Page 102 of Claimed
I manage to keep it together as I ride the elevator down. As I stroll across the opulent foyer and out onto the sidewalk. I even manage to hail a cab without crumbling.
But as soon as we are a block away, the tears pour down my cheeks and I know there is no way to stop them.
My hotel room is dark when I enter.
I fumble beside me for the light switch. My fingers brush the dimmer and soft amber light illuminates the scattered and disheveled bits of my things.
All my clothes are tossed from my suitcase. My weapons are missing, my laptop smashed, and even the emergency cell phone is in ruin on the slashed comforter.
Horror and fear battle inside me as I stand rooted in the doorway.
It was just stuff. Things I bought when I arrived. I never bring things from Azz’s on my trips. Everything can be replaced.
But …
I slip into the room, wishing I had a shifter’s sense of smell. Or a vampire’s hearing. Closing the door behind me, I tiptoe as quietly as I can and pick up a heavy wood statue off the table. It’s not ideal. But it’s better than nothing.
I scour each room.
The main suite, the closet. The bathroom. Though the space is empty, the sense of wrongness will not dissipate.
One of my smaller blades is barely visible under the corner of the bed. The handle is cracked, the tang bent.
Nothing human could do that.
Fear flavors my mouth in metal. I stoop and pick up the knife and spy a shadowed reflection in the mirror next to the bed.
I whirl.
The man smiles coolly, flashing sharp white teeth. “We knew you would be back.” He stalks toward me, his dark skin gleaming in the light.
I leap to my feet and roll over the trashed bed. He changes course, heading straight for me. I shift my blade, knowing it will never pierce his skin. The balance is wrong. Off. I wait.
He smirks and rushes me.
I roll back across and a whoosh of air tells me just how close his hand came. But I’m up and running for the main suite door. His pounding footsteps nearly drown out his snarl as I fumble for the door, cursing myself for locking it.
Wrenching the panel wide, strong hands close over my shoulders, hauling me back. I hit the floor and gasp as all my air is forced from my lungs. He turns, his dark eyes the same shade as his skin.
A levithan demon?
Terror curdles in my stomach. He reaches for me and I slash in a narrow arc, slicing his palms. He bellows and I could kiss Azz for making me soak all my knives in holy water. Scrambling back, I draw my knee up and kick as hard as I can.
The blow catches his vessel in the knee cap. There is a loud, wet pop and he crumbles, his snarl part pain and part anger.
I climb to my feet and step behind him, digging the sharp tip of my knife into his flesh. He stills.
“Who do you work for? I demand.
Nothing.
I cut his midnight skin, and I can hear his teeth grind from the pain. “Who do you work for?”
“My prince,” he seethes.
There is only one prince of the levithan horde.
I try to breathe past my fear, past my horror. “Is he here? In Miami?”
