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  “Take whatever you want and get out.”

  “I have what I want. Drive.” The gun and his hold on the weapon remained level. He took up more than his own seat, his arms and torso solid muscle. His face was hard and angled—cut in a way that almost looked unreal.

  His words chilled through her. How was she going to get free of him? She pressed the gas pedal again and drove along fresh graves, spotting the exit farther ahead. Her heartbeat increased its force, and her ribs ached. “What do you want from me?” She held her breath.

  “Just your brain,” he said, the sound raw.

  She jerked, her head turning to him again. “To eat?” she gasped.

  He blinked. Once and then again. “No, not to eat.” His wince drew his cheeks up and his darker brows down. “Geez. To eat? Why would I eat your brain? Ick.”

  Her kidnapper had just said “Ick” and looked at her like she was insane. She eyed him with her peripheral vision so she could better describe him in a police report—if she survived this. At least six foot six, long dark blond hair with even darker streaks strewn throughout, handsome face. Somewhat rugged but also sharp, and with healed burn marks down his neck.

  His eyes were world-weary and wounded, and he’d obviously survived hell. Now she had to survive him.

  Also by Rebecca Zanetti

  The Dark Protector series

  Fated

  Claimed

  Tempted

  Hunted

  Consumed

  Provoked

  Twisted

  Shadowed

  Tamed

  Marked

  Talen

  Vampire’s Faith

  Demon’s Mercy

  The Realm Enforcers series

  Wicked Ride

  Wicked Edge

  Wicked Burn

  Wicked Kiss

  Wicked Bite

  The Scorpius Syndrome series

  Mercury Striking

  Shadow Falling

  Justice Ascending

  The Deep Ops series

  Hidden

  Taken novella

  Fallen

  Table of Contents

  “Take whatever you want and get out.”

  Also by Rebecca Zanetti

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Teaser Chapter

  About the Author

  ALPHA’S PROMISE

  Rebecca Zanetti

  LYRICAL PRESS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  LYRICAL PRESS BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Rebecca Zanetti

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Lyrical Press and Lyrical Press logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  First Electronic Edition: June 2019

  eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0747-6

  eISBN-10: 1-5161-0716-0

  First Print Edition: June 2019

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0751-3

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0751-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  This one’s for every girl who’s seen a hot guy with a hint of the extraordinary on the street and thought, ‘Yeah. He could be a vampire.’ Come on. You know who you are.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to the readers who have jumped into this new era of the Realm vampires. I have many wonderful people to thank for getting this book to readers, and I sincerely apologize to anyone I’ve forgotten.

  Thank you to Big Tone, Gabe, and Karlina: for their love, support, for making my life better every day.

  Thank you to my eximious editor, Alicia Condon, as well as the innovative group at Kensington publishing: Alexandra Nicolajsen, Steven Zacharius, Adam Zacharius, Vida Engstrand, Jane Nutter, Lauren Jernigan, Elizabeth Trout, Samantha McVeigh, Lynn Cully, Kimberly Richardson, Arthur Maisel, Renee Rocco, Rebecca Cremonese, April LeHoullier.

  Thank you to my wonderful agent, Caitlin Blasdell, and to Liza Dawson and the entire Liza Dawson Agency.

  Thank you to Jillian Stein for the absolutely fantastic work and for being such a great friend.

  Thanks to my fantastic street team, Rebecca’s Rebels, and to their creative and hard-working leader, Minga Portillo.

  Thanks also to my constant support system: Gail and Jim English, Debbie and Travis Smith, Stephanie and Don West, Jessica and Jonah Namson, Kathy and Herb Zanetti, and Liz and Steve Berry.

  Finally, thank you to the readers who have kept the Dark Protectors alive all of these years. It’s because of you that we decided to return to the world of the Realm.

  Chapter One

  Across the windy cemetery, beyond the rows of gravestones, a man leaned against a pine tree and watched her. Even at the distance, the deep blue of his eyes cut through the day. He stood to at least two meters, his chest broad, his legs long. His gaze was almost physical and alight with something that caught her by surprise. A rare tingling, one she’d never been able to explain to herself, much less to anybody else, morphed into an instant headache at the base of her neck.

  Dr. Promise Williams shivered and broke eye contact to focus in front of h
er.

  Meager September sunlight glinted off the coffin as it was lowered into the wet earth. The clouds had finally parted and stopped dropping rain on the mourners. She closed her umbrella and tucked it into her overlarge bag, wet grass marring her smart boots.

