Cordray swung by her mansion in the city, showered, and then headed back out to feed. She needed blood. Not only had her lip still not healed, but her hangover was lingering longer than it should. She was totally depleted.
With the after-work crowd giving way to the dinner crowd, enough people milled around the Loop to provide plenty of options as she searched for a donor. Anyone in a group was out. No families or couples, either. She needed someone who was alone, which was a lot harder to find than it sounded. Not very many people ventured into downtown Chicago at night by themselves.
Turning into a parking garage, she circled through the levels. Parking garages were excellent places to find donors, especially at this time of day. The nine-to-fivers were already gone, leaving the structures with a lot less foot traffic, but she could usually find a healthy, overachieving CEO who had worked late.
And bingo. There was one now.
Her Ducati’s engine purred as she rolled to a stop and removed her helmet.
“Excuse me,” she said to the buff fortysomething strolling unaware toward her. He had his brown leather briefcase in one hand and his smartphone in the other as he used his thumb to scroll through his messages.
He looked up. The skin around his eyes pinched as he realized she was talking to him. He gave her the once-over and frowned. Without replying, he continued walking, lowering his gaze to his phone’s screen again, pretending he hadn’t heard her.
These hoity-toity types were all the same. They thought they were too good for people who had a little ink in their skin and streaks of blue in their hair.
She hopped off her Ducati, scanned the rest of the parking level to make sure no one was around, and started after him.
“You lookin’ for a good time?” she said.
“No,” he barked over his shoulder.
“Good. Neither am I.” She gripped his arm and swung him into the shadows as her fangs distended.
He began to protest, but she pulled him into compulsion a split second before she sank her fangs into the side of his neck.
Aaaahhhh, blood. Sweet, life-giving blood. As it poured down her throat and broke into her system, she felt her body instantly brighten. The last of her hangover faded, and her energy spiked.
If only she were drinking from Trace.
What would his blood do to her? How would it taste? Like power and sex?
The muscles between her legs clenched greedily at the thought.
Every molecule in her body begged for her to return to the ranch so she could see him, and yet her brain still resisted.
This was what body-numbing heartbreak did to you. It clouded your emotions and instilled fear in your soul. It shattered the mechanism inside you that created hope, plunging you into hopelessness.
She wanted to believe she was tough enough to kick fear in the ass, but her fear was proving to be a powerful foe.
She finished feeding, sealed the bite mark, and wiped the encounter from the man’s memory.
He robotically, if not a little unsteadily, walked away.
The man’s blood had revived her body, but her emotions still felt like a carcass being fought over by two lions. Talk about your bloody games of tug-of-war. Her heart was smack in the middle of a titanic battle between rival gods.
As she settled on the seat of her Ducati and kicked up the kickstand with her left heel, a tremor broke inside her heart. A tiny jolt of fear.
Trace.
Another vibration of panic stirred inside her.
Something was wrong with Trace. He was hurting. He was in trouble.
Frowning, she tried to shake off the fear vibrating inside her. Could this just be an overactive imagination? A side effect of finally quenching her need for blood on the heels of telling Sam she was in love with Trace?
Whatever it was, her instincts told her she needed to get to him. Now.
And strangely enough, she could sense exactly where he was.
Revving the Ducati’s engine, she leaned into the handlebars and lifted her feet off the ground as the motorcycle shot forward.
Back on the street, she blasted off in the direction of Micah’s house.