to throw it away.
It was highly unusual—all but unheard of, in fact—for a female to come through the ranks with the Order and be awarded a place as captain of a warrior team. Her pride swelled to think on that, even now. She’d lived to prove herself capable, worthy. She’d pushed herself ruthlessly to earn the respect of the Order’s elders and the other warriors she’d trained with—respect she’d eventually won through blood, sweat, and stubborn determination.
Mira wasn’t Breed. She didn’t have their preternatural speed or strength. She didn’t have their immortality either, something she, as a Breedmate—the female offspring of a Homo sapiens mother and a father of as yet undetermined genetic origins—could obtain only through the mated exchange of a blood bond with one of the Breed. Without that bond being activated, Mira and those other rare females born Breedmates would age, and ultimately die, the same as mortals.
At twenty-nine and unmated, she was already beginning to feel the physical and mental fallout of her taxing career choice. The wound she’d been carrying in her heart for these past eight years probably didn’t help either. And her “conduct unbecoming” reprimand a year and a half ago was likely more than enough excuse for Lucan to want to reassign her to desk duty. But he hadn’t yet, and she’d be damned if she gave him further cause to consider it.
“Storm’s coming,” murmured the third member of her team from beside her. Torin wasn’t talking about the weather, Mira knew. Like a lion taking stock of new surroundings, the big vampire tipped his burnished blond head up toward the cloudless night sky and drew in a deep breath. A pair of braids woven with tiny glass seed beads framed razor-sharp cheekbones and finely chiseled features, an unconventional, exotic look for someone as expertly lethal as Torin, one that hinted at his sojourner past. The glittering plaits swayed against the rest of his thick, shoulder-length mane as he exhaled and swiveled his intense gaze toward Mira. “Bad night to be down here. Something dark in the air.”
She felt it too, even without Torin’s unique ability to detect and interpret shifts in energy forces around him.
The storm he sensed was living inside her.
It had a name: Kellan.
The syllables of his name rolled through her mind like thunder. Still raw, even after all this time. Since his death, the storm of emotion left in his wake grew more turbulent inside Mira, particularly around this time of the year. Whether in grief or denial, she clung to Kellan’s memory with a furious hold. Unhealthy to be sure, but hope could be a cruel, tenacious thing.
There was still a part of her that prayed it was all a bad dream. Eventually she’d wake from it. One day, she’d look up and see the young Breed male swaggering in from a mission, whole and healthy. One day, she’d hear his deep voice at her ear, a wicked challenge while they sparred in the training room, a rough growl of barely restrained need when their bouts of mock combat sent them down together in a tangle of limbs on the mats.
She’d feel the formidable strength of his warrior’s body again, big and solid and unbreakable. She’d gaze into his broody hazel eyes, touch the crown of tousled waves that gleamed as copper brown as an old penny and felt as soft as silk in her fingers. She’d smell the leather-and-spice scent of him, feel the kick of his pulse, see the sparks of amber heat fill his irises and the sharp white glint of his emerging fangs, when the desire he held in check so rigidly betrayed itself to her despite his best efforts to contain it.
One day, she would open her eyes and find Kellan Archer sleeping naked beside her again in her bed, as he had been the night he was killed in combat by human rebels.
Hope, she thought caustically. Such a heartless bitch.
Angry at herself for the weakness of her thoughts, she picked up the pace and glanced at the intersection ahead, where half a dozen human couples had stumbled out of a trendy hotel bar and now stood awaiting a traffic signal. Across the street from them, one of the city’s ubiquitous Faceboards took the liberty of scanning the group’s retinas before launching into an obnoxious ad, custom-tailored for the interests of its captive audience trapped at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change.
Mira groaned when the digitally rendered 3D image of