  “It was a nice service. Earlier, I mean,” Dr. Mark Brookes said at her side, wiping his thick glasses on a handkerchief. He wore a tailored black suit with a muted tie, his eyes earnest and his thinning hair wet from the earlier rain.

  Promise nodded, her stomach aching. The group standing around remained silent with a couple of soft sniffs piercing the quiet. She knew all of the mourners. Six professors, a dean, and two grad students. The earlier service had been packed with students, more faculty, and even the local press. This part of the day was reserved for family.

  Dr. Victory Rashad hadn’t had any family. Other than the faculty, of course.

  The wind picked up, brushing across Promise’s face. She shivered. Who did she have? If she died tomorrow, who would attend the burial part of her service? Unwittingly, she looked toward the pine tree.

  The man was gone.

  Not a surprise. While he’d visited the dead, no doubt he’d just looked over at the assembled group in passing. His focus hadn’t been solely on her. She shook her head and tried to dispel the dread she’d been experiencing since the police had found Victory. The woman had been missing for nearly three days before being found. Torn apart.

  Who would do such a ghastly thing?

  The gears of the lowering device stopped, effectively concluding the burial for the bystanders. “Well.” Mark held out an arm, and she naturally slipped her glove into the crook of his elbow. “Would you like to get something to eat?” He turned and assisted her over the uneven ground to their vehicles, parked on the silent road.

  “Thanks, but I’d rather go home.” She’d attended an Irish wake once where the family members drank into the next day, toasting the dead with stories. A wealth of stories, and all told with love and shouts of laughter. What was it about her world that lent itself to quiet services and no humorous anecdotes? “Thank you, though.”

  Mark paused at her new compact car and waited for her to unlock the door. “I hadn’t realized you and Victory were close.”

  “We weren’t,” Promise said quietly, opening the door. The other professor had joined the physics department at the university during summer semester, and so far, even though the school was a month into fall semester, they’d merely politely greeted each other at department meetings. That was it. Maybe a lunch or two in the cafeteria, but she didn’t remember the details. “Are we, any of us, close with anybody?”

  Mark scratched his chin. “I am. Two brothers, both married with kids. In fact, Mike is having a barbecue this Sunday, probably the last one before winter. I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

  “I should probably work.” The idea of witnessing a happy family was too much to think about right now. What was wrong with her?

  “Okay.” He waited until she’d sat before leaning over the open door. “Two dates, and now I’m not sure what’s going on.” His intelligent brown eyes studied her, while the too-musky scent of his cologne wafted in her face. “I’m thirty-five and don’t have time for games, Promise. Are we going out again or not?”

  She forced a smile. “No.” He was a nice man, but she’d rather work with supersymmetry or cosmological inflation than spend time with him. Of course, who wouldn’t? “I think we’re better situated as friends.”

  “Well. I do appreciate your honesty.” As he straightened, his tone indicated that he did not, in fact, appreciate the truth. “I’ll see you Monday.” He shut her door with extra force.

  Cripes. Maybe the truth had been a mistake and she should’ve worked harder to soften her words. Like usual.

  She started the engine and pulled away from the curb, winding through the cemetery and wondering about Dr. Rashad. The police hadn’t indicated any movement on the case, but Promise felt she should do something. Perhaps she’d call on Monday and request a status update.

  She sped up slightly, and her doors locked. Her shoulders relaxed. It had to be a coincidence that Dr. Gary Fissure, a colleague from Great Britain, was also missing. She’d collaborated with him on a paper several years previous.

  The wind picked up, and rain splattered against the windshield again. Several roads spread out in different directions. She hadn’t been paying close attention when she’d driven in. How stupid of her. So she took the first left, allowing her mind to wander as she drove among the peaceful dead. She flicked on the wipers and turned down another road in the sprawling cemetery.

  Suddenly, her passenger door was wrenched open and the damaged lock protested, emitting a screech-popping sound.

  A man forced his way inside, rocking the car, and slammed the door. Droplets of rain wettened her leather seats.

  She reacted in slow motion. How was this happening? How had he broken the door lock of her new car? Her eyes widened, and she turned her head to fully face him. That quickly, she recognized him. “You were watching me.”

  “I was.” His voice was low and mangled, gritty and surpassing hoarse. Those blue eyes were even darker inside the vehicle.

