I loved the first book in this series. Alpha vampires, evil bad guys, mystery, and adventure. What’s not to like? So I’m beyond excited to feature BLACK BULLET by L.D. Rose this week. Below, L.D. Rose has given us a peek at the second book in the Order of the Sentry series with a couple of awesome excerpts and some amazing teasers.
Fledgling vampire Jonathan Kerr has just met his match.
Not even his past life as a former marine and FBI agent could prepare him for the battle against the monster inside him, struggling to take hold. After an old nemesis of the Senary surfaces in Brooklyn, unleashing chaos and terror in the battered borough, Jon sets out to take him down. Instead, he ends up with far more than he bargained for when he clashes with the beautiful half-vampire hybrid, Lawan Knight.
After escaping near death and suffering unspeakable horror at the hands of vampires, Lawan trusts no one, regardless of species. In between bouts of drunken stupor, her only goal is to exterminate all those who’ve wronged her, including every member of Jon’s vampire bloodline. But Jon’s soulful eyes and quick smile crawls under her skin, transforming her black and white world into a hazy shade of gray.
As the days rapidly grow darker, Jon and Lawan turn to one another, but their inner demons threaten to tear them apart. The only way either of them will survive is if they overcome their greatest fear—love.
He had everything under control until she crashed into his afterlife.
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Jon only had time to take a single breath before a dark boot materialized in front of his face, the heel aiming straight for his throat. He snatched it before it made contact and twisted hard, thrusting it away from him. The limb yielded beneath his grip as his attacker collapsed beside him, metal clattering nearby. He levered to his feet, pulling a KA-BAR from his boot as pain lit up his nerves, setting his teeth on edge. His attacker was already standing, the blade of a gorgeous double-edged Kris sword pointed at his throat.
His opponent was female, wearing a slim-fitting black battle uniform and carrying enough artillery to outfit a small army. Her jet-black hair was tied in a long braid and a black mask covered the lower half of her face. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes revealed her Asian heritage, her skin the color of caramel. A scabbard stretched across her back, strapped to her chest, along with the M16 she’d used to tear up the warehouse.
Jon took a step back, but she didn’t hesitate, launching at him with the blade. Metal clashed and sparks flew as he parried the long sword’s quicksilver arcs with his dagger. Although she limped from her injured leg, her strikes were hard, fast, and precise, each blow intended to kill. He nearly tripped over the pirate’s body as she backed him against the wall of the refinery, and he ducked as the blade screeched along the brick.
Before Jon straightened, he jabbed the butt of his KA-BAR into her knee and she yelped, stumbling backward. He slashed at her and caught nothing but air as she lurched away from him. She swung the Kris at his head and he raised the KA-BAR to engage and bind the sword. Both of their weapons trembled as their eyes locked on one another across the tangle of deadly metal.
And as her smoldering gaze drilled into him, he smelled it.
Dama de Noche.
The Lady of the Night, a nocturnal blooming flower he’d first smelled years ago in Nepal, when he was a human soldier. The scent was unmistakable, underlying the incense of vampire. The stench of leech didn’t belong to her, but the floral aroma was all her own.
She’s not a vampire.
Stunned by the revelation, Jon wavered, and she quickly took advantage of him. She sidestepped and lunged at him, sinking the blade in his shoulder. He shouted, dropping his KA-BAR as pain erupted from his dominant limb. Moving lightning fast, she yanked the blade out and sliced an arc across his chest. Luckily, she only scored his Kevlar, and as the sword swooped around again, Jon caught it with his gloved hands, silver biting into leather.
“You’re a hybrid,” he ground out. “I’m on your side!”
She pushed hard against him, drawing blood. “Bullshit.” Her voice was a rich contralto, edged with a growl. “You reek of Temhota.”
The Dama drew back and chopped at his belly, but Jon blocked her with his forearms, metal jarring against his bones. Finally, he managed to kick the blade out of her grip and it spun away, clattering to the ground. She somersaulted backward to retrieve it, but Jon caught hold of her braid in mid-air and wrenched on it. She cried out and landed face-first on the pavement, her breath audibly whooshing from her throat.
Jon wound her braid around his hand like a rope and straddled her, pinning her down. He tore the M16 off and tossed it as she writhed beneath him, fighting hard. Yanking her head up, he leaned close to her ear. “I’m not your enemy,” he hissed.
Her already shallow breath quickened and her struggles intensified, her sweet scent pumping from her pores in cloying waves. Panic. Fear. Restraining her like this completely terrified her.
Jon let up, knowing it was a mistake, but the shred of humanity still left in him couldn’t resist. The Dama slammed the crown of her head into his face and his retinas exploded in a staggering palette of reds, whites, and grays. His nose caved in, but not so far as to bury the bony shards into his brain. Blood poured out of him like a leaky faucet as he fell back, propping himself up on the wall of the refinery.
She was on him in an instant, chopping the edge of a flat hand into his trachea before smashing a fist in his ear. She wobbled to her feet as he struggled desperately to breathe—remember Jon, you don’t have to—and she gave him a vicious kick to his solar plexus, doubling him over. The pain was terrific, a cacophony of agony echoing from every corner of his body.
Jesus Christ, she was beating the shit out of him.
