, those hooded eyes lingered on the fragile white petals of the rose. That big hand could have crushed the stem, fisted the bloom, and thrown it all to the ground so those huge boots could destroy the delicate bud. Instead, he held what he’d purchased with care.

“I’ve got no one to buy flowers for anymore.” That dark stare skipped to Milly and dipped down to her purse. Then he scanned the shop. “Habit sometimes is all we have, though.”

The nod he gave them was almost courtly, and then he walked out.

As the bing! of the door faded, Milly looked at Judy—and then, as it had always been between the two of them, they came to the same conclusion at the same time: They both hustled for the exit, and leaned out to see around the appliquéd sign on the glass.

No one was there. Not on the sidewalks. Not getting into a car parked in the angled spaces. Not walking in the glow of the town square’s peach-colored gaslights.

Milly looked back and forth. “What—where’d he go?”

Connelly was a ghost town this late. Heck, seven fifty-seven p.m. might as well be after midnight. Even the diner was shut down, and so were the lawyer’s office, the shoe shop, the dressmaker’s, and the bank. The pharmacy was still open for another hour, but its glow was far off, on the next corner.

No car driving away. No purr of a departing motorcycle. Not even a pedaling bike disappearing down the road.

Also no big man, in black leather and massive boots, striding off heavily enough to crack the pavement.

“It’s like he up and disappeared,” Judy breathed.

“Oh, no. He lost his flower.”

Milly hopped out into the cold. The white rose had been dropped about ten feet from the door, and she picked up the stem. The petals were bruised from where they’d hit the sidewalk’s rough cement.

“It’s starting to snow,” Judy said as she looked up at the sky. “You’re really not in the Bahamas anymore.”

Milly took a moment to glance around at the tiny downtown that was as familiar as her own reflection. She’d been born and raised here, and she was going to die here, too. Alone. Because Roger had a new Mrs., like he’d traded in an old car for the newer model.

“First snow of the season,” she said as she tracked the flakes that were spinning down from the sky.

“Come inside, Milly. You’ll catch pneumonia.”

Heading back into the warmth of their little shop, the chill stayed with her as she pictured the man in black leather. It felt a little strange to feel compassion for a stranger, especially one who looked like that. But she was sad for him. Whoever he was.

Then again, she was the other side of his no-go coin: She had no one to buy her flowers anymore. And living in this town, where all the men her age were either married or relatives, she wasn’t going to find one.

She put the bloom to her nose and breathed in. The sense that life had passed her by already made her feel eighty years old.

The man had had the same air about him.

“I got chicken cacciatore leftovers tonight,” Judy said brusquely. “Too much for me and Joe to eat by ourselves now that we’re empty nesters.”

Milly looked at her best friend. Judy was back behind the counter, pushing at the roses like she didn’t approve of her efforts.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Of course I don’t. But I did miss you.” Judy bent down and brought something out from under the counter. “Here. For your rose.”

The little vase was just the right size, and Milly blinked a couple of times. Good thing she had to turn away to the sink and fill it up.

“That sounds great,” she said roughly as she tucked the stem into the narrow neck. “Thanks—”

“Roger’s going to regret this whole thing,” Judy announced. “And when he comes back to you, you need to make him grovel.”

“He’s not coming back. He’s married.”

Judy emphasized her words with a red rose. “He still loves you. Mark my words.”

“Well, I can’t love him anymore. Not after this.”

As Apex dematerialized away from the town square, he traveled through the cold night in a scatter of molecules, as any vampire could do, did do, often did. When he re-formed, it was in the parking lot behind the Willow Hills Sanatorium, and as he looked up at the building’s back elevation, he saw none of the stained brick, the decaying mortar, or the broken windows.

His memories were like a movie being projected onto the rear flank, the images eclipsing that which actually existed, taking over reality like a tax collector.

Instead of the central core and the two wings that seemed to stretch out for miles on either side, he saw an SUV screeching out from the lot, with Mayhem behind the wheel and Kane half dead from his burns in the back. Apex was in the rear as well, having tossed the latter in with him, and he’d been in charge of returning fire against the flank of prison guards who got right on their ass in their own vehicles.

Somewhere down the road, there had been an explosion. A crash.

And it was after that, when they’d surfaced from the wreck, that his life had changed forever.

Wolves had surrounded them . . . except they hadn’t been wolves. They’d been wolven, a mystical subspecies in the vampire world, two entities existing in one body.

Shifters.

He’d seen Callum for the first time that night, both in that lupine form . . . and in his humanlike one, the male’s hair white and flowing over his torso, his eyes a gleaming light blue, his body powerfully built as predators always were. The meeting had been unforgettable for so many reasons, not in the least because the guy had been buck-ass-naked after he’d shifted—because, hello, it wasn’t like Levi’s could spontaneously manifest themselves.

The wolven had been utterly unapologetic for the nudity. As any animal would be.

And he had been . . . heartbreakingly beautiful in the moonlight.

Coming back to the present, Apex became aware of a sting on his hand. Inspecting the sensation, he found a drop of blood on his forefinger.

