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“I wasn’t the only one,” he bantered.

When she took a swig of her beer, Kenton looked up at the clear sky, avoiding the sight of her lips wrapped around that damned bottle.

“There’s a certain appeal to the night sky here in the country.”

She looked up with him. “This is hardly the country. For those of us raised in the middle of nowhere, Stone Haven seems like Metropolis.” Leaning her back against the railing, she said, “Alessandra Fiore.”

“Hmm. Alessandra. An interesting name.”

She cocked her head to the side. “How so?”

“The defender of men.”

He took a swig from the foul drink in his hand. Do as the Romans do, the saying went. At a place like this, folks drank beer.

“How do you know that?”

Seven hundred years of life had taught him a thing or two, not that he could say so.

“I lived in London for a time.” That much was true. Aside from Dublin and the Amalfi Coast, it had been one of his favorite places to live. Of course, there was that hotel owner in Costa Rica . . .

“My neighbor was a Greek mythology professor. I learned much from him about the Greek gods and goddesses, including Hera, whose nickname you share.”

A good man, one who had not deserved to die.

“I’m about to be a history professor too.”

I know.

“To be?”

“I start at Stone Haven University in the fall.”

He took a step toward her. Because his nature demanded it? Because he wanted to taunt Lawrence, who watched them even now? Or maybe, though he hesitated to admit it, even to himself, he simply wanted to. The scent of vanilla wafted toward him. Sweet, pure. Her blood mixed with the scent she purposely wore.

She’s your enemy.

He’d do well to remember it. Beautiful, smart, bold . . . and deadly to his kind, although she did not yet know it.

He couldn’t give her the chance to learn.

“How long are you here for?” she asked.

He took another deep breath, hungry for more of her scent. Long ago, he’d trained himself to withstand the sweet smell of blood, and just now, he was glad for the learned restraint. Being close to her was testing it.

“I’m not sure yet.”

Her brows drew together. “Not sure—”

“But with luck, we will meet again.”

With that, he left her.

Kenton slowed his pace so as to not draw attention to himself as he made his way down the stairs and out into the night.

“Wait, Kenton . . . ,” she called, though he ignored the siren’s song.

It had been years since they’d gone up against the last Cheld they’d found before encountering the Derricksons, a young male who had escaped the notice of Lawrence and his siblings. His brother Drake had killed the Mountie, an upstanding Canadian citizen who’d sought only to serve his community, or so he’d said just before he died.

Another death to regret, though he’d never say as much to his brothers.

Though he had not forgotten the pull of the Cheld, he did not remember it being so strong. Something told him this Alessandra was especially dangerous. Life in its most profound form. If he were not more careful, she might come into her abilities before he had the chance to question her about her family.

That could not be allowed to happen.

If he must, Kenton would kill her first and take the chance that the rest of her line could be tracked through her mother and brother. He and his siblings would then wipe out the remainder of the family—a pity, but a necessary measure. With any luck, he’d do it before Rowan or Drake arrived, ensuring their deaths were quick and painless.

But first, he needed to feed. The sole glass of blood he’d had the night before had not been quite enough and never a good replacement for the real thing. Sighing, he made his way toward the bar that Alessandra and her friends had frequented the night before.

Drunks were always easy prey, and they never remembered his attack.