Читать книгу Seduced by Blood - Laurie London - Страница 10

SANTIAGO AWOKE EARLY. His sheets were sandpaper against his skin, his pillow a contoured brick under his head.

He threw back the covers, his feet hitting the cold tile floor with a thump, and stumbled to the small refrigerator he kept in his sleeping quarters. He ate a piece of leftover pizza and chugged orange juice directly from the carton.

With the sun still high in the late-September sky and his delivery not coming till later, he couldn’t leave for the Ridge yet, though he was antsy to get up there. Only a handful of his top people knew he had a home located in a remote part of the mountains but even they didn’t know what he did there. Frankly, it was no one’s business but his own.

He hadn’t been expecting to go again so soon, but running into Ms. Reynolds had changed his plans. When she’d pointed out the fact that Darkbloods had located a den so close to region HQ, he didn’t need to see the disdain for his leadership in her expression—he could hear it in her voice. But then, as always, he needed to be realistic. She’d identified his weaknesses and, as much as he hated to admit it, things had to be dealt with.

Although he could’ve used her help in tracking down the den, he’d managed to find it on his own. Given that Darkbloods were notoriously sloppy and the tiny house had been clean, almost barren, it was obvious that the place hadn’t been in operation for long. Even their coffins—which most DBs were sleeping in nowadays as a nod to their violent ancestors—weren’t there yet. He and the capture team had lit the place on fire and watched it burn to the ground.

But her subtle criticism remained, ringing in his ears long after he got back and taunting his nightmares. Sure, she hadn’t come right out and said anything specific, but he could tell she was thinking it. Thing was, she was right. No way should a den have been located that close to region. It reflected badly on him and his leadership ability and could hurt his reputation among his kind. Despite his best efforts, somehow he’d let himself get lackadaisical and careless and that just wasn’t acceptable. Winners didn’t allow their enemies to take advantage of them and make them look like fuckups. Only losers did.

After quickly showering and dressing, he made his way from his chambers to his office before anyone else was up. Normally he liked the quiet, but after last night, he was on edge. His hands and feet began to tingle, but it had nothing to do with the chill. By the time he sat down at his desk and began working, the numbness had snaked its way through his gut, making it hard to concentrate.

His errors could not go unpunished. He would do what he needed to do in order to get rid of this deadlike sensation. These feelings of nothingness threatened to overtake him whenever he made a mistake and caved to weakness.

On virtual autopilot, he worked throughout the late afternoon and into night. He took a few calls, had a few meetings, talked to one of his counterparts down South who was having trouble with a particularly aggressive den of Darkbloods, and reviewed all the sweetblood reports that the field offices had recently turned in. Then he approved a few big-ticket expenditures from both the region’s medical director and from Jackson Foss’s fiancée, Arianna, who was starting a sweetblood refuge home just over the border in Washington State.

Fortunately, the delivery came shortly before dawn, so rather than wasting time until night fell again when he could comfortably get to the Ridge, he’d be able to leave now.

He pulled back the heavy damask drapes in his corner office. The early-morning sky had lightened to an inky purple. Given the cloud cover, the UV light wouldn’t be too strong yet, and although he’d still feel the pull of the energy drain as he headed out, after today he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference anyway.

He gathered up a few files from his massive mahogany desk and put them into his briefcase next to the laptop. Although he wasn’t sure why he bothered. He never looked at work when he got to the Ridge. It was more a formality and, he had to admit, for appearance’s sake, as well.

“Jenella, I’m taking the next few days off, so I’ll need you to handle my calls and inquiries.” He stepped out of his office and pulled the door shut behind him.

His assistant tucked a pencil behind her ear as she placed a notebook on the shelf behind her desk and selected another. “Yes, I know, sir.”

She did? How? He hadn’t said anything to her yet.

He must’ve had a confused look on his face because she added, “You had me move tomorrow’s staff meeting to next week, you blocked off the next few days on your calendar and you tidied up your office. That’s what you always do when you leave.”

