Jagr stood perfectly still as Regan stepped into the bathroom and slammed the door.
For the first time in centuries, he found himself…conflicted.
The grim logic—that was the only means of keeping his lethal fury in check—warned him to toss the Were over his shoulder and return her to Chicago. It was not only what he’d been commanded to do, but the sooner he was done with this stupid mission, the sooner he could return to his peaceful existence.
But another part, a part he hadn’t experienced in years and was not at all pleased to discover he still possessed, was reluctant to take such an irrevocable step.
It was nothing more than common sense, he was swift to excuse his odd hesitation. What was the point of hauling her to Chicago when she was bound to flee at the first opportunity?
The gods knew he wasn’t lucky enough for Styx to pick someone else to hunt her down.
Perfectly reasonable. Unfortunately, Jagr was too intelligent to entirely dismiss his chaotic reaction to the beautiful woman.
He was a vampire who preferred his life, his battles, and his sex uncomplicated.
Regan was anything but uncomplicated.
She was a tangled mess of fury, aggression, vulnerability, wry humor, and frustrated sensuality.
A sensuality that wakened a hunger that now roared through him with brutal force.
He wanted her. And he sure as hell wasn’t turning her over to Styx until he’d had a taste.
Or two.
Counting to a hundred, Jagr was prepared when Regan cracked open the door and peered back into the room. He hadn’t believed for a moment she intended to strip naked and take a shower while a lethal predator stood just a few feet away. She was furious, not stupid.
Yanking open the door, she glared at him with impotent anger.
“Christ, are you still here?”
He regarded her in silence. He’d discovered over the centuries that it rarely took more to rattle an opponent. For a crazed moment she tried to match him stare for stare, then with a muttered curse, she marched forward to stand directly before him.
“What the hell is it going to take to get rid of you? Money? Blood? Sex?”
His gaze drifted down to her small, perfectly rounded breasts. “Which are you offering?”
She took a hasty step back. “None of the above.”
“A pity.” He lifted his gaze. “Then it would seem that I am staying. Tell me of the imp.”
“What?”
“I said, tell-me-of-the-imp.”
Her eyes narrowed at his slow, deliberate words.
“Why?”
“You obviously won’t leave until he’s dead, so I intend to put an end to this farce so I can return to the peace of my lair.”
“No.” She planted her hands on her hips. “No one kills Culligan except me.”
He arched a brow. “You expect him to stroll into your hotel room so you can beat him to death with a pillow?”
“I intend to rip out his throat with my bare hands.”
“What are you waiting for?”
Her lips thinned. “I lost the scent of the damned bastard at the edge of Hannibal.” There was a beat, then without warning, she stepped forward to grasp his arm. “Wait. You said you tracked Culligan to find me. Where is he?”
Jagr’s expression never altered, but his entire body tensed as a scalding heat rushed through him at her urgent touch.
Regan wasn’t the first woman he’d desired. Far from it. But never had his need been so ruthless, so raw, so primitive.
“So now you want my help?” he demanded, his voice as cool and controlled as ever. It was the ability to keep his emotions hidden that had allowed him to survive centuries of torture.
“If it leads me to Culligan.” Her fingers tightened, revealing she possessed all the strength of a pureblood. “Do you know where he is hiding, or not?”
“No.”
“But…”“Like you, I lost his trail at the edge of town. That’s where I picked up your scent.”
“Damn.” She dropped her hand and stepped back. Jagr swallowed his low growl of disappointment. “How could his trail just disappear?”
“Most imps can create portals to move through long distances.”
“Not Culligan.” Her lips twisted with a grim satisfaction. “He’s a weak, pathetic bully who can barely cast a hex.”
Jagr shrugged. “Then he could be dead, although it’s far more likely he had assistance in covering his presence.”
He watched the frustration ripple over Regan’s delicate features. They weren’t an exact replica of Darcy’s. Her eyes were a darker emerald, her brows more gold than blond, and her expression was hardened by years of abuse. But overall, she shared Darcy’s fragile, heartrending beauty.