Guess there had been one errant thorn on that rose. Go fucking figure.

Sucking the wound closed, he walked over to the rear entrance, put in the code, and went up a short stack of stairs. He paused at the second reinforced door. He knew what he was going to find on the other side, and hesitated. But come on, like anything was going to change if he waited out here? Came back another night? Never went inside again?

The male who mattered the most to him would still be gone. He needed to get used to it.

Opening the heavy steel door and stepping over the threshold, he regarded what had been the prison camp warden’s private quarters as if he had never seen them before. The open space was kitted out like the war room it had been, with munitions mounted at the ready on the blank walls, uniforms and supplies organized neatly, and the table with a map of the facility’s layout unfurled and kept flat by a couple of Coke cans at the corners.

These private accommodations were the crown jewel of whoever’d been running the place, and now that the liberation had occurred? Guess that hadn’t really changed.

And fuck him, he couldn’t help himself. Even though it made him feel like he’d been stabbed in the chest, he took a long, slow, deep breath in through his nose.

Callum’s scent lingered in the air, the heady spice bobbing under the fragrance of the other blooms that Apex had brought to the wolven. The cedar-ish cologne-that-wasn’t-cologne wasn’t fresh, though.

It was already fading.

“You’re pathetic,” he said. “Fucking insane and pathetic .”

In the center of the room, the empty bedding platform was surrounded by all the white flowers he’d brought in offering to a male who’d been so badly traumatized, he hadn’t even known Apex was there. The roses and peonies and carnations stood up in the little glass beakers he’d stolen from the prison camp’s drug processing rooms, and there was no reason to keep adding water now.

He pictured the wolven lying there, that white hair flowing over the pillows, that pale blue stare trained up at the ceiling like Callum had been waiting for some kind of rescue from above.

Like a zombie, Apex went across until the steel toes of his boots touched the mattress edge. As he looked down at the imprint of the body that had lain there for the last week, the contours in the memory foam were like the outline of the victim at a homicide scene.

More memories, now. Of the siege to overthrow the head of the guards and her crew of for-hire guns. The Black Dagger Brotherhood had come at just the right time, and they were in control now. It was a good thing. The prisoners who had survived were getting proper medical care and attention, and the drug shit had been shut down.

But not everyone had been okay.

“You were only here to help us,” he whispered. “It’s not fair.”

Sitting down on the edge of the platform, he splayed his hand out on the sheet, pushing his palm toward the depression. He stopped just short of touching the indent.

“I tried to save you,” he whispered. “But I was too late.”

Casualties were to be expected in any fight . . . gunshot wounds, soft tissue injuries of all kinds, broken bones. Deaths.

That last one wasn’t always the worst outcome. Sometimes living through what happened to you was harder.

Or rather . . . what was done to you.

That was the brutal lesson Apex had had to relive—and watching Callum lie in a comatose stupor had carved the truism into the soul: Though that wolven had breathed and had a heartbeat, what had made him who he was, that snark, that sass, that sexy taunt, was gone. All that had been left was the husk.

It made Apex want to kill that bitch all over again. She’d taken something that had been beautiful, used and abused it, ordered her own guards to rape the male—and had intended to keep Callum tied down, like some kind of toy to play with when she was bored.

And feed from at her leisure.

God, if he could just make her know the pain she had caused.

His vengeance made him believe in Dhunhd. But all Apex had been able to do was deal with the aftermath.

In a lame attempt to make a difference, he’d washed Callum’s battered body gently. Had put food to the wolven’s mouth and fed him. Made sure there was water. He’d sat next to this bed, his head propped on his knees, his eyes going sandpaper from lack of sleep . . . as if he could just will the recovery by devotion alone. The only time he’d moved aside was when Nadya had come to tend the wounds at Callum’s wrists and ankles, and make sure that certain . . . internal injuries . . . were healing.

And Apex had only left the private quarters to bring food back for them and then to go to that flower shop, every night right before it closed, to buy another flower. He hadn’t been able to tell the male how he’d felt before, and each of the blooms had been the words that he wished he’d spoken when he’d had the chance. He’d also hoped that the delicate fragrances might lead Callum back from wherever he was in that head of his.

Wasn’t smell supposed to be one of those senses that could reach through to a person, even when they weren’t completely conscious?

Except it hadn’t made any difference. The only thing he’d accomplished was giving the wolven a reliable schedule so that when Callum had decided it was time to go, he’d known when the coast would be clear to leave.

Even though there hadn’t seemed to be any change in his condition, a recovery had been happening, all those meals that had been fed, all those drinks that had been soda-strawed into those lax lips, being used for exactly what they’d been for: Callum had been getting stronger. He’d just kept that to himself—and tonight, he’d waited for Apex to go down and gather First Meal provisions.

The eggs and bacon, toast and coffee, were stone-cold over there on the table, next to the map.

