Simon’s silence is answer enough.
“You aren’t to leave the house until this matter is settled.” Dima crosses the distance in a shadowed instant, just to pat Simon on the hand. “Back to your coffin, firebird. We’ll discuss whether you need a bodyguard tomorrow night.”
The words stop short of using Dima’s full mental force—but Dima won’t hesitate to use it if he sees the need. Dima can enthrall a dozen humans with scarcely a thought. Fellow paranormals are more difficult targets, but the sire-bond gives him an easy channel into Simon’s mind.
While Simon still has the illusion of a choice, he acquiesces.
***
Simon should have known Dima was just coaxing him to bed. The only discussion that happens over the next three nights is Dima dodging Simon’s protests. As they wait in the parlor for the interloper to arrive, Simon makes one last attempt.
“I don’t need a bodyguard.” Simon means to sound firm but veers closer to petulant.
Calling Dima was a mistake. That becomes clearer as the dizziness wears away, leaving only weakness. Handling this attack would have been simpler without Dima’s interference.
“Agree to disagree on that, my dear.” Dima sits on Simon’s chaise lounge like it’s a throne. Even idly scrolling his phone in one hand, he looks like an ancient statue.
And Simon is a flickering flame, trapped in a lantern glass. “I’m the one still standing. Perhaps you should hire a bodyguard for the local hunters’ guild. They need it more than I do.”
Dima just looks up, bored and implacable.
Arguing is pointless.
Simon sits on the edge of his coffee table. His gaze falls to a lump in the carpet and scattered dust near the wall. Signs of the new security system, cameras at every door and sensors at every outer wall. The Atwood Security installers came while Simon was oversleeping. Dima offered to lure one down for Simon to feed, but Simon refused. The poor Atwood employees were just doing their job, and apparently only the boss and Simon’s new bodyguard know about vampires.
Preposterous. How can a group of humans protect Simon?
Except the worst part is that Dima may be right. Simon’s limbs still shake when he moves too quickly, and he’s too lightheaded to concentrate on the debate. The poison must have a witchcraft component, to linger like this. If he’s attacked again, Simon isn’t sure he’ll be able to pull a trigger fast enough.
He shouldn’t need to, though. Simon doesn’t intend to let any more strangers into his home, and the new technology will help. If a blade of grass is disturbed on the property, Simon will know.
The doorbell rings.
“That must be him,” Dima says without moving. “Shall I get the door?”
Simon shakes his head. “I’ll let him in.”
He wants the first look at his unwanted bodyguard, to see what he’sdealing with.
Maybe it won’t be so bad, Simon considers as he leaves the parlor. He can shut off the rooms he prefers, and the human will be awake during daytime, anyway. They won’t have to see each other. Just like having the housekeepers and landscapers visit.
Maybe it’s just the idea of weakness that rankles. Or Simon’s childish wish for Dima to stay instead.
A new touchscreen panel sits next to the front door. The marble floor beneath is cleaner than the rest of the foyer, where the Atwood installers must have swept. Simon taps the code to disarm the system, then opens the physical door.
And stares.
The man on the doorstep is large. Half a foot taller than Simon and at least twice as broad. His build screams of natural gift combined with dedication—bulking up easily, but working at it, too. Simon, frozen in time for centuries, could never transform himself like that.
Simon’s second, stupider thought is that this is the sort of man he would have lured into the shadows when he was younger. A tumble and a sip of blood. Sun-warmed skin, dark eyes, square jaw with just a shadow of stubble. The man’s hair would be brown in better lighting; caught between the house lights and the moon, it looks black.
There’s a barely contained primal quality to his movements, which makes sense. A pungent scent shatters any hope of tolerating this bodyguard.
Simon’s hand tenses on the doorknob. His teeth, by dint of tremendous self-control, don’t lengthen. “Dima,” he says, glaring at the threat. “You neglected to tell me you hired a werewolf.”
Chapter 4
Cody
