Quinn Alexander cursed, “Fuck,” the word slipped out his full lips before he ran a hand down over his face. Standing naked before the stained-glass bay window in his bedroom, he stared out over his Highland estate. His muscles bunched tightly, tension running through his body that vibrated with barely contained power, while he fought to control the urge to feed that began to rear its damn ugly head once more. He tried to focus on the land he loved, hills sprawling for miles with fields bright and blooming with wild Heather, but it no longer brought him the peace and calm he sought. Neither did it soothe the beast within . . . not when the taste of blood still lingered on his tongue and his skin reeked of Armani Diamonds perfume, mixed with various others, from his liaisons the previous night to tease him and remind him of his fall from grace. A spectacular one that would haunt him for many a night to come.

The face of the last female he’d used floated into his mind, she’d not been unattractive, with blonde hair in a French twist and ruby red lips, but she’d been after one thing . . . and she’d reached her goal. After all, that’s why she’d been in such a place, and he’d spied old fang marks on her neck. Ones she appeared to wear with pride and she’d been more than willing to accompany him to a private room and cater to his every dark desire. No questions asked. Not even his name. She’d been voracious, her sexual appetite for his cock had matched his for the red liquid that flowed through her veins. Although he’d not said no to her other gifts at the time. Afterwards . . . not so much. Once he’d forced his fangs from her skin, and make no mistake, he’d had to force himself not to drink her dry, he’d felt dirty and unsatisfied in the extreme.

Quinn had placed a large tip beside her lethargic body and left, ensuring she would be looked after before rushing from the club as if he were an errant schoolboy who’d visited his first hooker. Looking left, right, and over his shoulder while he weaved around the throng of people, desperate to escape and forget his lapse in the den of iniquity he’d landed in. Thorne, his bodyguard, right-hand-man, and friend, had followed him out, his face a mask of indifference, but he’d felt the shock at his actions rolling off him in waves the entire journey home, even if he didn’t speak them aloud. Not then anyway. He doubted his friend would remain silent for long though. He would want an explanation and Quinn was sure of one thing: he had none to give.

What in blue blazes had he been thinking going to such a place? He felt as if he required to bathe with bleach to cleanse himself. His skin crawled at the same time as his gums ached with his fangs forcing against them, once more attempting to break free. Not happening. Not again. Not ever again. He refused to allow another descent into such a disgusting place of debauchery, and he had no damn time to figure out why it had happened the previous night. He had a business to run and right now he had to get ready for his overseas trip. One he most definitely wasn’t looking forward to.

Hong Kong . . . he hated the place with a passion. Too full of people and dirty to boot. Definitely not his cup of tea . . . not when you were as particular as he was. Or, as Thorne called him, “OCD to the max”. The official launch of his latest app, Scales of Sin, or Sin for short, was taking place there, and he’d reluctantly agreed to attend the extravaganza that was taking place. One that was costing a disgusting amount of money, even by his standards, and would ensure Sin would outsell anything already on the market the entire world over. It would leave the rest far behind and already was a multi-billion dollar success; topping the lists and making a bundle of money and it had only been on sale for less than a week. It had taken the gaming world by storm after it had been sent out a few months ago to top gamers for testing and reviews and they’d raved about it all over social media. Their stamp of approval had sealed the success of the game and made sure to make Quinn and his partner in Hong Kong a vast amount of money to add to their coffers.

His mind wandered again, to his lapse of the previous evening, faces tumbling through his brain as he saw them over and over again. How many had he gone through? Three, four, five? Damn it . . . he’d lost count and their faces blurred together until he remembered but a few, their scents mingled on his skin while their blood now curdled inside him. Quinn spun away, disgust roiling through him just as Thorne rapped hard on his door before entering.

“Morning, Q, just wanted to check that you’re ready . . . and see how you are after last night?”

Thorne’s face was unreadable but Quinn knew that he’d been shocked with his behavior. His right-hand-man had never witnessed him acting in such a manner and was obviously worried. Hell, Quinn was too. He’d never lost control like that before. Not since he’d first been turned anyway. Thorne walked toward the window, soaking up the dawn light as only a new day-walker would. He’d been with Quinn for a long time but he’d only just earned his ancient status and was reveling in the fact that he was no longer bound to the night.