When Apex had come back, he hadn’t believed what he was looking at when he saw the empty bed. And then the assassin in him had done a quick sweep of the room and cataloged which guns had been taken. Which knives. As well as the combat pants, the fleece, the jacket. The boots and knapsack.

“So you haven’t found him, either—”

Spinning around, Apex ripped a forty caliber autoloader out from under his arm and pointed it at the male vampire who had come to stand behind him.

Whoever it was put his hands up. “Easy there. It’s me. You know who I am.”

Blink. Blink—

All at once, the handsome, patrician features came into focus. Kane, the former aristocrat, was looking like he’d inadvertently bumped into a wasp’s nest—and had left his Raid can back in the car. He was also dressed like the soldier he now was, and maybe that was the confusion.

Nah. Apex was just losing his mind. That was the problem.

The gun lowered on its own. And as he reholstered it, he nodded at the empty bed. “Callum’s really gone.”

Kane’s arms returned to his sides. “So you didn’t find him in the building? On the grounds?”

“No reason to look. We’re not going to find him.”

Kane glanced around the private quarters, like he was expecting the wolven to jump out from behind a folding chair or maybe the table with the cold food on it.

“He couldn’t have gone far.”

“Bullshit.” Apex shrugged and got to his feet. “He’s in better shape than he let on. I should have known. I watched those bruises heal over the last week with my own damned eyes.”

The flowers around the bed seemed stupid now. No more Bloomin’ Buds Flower Shop for him. No doubt that woman, and her paranoid, sunburned friend, were going to be glad to see the last of him.

“He’ll be back,” Kane said.

Apex focused on that indentation on the mattress. “No, he won’t.”

“But he didn’t say goodbye. So he’ll be back.”

Apex took one last look around. Then he did a subconscious check of his weapons: two guns under the arms, both forty calibers. A knife on his belt. A chain in the chest pocket of his leather jacket, and a set of brass knuckles on the other side.

“So you’re leaving, too, then?” Kane murmured.

“I only stayed because of him.” He shrugged again. “Sorry, I’m no great savior, ready to roll up the sleeves and help around here. But you already know this, don’t you.”

Kane’s eyes narrowed. “What I know is everything you showed me when you stayed by my side.”

Great. The last thing he needed was a reminder that this was his second trip through the park with a male who didn’t love him back. Oh, wait. Kane had been burned, instead of sexually assaulted by multiple people.

Guess Fate, that fucking asshole, had decided to change things up, after all.

To keep from seeming like a total SOB, he muttered, “Take care of yourself, Kane. You have my number—”

“And I’ll call you when Callum returns.”

“Yeah, you do that. Sure.”

Funny, he couldn’t remember the first time he’d met Kane, but he was not going to forget this moment as they parted for good. He went over, stuck out his palm, and lied:

“See you later.”

The reality was, Kane wasn’t going to be calling him, Callum wasn’t coming back—and there was absolutely no reason Apex was going to cross paths with this male he’d once thought he was in love with. Hell, the fact that the pair of them had met at all had been an impossibility. An aristocrat and an assassin? Nope. Destiny had a fucked-up sense of humor, though. Kane had been falsely accused of his crime and that was how he had ended up in the glymera ’s hellhole. And Apex had belonged in the prison: He’d killed all the people he’d been accused of early-graving.

Kane glanced down at what was being extended out to him. “We’re staying here, Nadya and I. The Brotherhood’s going to use this facility long-term to take care of what’s left of the prison population and transition them . . .”

The male kept talking and Apex just checked out. He didn’t have any energy to spare for the happy endings of other people—

When his hand was taken by a firm grip, he came back to the present. “Take care of yourself.”

Hadn’t he already said that? Whatever, he only wanted to get the fuck out of here.

“That sounds like a permanent kind of goodbye,” Kane said softly.

You bet your ass it is.

Apex pulled his hand away and turned for the door he’d come through—

“I never thanked you.”

Frowning, Apex glanced over his shoulder. “For what?”

“All those hours you spent by my bedside. You were a good friend.”

Staring across at the male, who was now so much more than just a vampire, Apex thought back to the old location of the prison camp—and everything that had happened there. He hadn’t looked too far into his feelings then, especially when it came to Kane. He’d known he wouldn’t like what he found.

Friendship had not been it, for him.

Yet what he’d thought had been love had just been training ground for the real thing: Callum had been the true love he had never wanted or needed.

“No problem.”

When he found himself in the parking lot once again, he pivoted and looked back at the abandoned sanatorium. He’d never thought about getting his freedom before. For the century he’d been held captive, he’d been too busy fighting for survival, and not really all that interested in life anyway. Besides, if you were into killing things, what better place to be? A lawless, hidden prison ruled by a succession of freelance dictators after the aristocracy forgot about the damn place—and all the people they had falsely put in with real killers and degenerates.

Liberation had never been in his future. Him falling in love with a wolven? Also not something he’d ever seen coming. But him once again alone in the world? Not tied to anyone or anything?

Apex turned away, closed his eyes, and concentrated on calming himself.

It’s my fucking theme song , he thought as he dematerialized off into the bitterly cold night.