“I’ll be here.”
She went to the door of the barn and turned back once more. “I love you.”
The hours until midnight seemed longer than they should be. Samson was nervous. What if she’d changed her mind? Going away with him, a penniless man without prospects couldn’t be what a rich heiress like her would want.
When the bell of the nearby church chimed out the twelve strokes of midnight, he was ready to go back to his chamber. Elizabeth wouldn’t come. She would be sleeping in her warm bed, crying maybe, but she’d stay and do what her parents wanted.
A sound made him turn. She was covered in a dark cloak, a small satchel in her hand. Elizabeth. She was his. Samson pulled her into his embrace and kissed her. Her lips erased all his doubts. Their future was uncertain, but his life was perfect. The woman he loved was prepared to give up everything to be with him.
The horses were saddled and ready. They only rode for an hour before they were attacked. Three men fell upon them, coming out of nowhere. It happened so fast, there was no time for escape.
Samson’s horse fell first, its throat ripped open. He hadn’t even seen the blow or what had struck it. By the time he freed himself from his horse in order not to be squashed underneath its body, he heard Elizabeth’s horrified screams.
What he saw couldn’t be happening. Wasn’t real. Wasn’t possible! One of the men drank from her throat. Her blood. His teeth were lodged in her throat.
Samson fought the other two, but he had no chance. He couldn’t get to her, couldn’t help her. He’d promised her to keep her safe. He’d failed.
If he couldn’t save her, he’d die avenging her. With more ferocity than he ever knew he possessed, he fought, clawed, and bit.
He felt fangs dig into his arm, felt the blood drain from him. Still, he didn’t give up. He threw a last look at Elizabeth’s dead body, then bit the man’s ear off and spit it out. The taste of the attacker’s blood in his mouth was metallic. It was the last thing he remembered.
He woke in a shed the next day. How he’d gotten there, he truly didn’t know.
To his surprise, the wounds the men had inflicted on him were gone, but when he opened the door and a ray of sunshine touched his arm, the burning sensation made him flinch and pull back.
It was the moment when he knew he’d been condemned to a life as a vampire; nothing else made sense.
One of the bad guys.
Punished for his sins of adultery and debauchery.
Beyond redemption.
Samson finished his drawing. He’d used his drawing skills over the years mostly to convey information to his associates in order to help them apprehend dangerous individuals. His art had gone by the wayside, but drawing Delilah reminded him of what he loved doing. She was the perfect muse. He looked at his sleeping beauty and planted small kisses on her neck and shoulders. His eyes glanced at the clock: the sun would rise in a few minutes.
“I have to go, sweetness,” he whispered to her, but she didn’t wake. He tucked his drawing pad away on his desk.
Samson collected his bathrobe and dressed, then slowly left his bedroom. Normally he slept in his bed with the shades drawn, but since she was here, he couldn’t risk her finding certain things strange when she woke up. For once, he would be hard—if not impossible!—to wake once he was asleep. And if she dared open the blinds to let the sun in, his skin would fry.
He quietly went downstairs. He’d built a safe room in the back of the house behind the garage, where he stayed during emergencies. The room was equipped with everything he needed: enough blood to last him several days, a bed, and communication equipment.
Samson locked the door from the inside and let himself fall onto the bed. He quickly sent a text message to Carl to notify him of where he was, and to Oliver to instruct him to take care of Delilah for the day. He ignored Ricky’s message that he needed to speak to him. It could wait. Then his head hit the pillow, and sleep claimed him.
NINE
In steady drops, the blood dripped from her fingers.
Drip, drop.
A small puddle formed on the tile floor. Somebody was watching her, but she was unable to lift her head. Instead she kept staring at her hand.
Drip, drop.
A dark head of hair flitted in her peripheral vision. It bent over her hand. She couldn’t see the face, but she heard him inhale sharply. Sniffing her hand?
She tried to pull it back, but felt paralyzed. She saw the pink tongue before she felt it … licking her. Licking the blood off her hand. Tingling pleasantly.
Delilah opened her eyes in a start and let out a few sharp breaths.