CHAPTER 7
The only thing Asher hated more than the Vegas Strip was the Vegas Strip on a Saturday night.
It was oceans of people, moving like a school of fish containing species of every size, color, and shape in existence. There were the brightly dressed, heavily made-up girls donned in sashes or sparkling tiaras that proclaimed them “bride-to-be” or “finally legal” toddling on heels they could barely maneuver sober, never mind after five drinks. The guys were no exception, carousing in packs to celebrate their last hurrah on the eve of their wedding, surrounded by the other bachelors determined to get them into trouble. The tourists with their Vegas hats and shirts emblazoned with the ubiquitous reminder that what happened in Vegas . . .
All of this raucous, carefree mass of humanity clogging the Strip stepped blindly around or over the many homeless men, women, and kids who peppered the sidewalks and alcoves on the path between one shining casino and another.
Asher lengthened his stride and veered out of the crowd, into Casino Moda with a sigh of relief. Sure, it was owned by a murderous mobster, but at least it was a little less frenetic than the street.
The space was cavernous with high, blindingly white walls and a ceiling that had to be a hundred feet up. The tasteful marble floors glowed under the light of a massive crystal chandelier dripping with intricate cut-glass shapes that shimmered and sparkled like diamonds.
If Leo Slater wanted his flagship casino to seem both exclusive and slightly intimidating, he’d succeeded.
Most of the patrons who’d come to surrender their money to Slater’s coffers were working-class folks lured inside by the fantasy of instant, easy riches to be had on the other side of the polished brass revolving doors. Others, the glossy few, were dressed richly in designer labels and clothing that conveyed an air of excess and the casual disregard of those looking for a good time and willing to burn wads of cash in exchange for a few hours of thrills at any one of Moda’s beckoning tables or gleaming slot machines.
Asher strode inside wearing a black leather jacket over a black T-shirt and black jeans. Waving off the cocktail waitress who swooped in with eager eyes and a lace-up vest three sizes too small for her plastic-enhanced breasts, he moved into the crowd, taking mental pictures of everything around him. The endless field of musical, clacking slots. The location of the tables in relation to the security desk, the placement of the cameras. The faces of the pit bosses and dealers.
All of it.
And as he cataloged his surroundings, he searched every face for sherry-colored almond eyes and a cupid’s bow mouth he felt certain he would know anywhere now. Of course, if Naomi was in the casino as Asher suspected, odds were she’d bear little resemblance to the beautiful woman he knew her to be. The androgynous getup she’d been hidden beneath last night was only one of her many disguises.
Asher scowled, stepping deeper into the throng.
After putting the Order on standby following Naomi’s escape, he’d had the entire day to fume and berate himself for letting her slip away. He wasn’t quite certain how she’d managed to open the lock from inside the bedroom but in the past hour he’d been in the city, from all he’d learned about Naomi Fallon, AKA Naomi Pierce, AKA Naomi Sato, AKA several other aliases, he had a feeling picking simplistic locks was only one of the tricks in her repertoire.
Well, he had a few tricks of his own. As a Hunter, he wasn’t only skilled at cold assassinations, but he was also an expert tracker. He hadn’t met a quarry yet that he hadn’t been able to chase to ground.
That went double when he was very likely the only thing standing between Naomi’s life and another date in the desert with some of Leo Slater’s hired muscle. If they got their hands on her again, Asher had no doubt it would be on orders to not only end her but make an example out of her as well.
It was that thought that had racked him until the sun had finally crept below the horizon, freeing him to head out after her. He’d been pissed as hell that she stole Ned’s old truck, but it had also been her mistake.
He hadn’t had the heart to trade the decrepit pickup in on something new after Ned’s death. The Chevy got him where he needed to go most of the time, and since it was the only vehicle he had, Asher didn’t want to lose it. The truth was, he’d grown a bit sentimental about the rusty relic—rather like had about old Ned too. So a few months ago, after a couple of crackheads up at the state line broke in to snatch a twenty-dollar bill he’d carelessly left tucked into the cup holder, Asher had installed a GPS tracker under the hood.
Which is what he used to trace the truck to the driveway of a small house a couple of miles off the Strip.
He’d paid a visit to that address before coming to Moda, but the place was empty. Empty of people, that is.
He’d found plenty of other interesting things inside. There were bunk rooms in both spare rooms, the beds all neatly made but showing signs of recent occupation. Threadbare duffels and black garbage bags filled with kids’ clothing took up space in both rooms, as if the children staying there either had only just arrived or were soon on their way out.
And there were other items of interest to him too. Particularly in the last bedroom at the end of the hallway—the one filled with Naomi’s uniquely intoxicating scent and the soapy odor of a human male. Inside that room were two twin beds and a clear delineation between one side of the space and the other.
Which meant Naomi and Michael weren’t living together as lovers, but platonically. If he wasn’t mistaken, Michael was in a wheelchair long-term. There were ramps outside and the master bathroom was fitted with rails and a portable seat in the shower.
By all indications they were simply roommates.
Why that understanding had given him such a deep sense of relief, Asher still didn’t want to know.
He thought back to the other items he discovered. The open shoebox on a bureau in Naomi’s room filled with passports, driver’s licenses, student IDs—all with some variation of her photo on them, all undoubtedly fake. There were numerous IDs belonging to one Michael Carson at the bottom of the box too. Between the two of them they must have had upwards of a dozen different aliases.
And on Naomi’s side of the room he’d found a makeup table littered with tubes, kits, eye color pots, lip pencils, and countless other items. In her overstuffed closet had been a couple pairs of jeans and some T-shirts, but enough costumes, wigs, and disguises to outfit an entire theater troupe.
