And he wouldn’t rest until he’d fulfilled his promise.
One

San Francisco, 22 years later

It was a trap—how big a trap, Haven could have never guessed.

After receiving Wesley’s text message to meet him at the abandoned warehouse in one of the less fashionable neighborhoods of the city, he’d cased the area and determined that at most one or two assailants were waiting for him. Piece of cake, he’d figured.

It wouldn’t be the first time he freed his little brother from the greedy clutches of a loan shark or other minor con artist he’d gotten himself in trouble with. Whatever the amount of money they wanted to extort from him for the release of his brother, they’d never see a penny of it. His concealed gun would guarantee that.

The door to the warehouse was unlocked. He pushed it open and eased inside, taking in the musty scent of the building. It mingled with a strange mixture of herbs, conjuring up images of Chinatown with its foreign smells and tastes. The long corridor ahead of him was dark, the single light bulb hanging overhead covered in cobwebs and dust. There was nothing inviting about the place.

Any further explorations were cut short when a cold blast of air came his way. An instant later, Haven felt a force like a tidal wave press his six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound frame of solid muscle against the wall. Despite his strength and training in all types of hand-to-hand combat, he couldn’t push against the invisible foe.

Shit!

This time he wasn’t dealing with some low-life criminals.

Haven didn’t like the feeling of helplessness that spread through his body as the assault by the force field continued. As a tough-as-frozen-shit bounty hunter, vulnerability wasn’t a word in his vocabulary. And he wasn’t going to add it now. His slate for V’s was full: vampire, vermin, vulture. No space for vulnerability. Leave that to the people at Webster’s; maybe they had use for the word.

And if he ever got out of this mess alive, he’d skin his brother, but not before he’d beaten the dogsnot out of him.

“I see you got my text message,” a female voice commented calmly. A moment later, she stepped into view. She was beautiful; long red hair cascaded around her face and over her shoulders. Her cheekbones were high, her skin pale and her lips plump. At first sight, the woman was every man’s dream and Haven bet that whatever predicament Wesley found himself in, it was because this woman had short-circuited his brain—making sure he had to use the one between his legs instead. Haven wasn’t quite as susceptible to beautiful women as his brother was. He’d never allowed himself to have his head turned like that. And he wasn’t as gullible as his little brother. No, he was tough as nails and unwavering as steel, and somehow he’d get out of this.

Haven gritted his teeth staring into the icy-blue eyes of the devilish beauty. “What did you do to my brother, witch?” Since she hadn’t introduced herself, it was fitting enough to call her by her profession rather than her name. And of her profession he was certain: the force she was using against him wasn’t something a physicist could explain. It was magic. And he recognized magic when it bit him on the ass.

“You make it sound like a four-letter word.”

“Isn’t it?”

She shook her head disapprovingly, her copper curls bouncing around her shoulders. “The name’s Bess, not that it should matter to you. And as the son of a witch, I would have expected more respect from you. Don’t you respect your mother’s craft?”

The memory of his mother bit hard into his gut. He rammed it back, trying to stave off the emotions that came with it, emotions which he’d tried to suppress ever since her brutal death. He wasn’t going to allow this damn witch to weaken him by dredging up things that should stay well hidden. “Leave my mother out of this. Now, where’s my brother, and what do you want?”

“Your bad-boy, bounty-hunter attitude doesn’t work on me, so leave it at the door and come in.”

Haven glared at her and clenched his jaw.

“Unless you don’t want to see your brother again. I can just leave him tied up and let him rot.”

Suddenly, the pressure on his chest eased, and he was able to pry himself off the wall. He shook off the remaining feeling of claustrophobia and reached into his jacket. The thought of killing her was foremost in his mind, but without knowing whether she kept Wesley somewhere in this warehouse, he couldn’t let the bullets do their job. Not yet, anyway.

“And take your hand off your gun.”

It didn’t take being a witch to know what his hand was reaching for. Haven snorted. “Get on with it. Where’s Wesley?”