  Adrenaline flooded her, and she finally reacted, slamming on the brakes and reaching for her door. Her seat belt constricted her, but she fought it, silent in her desperate bid to escape him.

  He manacled one incredibly strong hand around her arm and yanked her back into place. “Drive.”

  Her shoulders collided with her seat back, and she opened her mouth to scream. Her headache blasted into a migraine instantly.

  He pressed a gun into her rib cage.

  Her scream sputtered into a whisper. She looked frantically around, but the road ahead and behind her was empty.

  “I said drive,” he repeated, no infliction in his tired tone.

  She swallowed, and fear finally engulfed her. The sound she made was so much of a whimper that she winced. “My purse is on the floor. Take whatever you want and get out.” Her voice shook almost harder than her hands on the steering wheel.

  “I have what I want. Drive.” The gun and his hold on the weapon remained level. He took up more than his own seat, his arms and torso solid muscle. His face was hard and angled—cut in a way that almost looked unreal.

  His words chilled through her. How was she going to free herself from him? She pressed the gas pedal again and drove along fresh graves, spotting the exit farther ahead. Her heartbeat increased its force, and her ribs ached. “What do you want from me?” She held her breath.

  “Just your brain,” he said, the sound raw.

  She jerked, her head turning to him again. “To eat?” she gasped.

  He blinked. Once and then again. “No, not to eat.” His wince drew his cheeks up and his darker brows down. “Geez. To eat? Why would I eat your brain? Ick.”

  Her kidnapper had just said “Ick” and looked at her like she was insane. She eyed him with her peripheral vision so she could better describe him in a police report—if she survived this. At least six foot six, long dark blond hair with even darker streaks strewn throughout, handsome face. Somewhat rugged but also sharp, and with healed burn marks down his neck. His eyes were world-weary and wounded, and he’d obviously survived hell. Now she had to survive him.

  Wait a minute. His words registered even deeper. Her brain? Heat spiraled through her chest. “Did you want Victory Rashad’s brain too?”

  “Yes.”

  Oh, God. He was going to kill her—just like Victory Rashad. Panic took Promise again, and she slammed her foot on the gas pedal.

  “Wait,” he said, grasping her arm. “I won’t hurt you. I’m here to help you.”

  Affirmative. Yes. The guy with the gun was interested in providing assistance. Right. She ducked her head and floored the gas pedal, bumping out of the cem
etery and speeding down the quiet road.

  “Slow down,” he hissed, his hold tightening enough to bruise.

  She zipped around a corner and into traffic, driving as fast as she could.

  He swore and grabbed for the key, which wasn’t in the dash. She’d used the starter button. She swerved around a minivan and finally spotted a police cruiser up ahead. Slapping at him, knowing if he got her out of the car, she was dead, she took the chance of being shot in order to gain freedom.

  Yelling, finally, she slammed into the rear of the police cruiser.

  Everything stopped for a second and then sped up. The crash was thunderous. Her passenger bellowed and flew through the window. The airbag deployed right into her face and propelled her back into the seat.

  She blinked, her ears ringing as the bag deflated with a soft hiss and a smattering of dust.

  A police officer ran up and opened her door. “What in the hell?” he muttered, blood on his chin.

  She coughed and shoved the airbag down. “Where is he?” she gasped, her eyesight blurry. Her assailant lay sprawled on the pavement, blood coating his face as the rain pelted down to make the red flow to the ground. The other officer leaned over him, talking into a radio at his shoulder.

  Then the kidnapper jerked awake and leaped to his feet. Blood covered his face and his neck, while his left arm hung at an unnatural angle. He stood several inches above the officer. “What did you do?” he bellowed. His eyes were so dark they appeared black, and his gaze was piercing.

  She screamed.

  The cop tried to grab him, but he shoved the officer into the side of the car. Before the officer next to Promise could draw his gun, the kidnapper turned and ran into an alley.

  The police officers quickly pursued him.

  She panted, her mind buzzing, her body aching.

  The police officers soon returned, both shaking their heads.

  Oh, God. He was gone.

  Chapter Two

  Ivar Kjeidsen limped up the stairwell inside the high-rise building, blood trickling from cuts in his neck and down one arm from flying through a damn windshield. He hadn’t expected the harmless-looking physics professor to defend herself so well. The healing cells he’d focused on his injuries were doing their job slowly—too slowly. The scar tissue down his neck semi-blocked the cells. Shit. He might even need a bandage, just like a human.