When a vamp took from prey, a link was formed. A link that allowed the vamp to slip into the prey’s mind. Sometimes to control, other times to steal thoughts or memories.

When you had control over someone, trust wasn’t exactly an issue. So most vamps didn’t worry about trusting their prey.

But she didn’t want control. Never had. She knew too well what it was like to be a puppet on someone else’s string.

Soon the lights of a city glittered in the distance. San Antonio. Good. The bigger the city, the easier it was for a paranormal to hide. And to feed.

Keenan snaked through the streets, guiding the bike easily, and she held him tighter. Whether she wanted it or not, her fate was being tied to his.

Keenan braked on a busy corner lined with bars, drunk humans, and cars.

Nicole eased off the motorcycle. “Thanks for—”

He turned toward her with his eyes glittering. “We get weapons here.”

Weapons? They were in front of a bar, not—

“Weapons,” his gaze swept her, “and clothes for you.” He left the motorcycle, not glancing back, and caught her hand as they pushed through the crowd. No standing in line for her angel. Just a determined stride forward.

The bouncer at the door was too smart to try and stop him, or maybe the guy saw the hint of fang she flashed.

But then they were inside. Music blared. Smoke drifted in the air and the scent of—

Blood.

Nicole froze. The scent of blood was everywhere. She hadn’t smelled so much as a drop outside, but in the bar—everywhere.

“What? Haven’t you ever been to a feeding room before?” He murmured. “Would have thought it was your kind of place.”

Nausea and need tightened her belly. “F-feeding room.” Right. She knew what these places were. She’d heard about them. They were—

“Your one-stop dining shop for vamps,” he said, his gaze sweeping the crowd. She followed his stare and saw that a woman had a man pinned against the far wall, and her fangs were in his throat. Two men fed off another woman in the corner. A few feet away, a female vamp bit the wrist of the blond with her.

Blood.

“I don’t … like feeding rooms,” she managed. Her teeth were burning, an instinctive response to all the blood. Like a dog salivating. Want. Need.

But the prey in feeding rooms—they were expendable. Used, tossed away. Killed.

“I’m not …” Like this. Right. Who was she kidding?

His steady gaze—once again that bright blue—seemed to say the same thing.

“Why are we here?” She demanded. Weapons. That’s what he’d said, but the only deadly weapons she saw in that place were fangs.

“You’ve got demons after you. And I don’t quite have the skills I used to possess.” His head cocked and his attention drifted to the bar. “If we’re going to fight the ones coming after you, we’ll need to be armed.”

Right. Because she wasn’t exactly kick-ass. He’d probably noticed that. “How did you even know this place was here?”

But he was already walking toward the bar as he tossed his answer back to her. “Oh, you’d be surprised at the things I’ve seen.”

No, she wouldn’t be.

Keenan reached the bar. He flattened his hands on the surface. “Max.”

The bartender glanced up with one brow raised. Keenan knew the guy’s name?

“I want to see the goods in the back room,” Keenan said.

Nicole put her elbow on the bar and let her stare dart around the room. The humans there had come in willingly, but with one bite, the vamps had taken control of them. There’d be no running back home and telling friends about the cool new club now. From here on out, the humans—those who made it out alive—would say nothing without the vampire’s permission.

Control.

She hated it.

“Listen, buddy,” the bartender snapped, “I don’t know you and I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about—”

His voice choked off.

Nicole glanced back at him. Keenan had gone over the bar. His hand was around the guy’s throat, and he was squeezing, hard.

“Don’t bullshit me,” Keenan ordered. “I know about the stash, and I need weapons.”

The angel wasn’t so good with finesse. Nicole cleared her throat. The bartender was a vamp. Maybe she could deal with him. She flashed a smile. A vampy one. “What my boyfriend means—sorry, he’s still new to the scene—is that I want to make a purchase from you.”