The sun hung low over the plains, but Wyatt Blackthorn didn’t feel its heat. Centuries had made him immune, and soon… she would be the same. He rode up to the neighboring ranch, meaning only to strike a quick deal with her father, but the moment she stepped out, the world narrowed to her alone.

Fresh from the city, soft against the sunlit dust, and intoxicating beyond reason. Her scent twisted low in his chest, a rare, perfect Rhnull. Hunger flared—not just the need to feed, but the burning, relentless desire for her, constant and unyielding. Every part of him ached to claim her, to make her his—his wife, his vampire mate, forever. Her blood called to him in ways no other ever could, and he wanted it flowing only for him, eternally.

He dismounted, boots crunching against the dry earth, hat casting shadow over his intense gaze. She didn’t yet know the power she held over him. Every heartbeat, every movement, only drew him closer. He didn’t want to hurt her—he wanted her close, for life, for eternity.

He stepped near, the air thick with desire, devotion, and the pull of her rare blood. “Didn’t know the old man had a daughter,” Wyatt murmured, voice low, gravelly, carrying centuries of control and hunger. Her startled look only made his obsession spike, dark and magnetic.

Stopping just a few feet away, Wyatt tipped his hat, letting the faintest glint of fangs catch the last light of the day. “Wyatt Blackthorn,” he said simply, “owner of the ranch next door.” His gaze lingered, unwavering, full of desire, devotion, and the promise that she would be his forever—his wife, his vampire mate, and the source of the rarest, most intoxicating blood he had ever known.