The Immortal's Hunger. Kelli Ireland

to try to lay claim to her beyond her body. He’d then promised the Assassin—surely not the famed Assassin—he’d be spending the night with her tonight.

      Bottom line? He was perfect. No commitment issues. No expectations. Strength enough to defend her if her epithicas rendered her unconscious. She didn’t think that would be a problem, though. Not if she got sex and, more importantly, orgasm. It would diffuse the hormonal storm building inside her, making her harder to track. And since Gareth had picked her up off the pavement, she’d felt invigorated, her core temperature running hotter than normal. Had to be the thrill of survival. Or adrenaline. Okay, it was the fertility cycle. Whatever. What she knew for certain was that she had more energy than she’d ever had once her cycle began to crash in on her. Odd, but she wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth let alone check its teeth. No, she was far more likely to mount the damn thing and spur him forward in order to gain as much ground on life as she could.

      There was only one thing left to accomplish. She needed to convince Gareth to remain with her through her entire epithicas versus ditching her in the morning. If he was tied to the Druidic assassins, he was literally perfect. But how to convince him to stay? There had to be something in it for him, and she’d lost everything she’d owned when her pack burned in the bar. She couldn’t even offer to immediately replace lost wages seeing as she wouldn’t be going back for her paycheck. It would take a trip to her bank box, and she doubted he’d carry her across the country for something so mundane as money.

      Panic both pushed and pulled her to act and react, respectively. She was effectively homeless, temporarily penniless and left without the few contacts she’d stored in her cell. Worse, though, was that she’d lost the only picture of her mother she’d had. An old and worn etching, it had been the only possession that mattered to her. She wanted to cry, and she never cried. It had been rule number one for so long that the urge caught her off guard.

      She rubbed her clenched hands against her denim-clad thighs. She’d started over more than once. She’d do it again. And the picture of her mother? The lump in her throat thickened. Her only solace was that nothing and no one could steal her mother’s memory from her. It would have to be enough.