The sort of fragility that made even a scarred recluse want to toss her over his shoulder and take her somewhere he could keep her safe.
Unaware of his shocking thoughts, Regan furrowed her brow. “How would he cover his presence? A witch?”
“A witch would have the power. But, of course, so would any number of demons.”
“Great.” The green eyes flashed with irritation. “You’re a butt-load of help. So glad you showed up.”
“It was because the imp’s trail ended that I asked you to tell me of him. I need to know more before I can decide how best to lure him from the shadows.” He lifted his brows as she regarded him with a stubborn expression. “Regan?”
“I don’t want your help.”
He narrowed his gaze, knowing he had to take a stand. This woman was so blinded by her need for revenge, she couldn’t think clearly. If she wasn’t to end up back in Culligan’s power, or dead, he would have to find some means to keep her distracted while he considered the best means of flushing the imp into the open.
“And I don’t want to be trapped playing nanny to a pint-sized Were with even less charm than myself.” His voice was sheer ice. “Unfortunately we’re stuck with one another until I hand you over to Darcy, and you can devote yourself to making her life a misery.”
She quivered with rage. “Pint-sized?”
“I believe that’s the current term used to describe a smaller than usual object.”
“Why you son of a…”
The crack of gunshots interrupted the angry tirade, the sound so unexpected that the bullets smashed though the window before Jagr was able to launch forward and force Regan to the floor. His teeth clenched in pain, his thoughts dark with fury.
He had protected the more delicate Were, but three of the bullets had lodged in his back, the fourth slicing through his arm to create a nasty gash.
Not life-threatening injuries, but they left him too weak to battle whoever was attacking them.
Shit.
If he survived this, Styx was going to kill him.
Chapter 2
Shocked by the sudden attack, not to mention the six-foot-plus vampire that had just landed on top of her, Regan struggled to clear the fog from her mind.
What the hell?
She knew enough to realize someone had shot through the window. And that Jagr had quite likely saved her from a nasty injury.
What she didn’t know was why.
It couldn’t have been Culligan. The few times the imp had tried to use a gun, he hadn’t been able to hit the broadside of a barn. Besides, if he’d come gunning for her, he would have brought a rocket launcher. The son of a bitch knew he had one chance, and one chance only, to kill her before she ripped out his throat.
Jagr’s groan jolted her out of her inane thoughts, and Regan wriggled from beneath his heavy body. He was too weak to protest, lying face-down on the carpet to reveal the brutal injuries that were even now oozing with a frightening amount of blood.
A flare of terror raced through her.
Jagr might be an annoying ass, but he’d just taken a number of bullets for her. She didn’t want the guilt of his wounds on her conscience.
Besides, whoever was shooting at them was probably still out there. Or else headed up to the room to finish them off.
She couldn’t just run off and leave the damned vamp to be murdered while he was injured. Which meant she needed him healed, and healed fast.
Struggling to recall what little she knew of vampires, she tensed at the sound of approaching footsteps, her heart stopping as the door to the room was suddenly thrown open.
Prepared for battle, Regan was caught off guard by the strange creature who waddled into the room. The thing possessed the grotesque features of a gargoyle—thick gray skin, reptilian eyes, horns, and cloven hooves. He even had a long tail that trailed behind him. But while Regan had never actually seen a gargoyle, she’d always presumed they were more than three feet tall, and that their wings were leather, not delicate bits of gossamer that were far too pretty for a ruthless savage.
Still, you didn’t have to be a nine-foot fire-breathing demon to pull a trigger. The miniature creature might very well be the one taking potshots at them.
“Get out,” she rasped, instinctively crawling to place herself between the intruder and the wounded Jagr.
Ignoring her command, the…thing moved forward to peer down at the vampire, and then, of all things, spoke with a lilting French accent.