Hot-Blooded Alpha by Eve Bale
Excerpt from Deepest Rage
Ethan hunted her.
Nothing passed him by. Her every action, from the steady beating of her heart to the soft rise and fall of her chest, and the way her slim fingers curved around the stem of her champagne flute. He missed none of it.
Did she feel him watching? Did she have any idea he stalked her?
The man at her side said something which made her laugh, and leaned in close to brush a lock of chestnut hair from her face in a move that spoke of intimacy.
Possession.
Narrowing his eyes, he circled them, drifting closer as he willed her to see him.
Her head came up, turned, and her eyes searched the crowd. A pointless task.
With all the vampires thronging the ballroom of Eros on the Vegas Strip, and the dancing couples always in motion to the gentle plucking of a harp, it would be close to impossible for her to spot him.
But for a single moment, a single breath, he let her see.
The glass of blood-spiked champagne slipped out of her hand, exploding in a burst of red, pink, and crystalline shards when it hit the marble tile floor. One of his kin, who could never be accused of being tolerant, reacted at once.
There was a flash of fangs, glistening bright white against red-painted lips, and then a woman in a Grecian-style gold dress—the unfortunate victim of the shattered glass—launched herself at Genevieve.
But the lean man in the black silk shirt, with his long dark hair pulled back in a sleek man-bun was already nudging Genevieve aside, blocking the woman’s attack with his own body.
Vincent Turner. Her leather pants and silk-shirt-wearing lover.
Her knight in shining fucking armor.
Using the thick crowd as a shield, Ethan downed his whiskey, noting how effortlessly Vincent—or Vince, he’d heard Genevieve call him—charmed the spite out of the woman in gold. Eventually she drifted away, apparently mollified by whatever Vincent had said.
His lip curled at how Genevieve gazed up at her savior, naked relief reflected in her expressive steel-gray eyes framed with their long, thick black lashes.
Four years ago, he had been certain he could trust her. That she loved him enough to give up her humanity and belong to him forever. Now he could see how much she had deceived him.
His? She’d never been his.
He’d been a mere stepping stone to something better. A path to high society parties in London, expensive jewelry, weekends in Paris, and a vampire lover who liked to pretend he was Prince Charming. Never mind that Ethan would have given her anything, everything.
No. She’d been after someone gentler, prettier, more charming.
Someone not him.
Well, it looked like she’d found it in Vincent fucking Turner.
Doubts had surfaced as his private plane crossed the Atlantic, delivering him back to the city which vampires had claimed nearly ten years prior: a city he’d left with the still-human Gen beside him six years later, excited to start their new life together in Prague. But now those doubts were vanquished in an instant.
It didn’t matter that she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on in her silky peach gown. She’d betrayed him—had left him to be tortured, and abandoned him at the moment of his darkest need. Her beauty wouldn’t save her. Not after what she’d done.
Revenge was the name of the game, and he didn’t care what it cost him.