God, was he that predictable?

But then, not much got past Jenella, which was why he liked her. That, and because she was the only one who would put up with him. She was efficient and knew what needed to happen whether he was there to give her the specifics or not. She didn’t need to be babysat. But there still were a few things she didn’t know about him. No one would. He preferred to keep some details all to himself.

“Very good. If Eddie calls, tell him I haven’t forgotten our plans. I’m still flying out next week to visit.”

He thought about his good friend, who’d been badly injured several years ago while on assignment in Mexico and was left with a horrible disfigurement. A vampire’s natural ability to regenerate damaged tissue and bone only went so far. Although the guy was lucky to be alive, he didn’t always believe he was. Even though he would never admit it, he thrived on Santiago’s pep talks.

“Text me if one of the field offices needs something and I’ll get back to them.”

When he’d appointed the field office team leaders, he’d been careful to select individuals who could make wise decisions independently from him. He let them think he was breathing down their necks, but it was partially the specter of his potential wrath that drove them to make the right decisions in the first place.

The What-Would-Santiago-Do mentality kept the Horseshoe Bay Region and all its field offices running efficiently.

When each individual was strong, the whole team was strong. He didn’t need or want his people checking in with him for every little thing. He wanted the region to run efficiently and the field offices to feel as though they had the authority to make many of their own decisions without needing his input.

Oh, sure, he knew they chuckled behind his back whenever he’d give one of his infamous motivational talks, but it didn’t bother him. They could laugh as much as they wanted, but his methods worked. He was driven, a hard charger who expected a lot from his people, but they respected him for it and got things accomplished. A good leader knew when to press his people and when to back off. Yin and yang, give and take, dickhead and best friend.

“And if Ms. Reynolds needs anything, I trust you can handle it.” He hoped that wouldn’t come back to bite him. The last thing he needed was his staff deciding they should burn incense and start meditating like she did. He’d walked past the classrooms earlier and the scent of eucalyptus had been heavy in the air.

“Yes, of course.”

An hour later, he was unlocking the front door of the Ridge—keys in one hand and the small delivery box in the other. The sky had lightened to the point when he could feel a slight drain from the sun. But he didn’t pay much attention. Things were about to get much worse.

After changing into a T-shirt and shorts, he pulled a box cutter from the top drawer in the tiny kitchen. Carefully, he slit the tape around the cardboard and lifted out the red plastic box inside. Unsnapping the metal latch, he opened the lid. There, arranged in neat little rows, were two dozen vials of human blood. AB negative, his personal favorite. He stuffed three into the pocket of his shorts and refrigerated the rest. Although he was tempted to grab a fourth, he had enough to get by. Besides, he’d be desperate for the rest of them later.

With a glass of water in one hand and a small hand towel tucked under his arm, he climbed the narrow ladder in the living room and pushed open the trap door in the roof. Early-morning sunlight streamed into his eyes, burning his retinas. He pinched them shut to block out the sting then squinted and climbed the rest of the way through. Like water in a leaky bucket, energy began to trickle from his body. Slowly but surely, he became weaker and weaker.

A mattress covered in plastic lay between two iron stakes bolted to the roof. At least it wasn’t raining this time, he thought as he glanced at the sky.

An eagle soared high overhead and several smaller birds followed close behind. Dive-bombing and squawking, the weaker birds tried to chase the eagle away, but he didn’t alter his course. Strong and majestic, he kept circling until finally landing in the top of a nearby Douglas fir. He perched like a beacon and surveyed the terrain, unperturbed by the voices around him.

After setting the water glass on the roof next to the mattress, Santiago double-checked that the key was still hanging from a hook near the trap door. He knelt down, grabbed the chains and snapped the cuffs around his ankles. He pulled to make sure they were tight. Yep. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Then, as the sun rose higher in the sky, he lay back on the mattress, stretched out his arms and closed his eyes.

SOMETHING STRANGE IS going on with Santiago.

