Blood Possession by Tessa Dawn Page A

gawking at the scene, pointing and whispering at the dent in the cab. A tall man with broad shoulders started to walk briskly toward the chaos, shouting a command at Napolean to leave the women alone, but he was quickly intercepted by Santos, who sent him in the other direction with nothing more than a tap on the shoulder and a mental suggestion. Napolean shook his head to clear his mind. The people around him were not his concern right now. This woman was. And based upon the look of sheer terror on her face, she wasn’t about to answer a polite knock on the door.
    Napolean took a deep breath, glided to the side of the cab where the woman sat, reached for the handle, and wrenched the door open, trying mightily not to rip it from its hinges.
    He failed.
    And the woman gasped in fright.
    And then she flailed wildly, trying to back-pedal away from him as if she were running on an invisible treadmill. He could hear her heart pounding in her chest, and it sounded like a bass drum thrumming in a five-hundred-watt subwoofer.
    “Come to me,” he beckoned, reaching out his hand.
    He wasn’t sure if her response constituted a shriek, a yell, or a growl—but he pretty much got the gist: No!
    “Please,” she whispered, her magnificent blue eyes glazing over with the onset of panicked tears, “take our money. We don’t want any trouble. Just take whatever you want and go. Leave us alone.”
    Napolean’s upper lip twitched, no doubt revealing a hint of fangs, and he felt the heat in his eyes—knowing they were glowing red. He could hardly speak. “Come, or I’ll take you.” His voice was pitched low in an imperious command, removing any ability she had to refuse. He was an Ancient—his power unmatched among all the Vampyr—and knowing this, he tried to soften what he did.
    She was trembling uncontrollably now as she began to scoot toward the door, her body betraying her will.
    “Brooke! What are you doing? Get away from the door!” The blond woman grabbed her friend by the arm and tugged her back, pulling her into the center of the cab. “Go away!” she yelled at Napolean, her sea-green eyes ablaze with defiance. “Leave us alone!”
    The door to the other side of the cab opened, and Santos reached in and placed his hand on the blond woman’s shoulder. Her head lolled to the side, her eyes fell shut, and he laid her back gently against the seat. She was fast asleep.
    The brunette screamed a god-awful cry as her friend fell silent. Leaning back, she kicked at Napolean, screaming for help all the while.
    Damnit. This was simply too public of a scene. “Shhh,” he whispered. “I am not going to hurt you. Come now.” He ushered her forward again, and like a programmed robot, she got out of the cab, her eyes wide as saucers as she lost her ability to resist his voice.
    Napolean froze then, his eyes taking her in.
    She was lovely.
    Positively stunning.
    Her hair was ebony silk, the length of her shoulders. It was impossibly thick and straight as an arrow, expertly cut in a soft, modern sweep so that the pieces in front were angled slightly longer than the back, accentuating her stunning features. And her eyes—they were so outrageously blue—as brilliant as sapphires with such incredible depths. This woman was neither simple nor shallow. She had lived through much in her lifetime, and there was a stark wisdom and keen intelligence in her gaze, despite her fear.
    Napolean reached out to touch her.
    He couldn’t help himself.
    “I am Napolean,” he said, his fingers gliding through the wisps of her hair. “What is your name, milady?”
    Brooke swallowed hard and blinked, as if coming out of a trance.
    When she refused to answer, Napolean gave her a gentle thrust with his mind.
    “Brooke,” she whispered.
    Napolean closed his eyes and repeated her name like a prayer: “Brooke.”
    Brooke.
    Napolean opened his eyes again just as Ramsey pulled up behind them in Napolean’s black Toyota Land Cruiser. He pitched his