struggling against the steel of its muscles and tendons. If he had been human, the cougar would have flayed him in a heartbeat.
With a roar, Mark thrust the cat away, the force of it making the creature slide and skitter into the brush.
“Not tonight,” he said evenly, using a touch of vampire compulsion. “This prey is mine.”
The cougar gave a long, slow blink, ears flat against its head. Mark waited. The moment stretched, the cat lashing the ground with its tail, its emerald eyes sizing Mark up, choosing whether or not to obey. Mark raised the knife, letting the cougar see it. The cougar hissed again, a nightmare of long, ivory fangs.
Go. I don’t want to kill you. The moment stretched, Mark still and silent, every muscle poised to strike.
At last the tension broke. With a disgusted swish of its tail, the cougar wheeled and stalked away, shoulders hunched with displeasure. Mark watched it go, relieved to avoid the fight. Good hunting, brother.
He retreated a step, then two, making sure the cat did not change its mind. At last, Mark turned and sprinted after the woman, dodging roots and low branches. She hadn’t gone far. Mark caught another wafting cloud of warm, human blood-scent, now spiced with extra fear.
She ran, too much like a doe fleeing through the woods. Mark’s instincts to chase and devour sparked and flared, roused by her slender, panicked form.
Chapter 2
Mark grabbed the woman’s shoulder. She gasped, making the sound of someone too scared to scream. He spun her around, her feet slipping on the wet ground. His grip tightened as she started to fall, but she sprang back with another noise of pure terror, pushing the child behind her.
“Stop!” he commanded, putting a snap into the word.
She obeyed, hunched against the rain, face hidden by the hood except for a pale, pointed chin. Her feet were planted wide, as if to launch herself at him if he so much as twitched in the direction of her child. The cougar had nothing on a mother protecting her young.
“Please,” she demanded, voice shaking. She didn’t say what she pleaded for. There was no need. They both knew he could be a threat—he knew exactly how much.
Mark didn’t answer at once, but took the time to study her. She was wearing a tan trench coat with half the forest stuck to its sodden hem. Her boots were sturdy tan leather, scuffed and splotched with mud. The only other feature he could make out was her hands, long fingers ending in short, unpainted nails. Capable hands. They were half curled, ready to lash out.
“Where’s the cat?” Her voice was nearly lost beneath the sound of the rain.
“I scared it off. What are you doing here?” he asked in turn, his voice deceptively soft. She smelled so good, his stomach tightened with desire and hunger.
“What does it matter to you?” she snapped back. “I mean, do you live here? Where’s the road to the nearest town?”
She was trying to sound brave, but he could hear her pulse racing with terror. To a predator, fear meant food. He barely resisted the urge to lick his lips. “You’re trespassing.”
“My bad. It’s kind of dark out.”
“A person doesn’t just take a wrong turn out here. The next house is miles away.”
“We walked up from the beach.”
That puzzled him. “You came by boat?”
“Yes.”
He hadn’t heard a motor, but the pounding rain might have drowned it out. Still, something was very off. She was extremely wet, the skirts of her coat soaked through and stinking of saltwater, as if she’d waded to shore.
The child peered around her legs, his small, white face pinched with cold. Mark felt a stab of anger. “You took your boy for a sail on a night like this?”
The woman’s chin lifted to a stubborn angle. “I made a mistake.”
“I’d say so.”
Mark was growing impatient, rain trickling down his collar. He’d been expecting assassins. He’d never met a professional killer with a child in tow, but such things weren’t impossible. Some would do anything to make a target drop his guard. All that fear he smelled didn’t make her innocent.
He lunged forward and yanked her hood back, wanting to see the woman’s face.
“Hey!” She blinked against the rain, her mouth opening in a startled gasp. It was a nice mouth, wide and soft and giving her features a vulnerable, unconventional beauty. Her face was more long than oval, framed by squiggling tendrils of rain-soaked hair.
“Who are you?” he demanded. She was lovely. Desire rose in a sudden heat, but this time it held more lust than appetite.
“Back off!” She crouched, wrapping her arms around the boy and scooping him onto her hip. The fiercely protective gesture put her body between Mark and the youngster. The swift, selfless courage pulled at his instincts. Whoever this woman was, she was magnificent.
But the child made no more sound than a ghost, and that silence dragged Mark’s attention away from the female. The boy has to be sick or exhausted. He’s cold and wet and it’s dark and his mother is frightened. Most kids would be crying by now. This one hasn’t made a peep.
“I apologize.” Mark frowned, his tone making the statement a lie. “Who are you?”
She backed away. “Bree. Who are you?”
“Mark. Is that your son?”
“Yes.” She shifted uncomfortably, rain trickling down her face. The moment dragged. “Is that your cabin?” she finally asked, her tone torn between need and reluctance. “It’s cold out here.”
Mark bristled, edgy. No one came to his property by accident—it was too far from civilization. Then again, his unexpected guests weren’t going to survive the night without shelter. Kill or protect. Food or willing flesh. Be the vampire, or be the healer. For centuries, the debate had worn on Mark, eventually driving him to his island retreat. He wasn’t a monster when there was no one to kill. He liked it that way. This woman was interrupting his peace.
Still, a good hunter never harmed a mother with fragile young. “Come inside. Your boy needs to get out of the rain.”
“Thank you.” The woman bowed her head, her expression a mix of relief and new worries. She didn’t trust him. Smart woman.
Mark took her elbow, steering her down the path rather than letting her walk behind him. He might be taking pity on the woman, but he still didn’t trust her. After climbing the wooden steps to the cabin and opening the door, he gave Bree a gentle push inside.
After shuffling forward a few steps, she stopped, reminding him of an automaton winding down. Water dripped from her clothes, puddling on the old, dark wood of the floor. She shivered with cold as she let the boy slide from her hip to stand clutching her thigh. He saw the child, at least, was dryer, as if she’d done her best to keep him out of the water.
Mark knelt to stoke the fire in the stove, keeping one eye on his visitor. The cast-iron door squeaked as he opened it, a blast of hot air lifting the hair from his face. Bree drifted closer, lured by the heat. Pressing himself to her side, the boy clung to her hand.
The firelight played on her skin, highlighting the gentle flare of her cheekbones. She unbuttoned her coat with her free hand, then pushed back her long, wet tangle of hair. The gesture was slow, almost listless. Bree was a woman at the limit of her strength.
“The fire feels so good,” she said softly. She lowered the khaki backpack she carried to the floor. It sagged into a damp heap.
Mark studied her, his curiosity every bit as hot as the fire. “How long were you out there?”
“I’m not sure. It felt like hours,