His brows climbed. “How do you know that?”

“Because you’ve never hurt me.” Maybe that was his weakness. Others had said it was. “I don’t know why, but you can’t hurt me.”

His flames sputtered away. “I think I can.” He walked away. Out of the warehouse. Didn’t look back. Just . . . left her.

She realized that he was right. He could hurt her. Not with flames or with fists, but by walking away. Leaving her behind.

“I need your help!” she shouted after him.

And heard, “Too f**king bad.”

It wasn’t the first time that he’d broken her heart, but dammit, it would be the last.

He stood outside the warehouse, sucking in deep gulps of air. The fire had been too close to her skin. Too damn close. If he’d burned her . . .

You’ve never hurt me. Her words rang in his ears. She’d sounded so sincere when she told him that. Staring up at him, her eyes so green and big—and reflecting the fire that he barely held in check.

Human . . . if he believed her story.

He did. Dammit, he did.

He had no business being around a human. Humans couldn’t survive the touch of flames. They couldn’t survive his strength. If he touched her, he could kill her.

He didn’t want Cassandra Armstrong’s death on him.

Dante wasn’t sure why she’d sought him out in Chicago, but the why no longer mattered. He needed to get away from her. As far away as he could.

He took one step. Another. Didn’t look back. Wouldn’t. But he could still smell her. Still feel her silken skin beneath his hands.

He took another step.

She’d been na**d in that bathroom. The water had glistened on her skin. He’d wanted to lick the droplets away. To lift her up against that shower wall and just feast on her.

Human.

He took another step.

His flames could have disfigured her. During the last week, he’d awoken from nightmares only to discover that he was burning the bed down around him. Over and over. The shrieking of smoke alarms had been what saved the people in the cheap motel rooms near him.

When he slept, he lost control.

When he was near Cassie, he wanted to lose control. And if he did, she would burn.

Not her.

He took another step. Cassie wasn’t following him. She was letting him go.

He wouldn’t turn around. He would not go back to her.

Because he wanted her to keep living.

CHAPTER THREE

Cassie jerked on fresh clothes as quickly as she could. She’d thought about running right out after Dante, but running out stark na**d wasn’t her best plan ever, especially with the sun getting ready to rise. Luckily, Trace seemed to keep his safe houses stocked with clothing for both men and women. The guy must like to be prepared.

She had searched the drawers and found underwear. Jeans. T-shirt. Tennis shoes. And—

She heard the thud of a fist hitting the back door. Her head snapped up. Dante? Coming back? Hope had her rushing toward the door, but caution—the caution that had saved her life plenty of times over the last few years—had her glancing at the security feeds before she opened that door.

Trace Frost—the shifter and computer genius who actually owned the warehouse—had wired the safe house so that he could see just who came calling to his door. She inched carefully toward the bank of security cameras. Hell.

Dante wasn’t on the other side of the door. Four men were—men with bared fangs.

Vampires.

Her eyes squeezed closed for an instant. My blood. She had been so intent on getting away from the motel room and putting some space between her and that damn tracking device that she’d forgotten all about the blood.

And the fact that her blood was like a homing beacon for vampires.

The door banged, nearly buckling inward, and the whole building actually seemed to shake.

Her eyes flew open and she jumped back. Weapon. She needed a weapon, fast. Those vampires weren’t going away.

Another frantic glance at the monitor showed that the vampires were slamming their fists into the door. Since vampires had enhanced strength as one of their little bonus features, those were some very powerful fists.

Cassie rushed toward the dresser. When she’d been searching for clothes, she’d noticed a nice little surprise hidden in a drawer. She shoved the T-shirts aside and her fingers curled over the gun that had been stashed inside. A gun—and wooden bullets—all conveniently stored and ready for her. Her fingers fumbled a bit as she loaded the wooden bullets into the gun.

The door shook again.

She slid the last bullet home.