Novels by wiri wilson

STUPID. So fucking stupid.I’m not in the business of collecting liabilities. I’m a hunter. I learned my lessons young. A hunter never leaves tracks. Not if he’s hunting a predator, and I hunt the most dangerous predators in existence.But the second she dragged herself from the cage into my arms, she became too important to leave behind.Besides, she’s my best link to Santiago. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself, although how the hell I’m going to hunt a vampire when I have to babysit his pet fox, I have no idea. I wasn’t thinking when I stole her from the vampire’s home. Not with my head at least.The blanket slips off her shoulder and I can’t concentrate. I wonder how that creamy skin would feel under my lips. I’ll bet it’s so damn soft. I brush the back of my knuckles over it.Fuck—she’s chilly! I tug the blanket back over her. The heat is on full force in

THE RUMBLING under my ears fills my world. Cool air hits my face and then I’m tucked into a seat and strapped in. Two doors slam, one after another, and a big presence fills the space beside me.I say the first word that’s usually on my lips. “Master?”“I’m not your master,” the voice growls and my eyes fly open.A scarred face greets me. He’s glowering at me and I lower my eyes. “I’m sorry.”“Don’t apologize,” he snarls and I duck my head. “No, fuck, don’t do that.” I peer at him.He’s rubbing his chest. “You’re all right. You’re safe with me.” He puts the truck in gear and pulls from the curb.My fingers creep up and check for my collar. It’s still buckled snug around my throat. I sigh, sinking further into the passenger seat.I do what I do best and stay meek and quiet for the first few minutes of th

SANTIAGO LIVES in a fancy neighborhood in Oro Valley, up against the Catalina Mountain range. I park my motorcycle, climb the wall, and scan the backyard. Huge pool, fancy patio. But beyond the stone bar and grill and deck furniture, there’s a regular door. It’ll be easy enough to kick it in.I take a moment to slip past the cameras. No flood lights on the lawn— vampires can see in the dark. Luckily, so can shifters. I hunker down into the bushes and wait.Vampires are at their strongest at night and I find they’re a bit sluggish closer to daybreak. Not Simmon—he’s old enough that he can stay awake until the first ray of dawn. But even his oldest sired are well inside by the dark hour before sunrise.So I crouch until soft light glows in the sky just beyond the mountains. After taking a swig from my flask, I amble to the back door and let myself in. It’s unlocked—you’d have to be crazy to steal from a vampire

I lean forward. This one is a shifter. Not a wolf or bear, but something close. Fox, maybe. That would match her red hair. I glance between her thighs. She’s mostly shaved but for a small groomed patch. Natural redhead. Definitely a fox.How did I not notice her animal before? Probably because it’s shy, submissive. Plus all the cloying smells of vampires in the club. Prey animals don’t make themselves known like dominant ones. And this one is sweet as can be. My bear is fighting to burst forth and carry her off to a safe, dark place where he can protect her.My instincts war a moment. But I have to remember why I’m here. I swallow and step back and act disinterested. A bouncer more concerned with the club’s reputation than protecting a willing sweetblood. “Simmon know you’re feasting on a shifter?”“She belongs to me.”“Shifters don’t belong to vampires.”“Says the king&r

FUCKING TWISTED VAMPIRES.Toxic, the vampires’ BDSM club, is half lounge, half medieval dungeon: all heavy wooden furniture, red velvet, and dark corners a guy can get lost in. At one end, a small bar serves only top shelf liquor and rare wine. Glasses clink, a civilized sound that will soon be drowned out by the darker ones coming from the dungeon.Above our heads, music starts to pulse, throbbing through the ceiling. Not long now before couples start to descend from the nightclub on the first floor.I thread my way through the stations, careful not to touch any of the implements of torture, the custom-built furniture that looms like nightmarish monsters in the dim light. The sight of spanking benches and St. Andrew’s crosses is enough to make a submissive quake. Pant with desire. Makes no damn sense to me, but I watch it happen every night.I wait in the shadows as the first of them enter, pairs of people slipping down the stairs. Some head st