"I do."

"Good, then it won't come as a shock to you to know that my Squire just left and she's heading over to your house to have a talk with Jeff. If I were you—"

"Say no more. He's leaving the country even as we speak. Thanks for the call, Eph."

"No problem, amigo."

Hanging up the phone, he narrowed his eyes on Jeff. "That was Ephani warning me that you're about twenty minutes from dying."

Jeff's face turned stone white. "What?"

He nodded. "Her Squire, Celena, Ms. Blood Rite, I-kill-anything-that-breaks-formation, is on her way over here to have a word with you. Since Celena isn't real big on conversation, I'm taking that as a euphemism for 'kick your ass.' "

Rafael paused as those words conjured one hell of an image in his mind—Celena kicking his ass in that pair of stiletto corset boots she often wore. And in his mind she was wearing nothing but a thong. . . . Yeah . . . that was something he definitely wouldn't mind.

A native of Trinidad, Celena had the most perfect mocha complexion he'd ever seen. It was so smooth and inviting that it begged a man to taste it.

And her lips . . .

Angelina Jolie had nothing on her. She moved slow and seductive like a cat and he'd spent more than his fair share of time wanting her to rub that lean, curvy body of hers up against his.

But unfortunately, she was a Squire and he was a Dark-Hunter. By the rules of their world, she was off limits to him, and though Rafael didn't give two shits about most rules, Celena lived for them.

It was a crime against nature in his opinion that a woman that fine couldn't be corrupted.

"What do I do?" Jeff asked.

"Well, not to insult a man who looks like a rocket scientist in comparison to you, but. . . run, Forrest, run."