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I snorted. “Except for a few minor differences, like drinking blood.”
His lips formed a tight line, and it finally dawned on me. Shit. Angelina had drunk his blood, hadn’t she?
My stomach churned with disappointment and disgust. Nash had had a fling with Angelina, and he’d let her drink his blood? Did he really have such bad taste in women?
Maybe he didn’t let her,my better half argued.Maybe she forced him.
I snorted. A strong, hardy wolf shifter like him, forced? Not likely.
Then a really sickening thought hit me, and I took a full minute to phrase my question carefully.
“Doesn’t a vampire’s bite make the victim a vampire too?”
Nash jerked his head in a vehement no. “Only if they drain the victim to the last drop of their blood, then give just enough back to turn them.”
The nachos in my stomach threatened to make an encore appearance.
I stomped down the street toward my car, then paused. “Where are you parked?”
Nash shook his head. “Not important. Let’s go.”
For once, I was happy to comply. We slid into my Chevy. As I drove off, I glanced in the rearview mirror.
“What do you think she’ll get up to next?”
“She’ll wait for Harlon,” Nash said.
“What if she doesn’t?”
He thought it over before answering. “I think they’ve both realized you’re not an easy target.”
Somehow, that didn’t make me feel better.
“If I were them,” Nash continued, “I would take me out first, then come for you.” He stuck his hands up before I could protest. “That’s whattheywould do, not what I think.”
Still, I glowered. “Maybe they’ll try to kill two birds with one stone. A stubborn landowner and a pesky BDSM agent too.”
“Former agent,” he grumbled, not bothering to correct the acronym. We were definitely turning into an old couple. “And anyway, no. Divide and conquer is always better.”
I turned right at the Y intersection, heading west, still bristling. “Is that what they taught you at the agency?”
“No, that was in the Marines.”
Oh. Right. I gulped, reminding myself how out of my league I was — with him and Harlon and Angelina.
“Nice truck, by the way,” he said, a long, quiet minute later. Changing the subject?
Good. My mood could use it.
I patted the dashboard. “1978 Chevy Silverado. My great-aunt bought it new, way back when.”
He grinned. “She has good taste.”
I chuckled, picturing her in it with us kids crowded in beside her and several dogs in the back, their ears flopping in the breeze. “That, she does.”
Then, whoa. Another image came to me — this time with me, an uncharacteristically carefree Nash, and a cheerful little boy between us — Nash’s spitting image — plus Roscoe in the back, ears flopping in the breeze. Roscoe’s ears, that is. Not Nash’s, or the little boy’s…
I gulped. Now, where the heck had that come from?
