Hard Bitten - By Chloe Neill Page 0,1

thing for the supernatural, fiction or otherwise. Buffy and Spike were particular objects of affection.

"Gad, no. Although wouldn't that totally give me an excuse to pop into the Whedonverse and, like, magically correct his eyesight or something?

Anywho, no. Catcher."

I grinned. "Catcher got glasses? Mr. I'm-sosuave-I-shaved-my-head-even-though-I-wasn'tbalding got glasses? Maybe this is going to be a good night after all."

"I know, right? To be fair, they actually look pretty good on him. I did offer to work a little abracadabra and hook him up with twentytwenty, but he declined."

"Because?"

She deepened her voice into a pretty good imitation. "'Because that would be a selfish use of magic - expending the will of the universe on my retinas.'"

"That does sound like something he'd say."

"Yep. So glasses it is. And I'll tell you, they are little miracle workers. We have definitely turned a corner in the bedroom. It's like he's a new person. I mean, his sexual energy level is just off the - "

"Mallory. Enough. My ears are beginning to bleed."

"Prude." A piercing honk rang through the phone, followed by Mallory's voice. "Learn to merge, people! Come on! Okay, I've got Wisconsin drivers in front of me, and I have to get off the phone. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Night, Mal. Good luck with the drivers and the magic."

"Smooches," she said, and the line went dead.

I tucked the phone back into my pocket. Thank God for besties.

Ten minutes later, I had a chance to test my "Ethan is still Ethan" theory.

I didn't even need to glance back to know that he'd stepped behind me. The rising chill along my spine was indication enough. Ethan Sullivan, Master of Cadogan House, the vampire who'd added me to its ranks.

After two months of wooing, Ethan and I had spent a pretty glorious night together. But "together" hadn't lasted; he'd reversed course after he'd decided dating me was an emotional risk he couldn't afford to take. He'd regretted that decision, too, and he'd spent the past two months attempting, or so he said, to make amends.

Ethan was tall, blond, and almost obscenely handsome, from the long, narrow nose to the sculpted cheekbones and emerald green eyes. He was also smart and dedicated to his vampires . . . and he'd broken my heart. Two months later, I could accept that he'd feared our relationship would put his House at risk. It would have been a lie to say I didn't feel the attraction, but that didn't make me any less eager for a rematch, so I was warily standing my ground.

"Sentinel," he said, using the title he'd given me. A House guard, of sorts. "They're surprisingly quiet tonight."

"They are," I agreed. We'd had a few days of loud chants, picket signs, and bongo drums until protesters realized we weren't aware of the noises they made during the day, and the denizens of Hyde Park would tolerate noise after nightfall for only so long.

Score one for Hyde Park.

"Makes for a nice change. How are things out here?"

"We're moving along," I said, wiping away an errant drip of stain. "But I'll be glad when we're done. I don't think construction is my bag." "I'll keep that in mind for future projects." I could hear the amusement in his voice. After taking a second to check my willpower, I looked over at him. Tonight Ethan wore jeans and a paint-smeared T-shirt, and his shoulder-length golden hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck. His dress might have been casual, but there was no mistaking the air of power and unfailing confidence that marked this prince among vampires.

Hands on his hips, he surveyed his crew. Men and women worked at tables and sawhorses across the front lawn. His emerald gaze tracked from worker to worker as he gauged their progress, but his shoulders were tense, as if he was ever aware that danger lurked just outside the gate.

Ethan was no less handsome in jeans and running shoes while taking stock of his vampiric kin.

"How are things inside?" I asked.

"Moving along, albeit slowly. Things would go faster if we were allowed to bring in human construction workers."

"Not bringing them in does save us the risk of human sabotage," I pointed out.

"And the risk that a drywall contractor becomes a snack," he mused. But when he looked back at me again, a line of worry appeared between his eyes.

"What is it?" I prompted.

Ethan offered up his signature move - a single arched eyebrow.

"Well, obviously other than the protesters and constant threat of