Cold-Blooded Alpha by Eve Bale
Excerpt from Deacon
The humans who served as Bladed were good for one thing and one thing only: guarding the feeding rooms from nosey human tourists who viewed rules as nothing more than suggestions.
At least, that was what the vampires had always told Deacon Chase.
But they expected him to play personal guard to a stuck-up vampire princess from the highest enclave above the city? A position which came with a bonus on completion big enough to have him eyeing the supervisor of Bladed recruits, his boss and sometimes friend with suspicion as he waited for the other shoe to drop.
But it was tempting. The bonus. And the challenge too; he couldn’t say he wasn’t tempted by it. And it would be a change from the tourists sticking cameras in his face or sidling up to him to sneakily take selfies as if he were one of those British guards who for some absurd reason couldn’t move.
This wasn’t England. It wasn’t even America anymore. Not since the vamps had taken over ownership. Vegas was in the hands of the vamps now, and over the years, people had learned vampires had no hesitation about using force whether or not it was called for.
It’d been one of the first things he’d learned after he’d signed up. That, and the Bladed issued wakizashi short sword could cut through just about anything. Intrigued, he’d stayed—and been the only human in a group of twenty who had.
Deacon was under no illusions about the job. Even if he took it, things wouldn’t change for him. Soon, he’d find himself right back where he started. Stuck in the same tiny apartment he’d been in since he’d moved in five years ago. Still earning less. Much less than his vampire counterparts, with no promotion or even the hint of one on the horizon.
But his boss had singled him out for the assignment.
Maybe he’d seen the writing on the wall that he wanted out, and was ready for this year to be his last as a Bladed, since nothing had gone the way he thought it would when he’d come to Vegas in search of a fresh start after the Marines.
At least, outside of Vegas he could work his way up to something better. Here you were nothing unless you had money or you knew someone who did. Being a vampire didn’t hurt either.
Pierce was holding something back. Something his boss hadn’t wanted to talk about at Bladed headquarters. Narrowing his eyes, Deacon leaned toward him.
“Who’s the girl, Pierce? And why does she need a guard, especially up there?”
“Big wedding, haven’t you heard? A uniting of dynasties.” Pierce slid a black folder across the table, but Deacon ignored it.
“You’re fucking shitting me! They realize it’s the twenty-first century, right?”
“Keep your voice down.” Despite the sternness of his voice, the brief flash of amusement in Pierce’s cool gray eyes reassured Deacon that Pierce’s supervisory role training up recruits hadn’t fully deprived him of his sense of humor. Not yet, at least.
Picking up his beer, Deacon leaned back in the cracked leather booth of the downtown British-style pub that the human contingent of the Bladed liked to spend their downtime in. What little they had of it, that is.
As he took a healthy swig of his lager, his eyes roamed over the pub. Other than an old man nursing a pint of Guinness who looked about to tip off his barstool at the counter, and the bartender who rested his head on a bent elbow and looked close to drifting off, he and Pierce were alone.
The tourists wanted nothing to do with such a worn-down pub where vampires had no interest in visiting. They came to Vegas for the vampires, the gambling, and the clubs—excitement, in short. When the tourists wandered into The Rising Sun Pub, it was to use the bathroom or ask for directions. Not in search of a good time.
“Why me?” he asked, returning his gaze to his boss.
“You’ve made an impression on the right people. Or wrong.” He shrugged. “Who knows, you might like it better than the door work. So, you gonna take a look?”
Pushing his bottle aside, Deacon flipped open the file.
He had no recollection of picking up the photograph in it, but suddenly it was in his hand. His eyes locked on the beautiful—no, the word didn’t do her justice—red-head who looked to be in her early twenties, all long flowing hair and sensuous curves standing front and center. Fierce arousal spiked as blood went straight to his cock, and in no time whatsoever he was primed and ready to go.
Between the long waves of her red-gold hair, and the expanse of creamy peaches-and-cream skin on show in a pale green slip dress, he wasn’t sure where to look first. And that was before he even caught sight of the size of the sparkling diamond on her left hand.
The photographer had caught her leaving a bar, mid-laugh, with her head half-turned to a pale dark-haired woman beside her in a leather dress.
But her eyes…
As his gaze fixed on the green-hazel of her eyes, fringed by long, dark lashes, he saw in them something that had him frowning. Triggered a deeper need than simple lust. A need—his need to protect.
“Who is she?” he murmured, distracted.
“Ophelia Mortlake.”
His head snapped up to meet his boss’s eyes as he lowered the picture but didn’t release his grip on it. So that was the catch then. The reason for the big bonus. He’d be playing personal guard to August Mortlake’s daughter, the sole vampire Councilor who’d chosen to make his identity publicly known. “Mortlake, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Why me?” Despite himself, Deacon found his eyes drawn back to the photograph in his hand. Why couldn’t he stop looking at her? “I’m human. I’d have thought he’d want only the best for his little girl.”
“You’re handy with a sword.”
“But I’m human,” Deacon repeated, louder this time. In case his boss had missed it.
Pierce’s snort had Deacon raising his head. “Quit fishing for compliments, Chase. If August Mortlake wants you guarding his daughter, that’s what he gets.”
“And I don’t get a say in this?”
A smile twisted the corner of Pierce’s lips. “With a bonus this big and the hungry way you’re eyeing the photo, you don’t look like a man about to say no. Or am I wrong?”
