Page 1 of His Eternal Temptation

ONE

LANE

Lane Blackburn staggered down the dark city street. His head throbbed, and the world lurched around him. A stop sign swam into his blurred vision, swaying from side to side until it finally popped into focus. His insides twisted, the stabbing pain worse than before. Lane grabbed the sign and sagged against it. The metal pole was reassuringly solid beneath his fingers, and he clung to it with all his strength.

Fuck, he wouldn’t make it, would he?

Every one of his muscles ached. Winter wasn’t the time to be wandering around with river water seeping into his shoes and soaking his clothes. This was no way to die. No way to do anything.

It had to be after midnight and Lane feared whatever curse the Hillman Coven had cast on him was progressing exponentially. The relief he’d felt at not dying instantly was long gone. Lane wasn’t sure he’d choose this agony over peace.

An icy shiver crawled down his spine and radiated out through his limbs, leaving numbness in its wake. Not good. He had to keep moving. There was no time to stand around feeling sorry for himself. Lane left the supportive signpost behind, taking one step, then another, and pretended his legs weren’t shaking.

The street was vaguely familiar. Even one wrong turn would be a disaster, but Lane was positive—nearly positive—he was headed in the right direction.

Fear he’d misremembered grew with every step. It had been ten years since he’d set foot in Shearwater Landing. What if he’d gotten turned around? The club hadn’t been miles from the river. It was on the cusp of this neighborhood and the next. Why wasn’t he there yet?

He rounded the corner. Ahead, neon lights cast a red-and-purple sheen across the rain-slick street, bathing the world in color. Bright, looping letters plastered on the facade of a faux-historical building announced: Arcadia. Shearwater Landing’s most famous strip club, and Lane’s last hope.

His thundering heart clenched. If he was going to die, at least he wasn’t dying alone.

“Hey.” A large man dressed in black stepped forward, hand out in a halting gesture as Lane approached. “There’s no way we’re letting your drunk ass in here, pal.”

Lane staggered to the side. “Not drunk,” he slurred. “Need to speak to Rowan.”

The big man shot a glance at his companion. Pain throbbed through Lane’s fritzing nerves, and he nearly doubled over.

It was impossible to call on his magic when he was disoriented, but even without the ability to confirm it, he was sure both bouncers were vampires. This was a vampire headquarters after all. Lane hadn’t been here in a decade, but some things didn’t change.

Rowan would be here.

“What’s your name?” the first man asked. He seemed vaguely familiar, even if he didn’t seem to recognize Lane. To be fair, Lane was the only one who’d have aged since he was last here.

He braced his hands on his knees. He had to concentrate. Speak. No matter how much it hurt. “I’m Lane… Need Rowan’s help.” He gritted his teeth. “Please.”

Admitting he needed Rowan Valero’s help was as agonizing as the damned curse destroying his body. He’d fucked this whole thing up.

“Lane who?” The man sounded less demanding than before.

Lane forced himself to focus. Only one bouncer remained. Hopefully, the other had gone to fetch Rowan. “I don’t have a lot of time.” And he didn’t want to give his surname. He couldn’t risk Rowan sending him away before they spoke.

Damnation, he’d been an idiot to come here. Deluded. Affected by the curse. Rowan Valero wouldn’t want to speak to him, let alone save him. The ruthless vampire and his coven had a reputation for helping people in need, but they hated Lane and the rest of the Blackburns. Rowan especially. And he didn’t fuck around when it came to his enemies.

But Lane had to tell Rowan what he’d learned. It was the right thing to do. Then, if he was still alive, he’d explain what happened ten years ago, even if it seemed inconsequential now.

He could accomplish those two things, dammit. It might be the last he ever did.

“What’s wrong with you?” the bouncer asked, and Lane had the impression it wasn’t the first time.

“Curse.” He didn’t know more. He’d been overwhelmed before he could even think of countering it.

The man guarding the door swore. “Get in here.”

He pulled Lane inside. Into a stairwell? Music pulsed, the inner doors to Arcadia hardly blocking the thundering bass. Lane’s vision went white and his head exploded with pain. He gripped his forehead, throwing out his other hand to brace against the wall. His hand met air, and he staggered.

On the street, he’d have sworn he’d hit rock bottom. Now, everything was worse. He was drained to nothing. Broken.

There was a thunder of footsteps, and Lane forced his eyes open. Two men came down the neon-lit stairs. Neither was Rowan, and Lane’s struggling heart sank.