Though, it wasn’t a compound, exactly. But considering the amount of guns he owned, the tall fence he’d built around the place so “no motherfucking asshole can be in my business,” and the land he had (because when he said he didn’t want anyone in his business, he meant it), I teased him by calling it his compound.

I didn’t know if he could protect me from vampires and werewolves.

I just knew he’d die trying. And he had enough ammo to make that fight last awhile.

“What’s your name?” Abel asked.

I blinked out of my thoughts and focused on him.

“Please take me to my hotel room so I can—”

He interrupted me again, “After I set those vampires on fire, seein’ as I’m not takin’ any chances, that’s where I went so I could get your shit. They were crawlin’ all over it, got a whiff of me, came after me. That ended swords against pipe in an alley. So you aren’t goin’ to your hotel room.”

Shit!

“How did you know which hotel I’m staying at?”

His gaze traveled over me, then back to my face. “You a biker bitch?”

This correct assumption did not prove he also had clairvoyant powers, just deductive ones. I was wearing a leather choker, feather earrings, leather wristlet on one arm, abundant silver bangles on the other wrist, a Harley tee, faded jeans, and motorcycle boots—my uniform when I wasn’t at work (though, I didn’t always wear feather earrings…or bangles).

And, incidentally, he was in much the same outfit. His jeans more beat up, his tee older, faded, and totally kickass, and obviously he wasn’t wearing a choker, earrings, or bracelets. Though he did have a chain wallet attached to his belt and a number of rings on his fingers.

“I would use the term ‘motorcycle aficionado,’” I snapped. “But yes.”

“Bikers stay at one place in Serpentine Bay.”

He was right. I’d been there before with my father. It was a biker mecca. Every biker worth being called a biker went to Serpentine Bay at least once before they died. Dad had taken me on my eighteenth birthday, but he’d been here five times.

And when in Serpentine Bay, bikers stayed at one of two places: the campgrounds north of town or the biker-friendly hotel on the water called The Chain, also north of town.

I gave up on that and asked, “What do they want with me?”

“What’s your name?” he asked back.

I shook my head.

“Could do this all night, and will, you don’t tell me your name,” he warned.

“Lilah,” I gave in. “Uh…Delilah Johnson.”