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Vabian had preyed on Dante’s simmering need for revenge against the were wolves that had killed his friend. Thankfully, Dante had come to his senses in time to foil Vabian’s plot and prevent her murder.

    Dante fought against the Venifucus at every turn, yet they continued to pursue him, hurting those he befriended and those he loved. It was no wonder he’d become a hermit, not allowing anyone to get near him.

    Duncan had vowed to look after him while the half-fey blood Duncan had given him still enhanced Dante’s already formidable power. Duncan wouldn’t let darkness overtake Dante d’Angleterre. Not while there was breath in his body.

    He drove directly to Dante’s brownstone. It was one of many residences Dante owned and maintained for his personal use and it had every protection an immortal could wish for. Duncan was certain no one had followed them the traditional way and fairly certain no magical means had been able to track them. They’d be safe here while they sorted out what to do with the woman.

    He pulled the car up to the curb, and Dante was out like a shot, the wolf girl held close in his arms. Duncan shut off the engine, secured the vehicle and followed close on the vampire’s heels.

    But Dante wasn’t waiting for anyone. He used his powers to fling the door open before him as he stalked through the house to the bedroom directly above his subterranean resting place. It was the master bedroom. The one he kept for show. It was decorated to his tastes and contained some of his belongings. He used it and the attached master bath when he came upstairs after dark. It helped maintain the fiction that he was just a regular guy should anyone come to call.

    Not that he let just anyone inside his home. No, Dante was a regular hermit, holed up alone the majority of the time. Duncan was changing that. He didn’t think it was good for Dante to be so solitary.

    Oh, he went out to hunt every once in a while. A man had to eat, after all, but he didn’t linger.
    He barely even talked to his prey anymore, he’d confided to Duncan after one particularly long night spent reminiscing and drinking.

    Dante had an extensive wine cellar, stocked with the finest vintages from all over the world. He also had an excellent selection of wines from California and preferred the burgundies of Atticus Maxwell’s winery in particular. Duncan knew Maxwell was also a vampire, though he’d never met the man. Wine was their last link to the sun and one of the few substances they could consume. It had healing properties for them and many of the greatest vintners in the world were secretly immortal.

    Duncan watched Dante place the girl on his king sized bed as if she were made of glass. She was mostly naked. Her clothes hadn’t survived her partial shift to were wolf form very well. She was in bad shape at the moment. She hadn’t regained consciousness, and her breathing was shallow.

    Dante removed the remains of her clothing and checked her for injuries, cursing under his breath.

    “She’s got at least two broken ribs and her left wrist looks bad.” Dante held her hand gently, probing the joint tenderly.

    “May I help?” Duncan didn’t want to approach without Dante’s knowledge. He was focused on the girl and had been unpredictable since she’d taken the hit meant for him. It was best to tread lightly.

    Dante looked up, and Duncan was struck by the emotion in his eyes. He hadn’t seen Dante really feel in far too long. There was an ocean of guilt swimming in his eyes along with worry, fear and something that looked like longing, but Duncan would worry about that later. For now, he had to help set this little mortal wolf to rights. He didn’t think he’d get anything resembling sense out of Dante until she was on the road to recovery. And that was something else he’d have to ponder…later.

    Duncan moved closer as Dante nodded his consent. Duncan put one hand over her brow, closing his eyes as he sent out