The Dama stood there, shaking, the fabric of her fallen mask fluttering to the ground. Jon blinked, trying to clear his blurred vision as she picked up her sword. He stole a glimpse of her face as she flung the mask up with the blade and caught it. A tattoo marked her cheek, the black symbol unmistakable but jagged, as if she’d thrashed during the process.
The same mark he’d painted on his chest lay branded on her face—the emblem of the Temhota.
Jon yanked down the neckline of his shirt, much like he had with the pirate, but this time he wiped at the mark, smearing it. The Dama paused in front of him, eyes narrowed, a gash marring her forehead. Even with the mark of his enemy on her face, she was breathtaking, and he didn’t have much breath left to spare.
“Not real,” he said past swollen lips, lifting trembling fingers stained with both paint and blood. “No mark.”
“But you are a leech.” She pointed the serpentine blade at the hollow of his throat.
He nodded, swallowing iron. “I work with the Senary. I used to . . . I used to be human. I’m not what you think I am.”
“You stink of them.” Her lip curled in a snarl.
He nodded again, every muscle in his body screaming. “Because I’m one of them. Yet I’m not.”
Brilliant. Maybe a few of those bony shards made their way into his brain after all.
She flipped the sword deftly and held it in a two-handed grip, the sin qua non of impending decapitation. Her dark eyes didn’t have the cat-like gleam signature to vampires, but hate and anger bled through them anyway.
“Makes no difference to me.”
Her scent was the first thing that hit him.
Rich, floral, potent with desire. A weight sat on him, very human and very female. Her lips suddenly seized his, her cold hands cradling his face as she plunged her tongue deeply into his mouth.
Jon’s eyes snapped open, staring at a close-up of the jagged tattoo on her face, her closed eyelids, her fanned out black lashes against her tawny cheekbones. He must’ve fallen asleep after he’d showered and dressed, still sitting up on the couch. And now here she was, climbing on top of him, torturing him with her scorching hot mouth.
Jon groaned, returning her kiss with a fervor that rivaled her own, his hands bunching in her silken hair. She tasted like fruit and whiskey, alcohol and Dama de Noche pumping from her pores in intoxicating waves, mesmerizing him like nothing else could. He ran his tongue along the roof of her mouth, sliding against the backs of her fangs—her fully extracted, razor-sharp fangs—and she bit down on him enough to make him shudder.
Yes. Oh God, yes.
Every time she withdrew, she nipped at him, dragging her teeth along the inside of his lower lip and driving him wild. He tugged on her hair, pulling her head back as he kissed her throat, starting at the angle of her jaw and working his way down. She gasped, quivering against him as he scraped his teeth across her skin, his fangs throbbing in time to her rapidly fluttering pulse.
Her hands clenched in his t-shirt as he licked his way back up to her ear, nibbling her feather-soft lobe. She moaned, grasping at him, and he lifted his arms, letting her yank the shirt off. Her hands covered his skin hungrily, clutching, feeling, stroking. She grazed the scar on his chest and his heart squeezed in response, his nerves firing beneath her touch.
She caught hold of his dog tags and pulled him closer, devouring him like she was starving, her breath in him, his breath in her.
Holy shit. Was this for real?
Jon fumbled with the front of her battle uniform before he finally ripped it open, the buttons snapping off in every direction. She trembled against him as her breasts filled his palms, hidden under her black sports bra, his thumbs feathering over their hardened peaks. When her pelvis brushed the rock hard erection in his sweatpants, she gasped and nearly jumped out of his lap, bracing her knees on the cushions at either side of him.
Easy. Take it slow.
Every last muscle in her lithe body was wire-tight, her head bowed, her breath swift and uneven. With his chest heaving and his blood roaring in his ears, he looked up. Her hair covered her gorgeous face, her hand still gripping the chain around his neck. He waited, palming her hips, before he slowly ran his hands down to her shaking knees. He swallowed hard, his entire body aching for her, trying to fight back the instinct to drag her against him and take what he needed.
“Tell me what you want me to do,” he murmured, his voice thick with lust. He reached up to brush her hair back, but she caught his hand and pressed it to her lips.
His chest tightened and his blood burned as he traced her mouth blindly with his thumb. So soft, her lips were so goddamn soft. She wouldn’t look at him, her eyes hidden behind the dark curtain of her hair. He would do whatever she wanted, anything she needed, even if it killed him.
Lawan held his hand and flattened it over her heart, the muscle thumping against his palm. Then she slowly guided him down, over the soft swell of her breast to the hard lines of her abs, then beyond to the strap of her panties. His fingers slipped beneath the black cotton but she squeezed his wrist and lifted him back out, her breath shallow and her body quivering. It took every ounce of willpower for him not to beg as he squirmed underneath her, needing something, anything, please.
She pressed his hand between her legs, over the damp cloth. And whispered, “Touch me.”
L.D. Rose is a neurotic physician by day, crazed writer by night, and all around wannabe superhero. She writes paranormal romance and urban fantasy, but she’s been known to delve into horror, sci-fi, and medical suspense on occasion. L.D. Rose is a PAN member of the RWA, FF&P, NEC-RWA and CoLoNY. She currently lives in Rhode Island with her studly hubby, her hyperactive boxer, and her two devious cats.
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