“I’m fine, thanks, and I apologize for my behavior last night.” He walked past his bodyguard and friend. “I’ve no idea what was going on but I feel better today.”

The lie slipped out. Thorne raised an eyebrow, his blazing azure blue eyes locked with his. “Really? You’re going with that?”

Quinn sighed, striding toward his bathroom. “Fine, I’m still feeling out of sorts but I’ll get over it. I’m going to shower and I’ll be downstairs in ten minutes. We’re on a tight schedule today so make sure everything is organized and ready.”

“It is.” Thorne shook his head. “I’m concerned, Q, you never go to those types of clubs and you certainly don’t sleep with those kinds of women. Plural. You made your way through a ton of them last night and fed straight from the vein. All the while I had to wait around and I tell you, it wasn’t fun for me being there.”

He stopped, his muscles bunched tight as Thorne’s words hit him as if he were physically assaulting him. If anyone else spoke to him in such a manner he’d rip their damn heart from their chest, no question about it. But . . . this was Thorne. His friend and confidante. The one and only person who he could rely on to tell him how it was and who he could talk to candidly at all times. The one he could turn to no matter the situation, or danger, hell, they’d stood side by side against unsurmountable odds and came out the other side so many times . . . and he knew that his friend was only looking out for him. He’d do the same if it were Thorne that had acted in such a manner.

“I can only apologize, Thorne, I’ve no idea what happened last night. Truly, I don’t, and aye, I’m still feeling a little peculiar, but I’ll be fine and we do have to get going so we don’t have time to go over this now. Just make sure everything is in order and we’ll be on our way soon.”

“Fine,” Thorne ground out, his jaw hard and a tell-tale tic at the side of his eye alerting Quinn that his friend wasn’t satisfied with his explanation.

Shit. He wasn’t either but he had nothing else to give him and hoped whatever had ailed him the previous evening was a distant memory because he sure as hell didn’t want a repeat performance. The thought of losing control again broke him out in a cold sweat as he entered the bathroom, his stomach clenching painfully . . . his long legs rushing forwards to the sink. His hands gripped the marble at either side while his head fell forward, mouth opening wide as he vomited out the blood he’d ingested. Over and over he heaved, his body shaking uncontrollably, thick viscous crimson spilling from his body to coat the white porcelain sink to swirl around before slowly dripping down the plug hole.

Quinn watched it, mesmerized . . . he’d never had a day’s illness since he’d been turned such a long time ago. So many centuries had passed that he’d lost count and yet he’d never so much as had a cold. Yet here he was puking his guts up, losing so much precious life’s blood that he couldn’t help but gaze at the scarlet fluid as it disappeared, leaving a thick coating on his shiny white sink and a disgusting aroma filling the area which cloyed in the back of his throat and the hairs in his nose. The sight had him reaching for the bell to alert the cleaning staff to sort the mess out, then he stopped. No. He wasn’t about to let anyone see this and announce to the world he was sick.

“Fuck!” leaning down he tore open the vanity, searching for cleaning materials and lucked out when he found the cleaner’s stash, pouring what he hoped was bleach all around the area first and then spraying something else he had no idea what it was, but smelled similar, and followed it up with cleansing wipes. Then he searched for his mouthwash, using a full bottle before he felt anywhere near better and finally stepped away and toward the shower.

Now he had less time to get ready and he’d have to use his Vampire speed so he wasn’t late. Being tardy wasn’t an option, not for him. The fact he’d been ill . . . that would have to wait. He could research it on his jet. Surely, he wasn’t the only Vampire it had happened to? He’d find the answer and fix it before anyone was any the wiser. Quinn Alexander . . . ill . . . no. Absolutely not something that was going to be allowed to be known.

And before he could think about it again, he was not only ready, but sitting in his jet and on his way to Hong Kong . . . Thorne scrutinizing him with a look that told him he knew there was something wrong. Very wrong, and he was just waiting on him telling him exactly what it was.