Even though she didn’t know him well, she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. He seemed…different.

Earlier this week, he’d left for a few days and when he returned, Roxy noticed an odd intensity in his demeanor that hadn’t been there before. Although he walked through the region offices as confidently as he always had, there was a numbness behind his eyes, a weariness, as if a tiny part of him had died.

When she’d mentioned it to Brenna, the woman shrugged and said he would get that way sometimes and they’d all learned to watch their step around him.

Was something bothering him? Roxy wondered.

Since she’d arrived, she’d done a good job of staying out of his way, but every time she did interact with him, he made her feel vulnerable, stripped bare. She didn’t let many people past her defenses, but there was something about him that weakened them, that demanded she let him in.

And she didn’t like it.

Now, in an empty exercise studio in the gym, she was doing a few yoga poses when something outside the window caught her attention. She looked up to see Santiago arriving via a seldom used outside entrance rather than the main lobby. He stopped, reached his hand in his pocket then stooped down. What was he doing?

She walked closer to the glass for a better look. With the lights off inside, he wouldn’t be able to see her.

His arm was stretched out and he had something in his hand. Was that a—

It looked like a peanut in a shell.

Just then a squirrel ran out from a nearby bush and stopped about three feet away from him. His lips moved as if he were talking to it. She wondered what he was saying. Though he wiggled the peanut, the animal didn’t advance any closer, so he tossed it. The squirrel quickly grabbed it with his little paws and ran away. Santiago mounded a few more peanuts near his feet then stood and entered the gym.

What was a man like that doing keeping treats in his pockets for the squirrels?

Twenty minutes later he was lifting weights, heavy ones, over and over like a machine, not making eye contact with the two other agents in the room. All traces of what she’d just witnessed—the gentleness, the kindness—were gone.

Who knew this fierce warrior had a soft spot in his heart for animals? She had a feeling he wouldn’t be happy to know she’d seen that. She thought about her own dog back home. Was Ginger missing her right now? Roxy sure missed her. As she continued her own workout in the privacy of the darkened studio, she found herself drawn to this powerful and fascinating man.

In between sets, he headed to the water fountain and opened up the cabinet underneath, searching for something. A towel? She glanced at hers sitting next to her water bottle. She’d taken the last one. Yeah, that must’ve been what he was looking for because, not finding one, he stripped off his collegiate gray T-shirt and mopped his forehead.

Good thing she was in an enclosed space because she almost lost her balance and most certainly gasped.

His chest and stomach rippled with corded muscle, the skin stretched tautly over them. To call them washboard abs wouldn’t have been accurate because that implied a flat plane. Twin ridges of muscles on his hips angled inward, drawing her attention down, down, down…to a thin line of dark hair on his lower belly that disappeared beneath his waistband. Even though she wasn’t into hot yoga, beads of sweat trickled between her breasts. She grabbed her towel and dabbed her chest then her forehead. Try as she might, she couldn’t wrench her gaze away.

She’d always wondered how far his tattoo went and now she had her answer. Well, almost. The strange barbed curlicues stretched from his hairline, along the left side of his neck, to his shoulder blade and heavily muscled back, then disappeared somewhere beneath those shorts.

Good God, he’d have been the perfect model for the original Grey’s Anatomy drawings. She shook her head. She didn’t need to be thinking this way. He was egotistical and insensitive and totally not her type. She turned up her music and resumed a different pose. One that wouldn’t allow her to watch him.

But little good that did. Soon, her attention was drawn to him again.

Facing away from her now, he straddled a bench and lifted two sets of huge dumbbells. The muscles in his back glistened and flexed with every movement. She found herself wondering if he’d be able to bench-press her. If she did a plank pose, how many reps would he be able to do? Would he lift her with ease? And what would it feel like to have his hands on her? She imagined how hard his magnificent, powerful body would feel beneath hers. He was strong, of course, but could he be gentle?

Then she remembered the squirrel.