Asher felt no guilt for his tactics or his reconnaissance. He had one job right now, and that was to protect Naomi, not just from Leo Slater and his lackeys, but from herself as well. Asher’s hunch that her theft from the casino last night hadn’t been the first time only intensified with each further clue he traced to her.
And as he stood in the middle of Casino Moda, every predatory instinct he had told him that she was there, somewhere amid the swarm of drunken, boisterous patrons. He just needed to know where to look.
Even if Slater was already on to the fact that she’d gotten away and evaded the dirt nap he’d had planned for her, the arrogant bastard certainly wouldn’t be looking for her under his own roof again. Only a damned fool would come and hit the same casino they’d gotten caught trying to nick the night before.
A fool or a brazen genius, Asher thought, scanning the large space for anyone who might remotely pass for the Breedmate.
For the next hour he strolled around the casino, stopping off at the cage to buy some chips to help him blend in with the crowd. He tossed a few at the Caribbean Stud table, absently eyeing his cards before taking another look around the room.
The slot machines.
Since that was where she’d mentioned being last night before everything went to hell with Slater’s goons, it was as good a place as any to start looking for her now.
Twice, by the slot machines, he’d seen young women that could’ve passed for Naomi from behind. Gleaming raven hair and petite frames, but when they’d turned around, the resemblance ended.
He had to get her face out of his head—an almost impossible task since he’d thought of little else for all of the hours he was trapped inside waiting for dusk. Besides, she was clearly a pro when it came to disguises and blending in. She wouldn’t look anything like herself tonight. He had to think outside the box. Think like Naomi.
Another half hour went by without a sign of her anywhere at or near the slot machines. To continue his covert search of the casino floor, he moved on to the Spanish Twenty-One table closest to the pit of roulette wheels. Sliding a pile of chips onto the betting circle, he let his gaze trail over the tables and the players gathered around them.
It wasn’t until he caught sight of a little old woman across the floor from him, her back and shoulders hunched as if from the late stages of osteoporosis, that he stopped cold and stared.
Gray-haired and slow-moving, she wore a long dark skirt and a similarly bland tunic and flowy wrap that hung off her slight frame. He couldn’t see her face. Not any part of it, as she was walking away from him toward the ladies’ room along with a herd of chattering middle-aged women in matching bright pink baseball caps and team jackets emblazoned with embroidered dice on the back.
Asher stared so intensely that more than one of the cackling pink ladies turned uneasy looks over their shoulders, their most primal instincts sensing a predator hidden and watching within the throng. Not the little old woman, though. She kept walking, head down and shoulders up.
Asher felt a growl build from deep inside him. He would never mistake her scent. He picked it out from among the other heavier perfumes, spilled liquor, cigarette smoke, and countless stale smells that permeated the air of the crowded casino.
Just the tracest whiff of her warm skin beneath all of the clothing and artifice had all pistons firing inside him at once. Unbidden, carnal images of Naomi and him together blasted him in a rush. The two of them on his bed, him kneeling between her thighs, her head thrown back in ecstasy as he entered her.
His fangs throbbed in his gums and he sealed his lips together in a grim scowl to conceal them.
Not good.
He struggled to push down both the inappropriate thoughts and the sudden, persistent swelling of his cock.
The petite crone had disappeared around the corner into the restrooms and he swallowed hard past the grit in his throat, finally able to think straight again.
He told the dealer to put a marker on his spot and abandoned his cards to move in closer, until he was ten yards away from the restroom entrance. He took up a vantage point off to the side and waited, having half a mind to barge in after her. But the last thing he needed—the last thing either of them needed—was to create a scene. And there was the smallest chance that the old woman actually wasn’t Naomi.
An infinitesimal chance at best.
If that wasn’t her, he’d be damned. Hell, he probably was either way. He’d fed only a few days ago, but just the sight of the female had made him wild with the need to have her under his mouth. To close his teeth and fangs over that lean, silky neck and—
“Excuse me,” a timid male voice murmured behind him after he’d been standing there for several minutes.
He wheeled around to find a ginger-haired human in his mid-twenties waiting awkwardly, a nervous smile pinned to his face.
Asher glared back at him silently, irritated at having been interrupted.
“You’re, um . . . you’re standing in front of the ATM,” the other man murmured, his voice climbing an octave as he stared up at Asher, looking close to pissing himself.
Asher snarled and moved out of the way.
He turned back to the restroom as the pink ladies and a few other women who’d also been inside the restroom filed back out to the casino. No sign of Naomi, though. Impatient, he stepped far enough behind a large decorative column that the majority of his bulk was out of sight. Best case, he’d be able to intercept her without her bolting or bringing down the whole house with a scream or a struggle once she saw him there.
But he’d take her either way. He wasn’t leaving Vegas without her safely in hand.
As he stood in wait, another few minutes went by. Followed by a few more. Foot traffic in and out of the ladies’ room continued in a steady stream, but Naomi was nowhere to be seen.
Son of a bitch.
She’d ghosted him.
He wasn’t sure if it had been pure luck that she’d slipped out of the bathroom in those few seconds he’d been in conversation with the other man, or if she’d somehow sensed him at her heels and successfully dodged him. All he knew in his gut was that Naomi was not that bathroom anymore.
He bit back a string of curses, if only barely.
She couldn’t run far. Not this time. He’d found her once—or at least he thought he had—and he’d find her again. She was cagey and clever, but he was relentless. And if he had to tear the whole place apart tonight in order to save her from herself, he damned well would.
Because whether Naomi realized it or not, she was his.
To protect, he reminded himself sternly.
Even as a possessiveness unlike he’d ever felt spurred his body into motion across the casino floor.