It was the second part of the equation that was problematic. I’d assumed we all three had to be present and actively involved to break the geis, but what if we didn’t? I bit my lip, furiously trying to think of anything anyone had said that might give me a clue one way or the other, but there was nothing. It was a fifty-fifty gamble: proximity to two Mirceas and sex with one of them would either break the geis or it wouldn’t. And if I gambled and lost, I’d end up completing the very bond I’d been trying to avoid.

Billy had advised me once to never gamble unless I could afford to lose. But not gambling now would lose me Mircea. And I didn’t think I could live with that.

I stared at the innocent-looking box on the nightstand and wondered if I was nuts. Marlowe hadn’t been able to handle him; the Consul had been spooked enough to order him locked up; and here I was about to release him. What if he didn’t recognize me? What if I registered as no more than food? I’d seen how fast he could feed; I’d be dead before anyone could stop him.

I can shift out if he’s too much for me, I told myself, hoping it was true. Yeah, and then what? If this didn’t work, I was out of ideas. If this didn’t work—I pushed the thought aside as seriously counterproductive and gingerly picked up the box.

Pritkin had told me something else once, too: the geis responded to the caster’s deepest desires. And right here, right now, there was nothing Mircea and I wanted more than to have it gone for good. I just hoped that was going to be enough. I placed the box in the middle of the bed and took a deep breath.

And then I let him out.

The figure of a man suddenly appeared on the bed beside me. At first, he looked to be asleep, until I looked closer and saw his face, tucked halfway into the pillow and lined with pain. His hand clutched blindly at my shoulder, clenching as tightly as his jaw, for a long minute. And then, slowly, hesitantly, almost as if it had forgotten how, it relaxed.

This man was no threat, I realized, blinking back tears as I watched him. He barely even seemed to know where he was. I tried to comb my fingers through his hair, but they got stuck over and over in all the snarls. “Mircea?” I whispered.

His lashes were clumped together and he didn’t open them at the sound of my voice. He didn’t reply, either, but a tentative hand wandered up to my neck. His fingers slid along the curve of my flesh to rest above the pulse of the jugular, right over the two small scars he had made.

I gazed down at him with wet eyes and a heartbeat so rapid it felt like I was about to faint. Then he blindly grasped for me, making these choked, desperate noises in his throat that I finally realized were words. He was asking me if I was sure.

“I’ve never been surer about anything,” I said fervently, and the decision was suddenly just that easy. I couldn’t let him die. All the logical arguments in the world couldn’t change that one simple fact. This whole time, I’d been battling for his life as much as for mine, and I wasn’t about to lose him now.

It was easy to turn him over with my hand on his chest. It was much less easy to ignore the heat of his skin, the tight nipples riding over lean muscle or the strong thump of his heartbeat. I liked the way his breath caught, the way his stomach hollowed under his rib cage, when my thighs touched his sides.

I wasn’t kidding myself—I knew how any relationship between us was going to go. Sooner or later, Mircea would do something unforgivable, probably at the Consul’s behest. Or I would make a demand and he wouldn’t give in. Even without the Circle’s suspicion hanging over us, there was a clock ticking every second we were together, the distant sound of the oncoming train. I knew, I’d always known, that I couldn’t keep this. But for this one night I could have him. And I wanted it all.

I pressed my palm against him and was rewarded with a hitching, indrawn breath. He was thick and uncut, tender at the tip, irresistible. He was darker here, rose and gold, and it was fascinating the way the flush shifted under the pressure of my slowly moving fingers. I brushed my lips over the side of him, drinking deeply of his familiar scent. It made it easy to accustom myself to the strangeness of what I was doing.

I licked, a long, slow trail from base to head, letting my tongue wander and slide and yes—a gasp spurred me on. I did it again, and felt him shudder above me. I didn’t hesitate after that. I needed this—the thick glide of his flesh past my lips, salty and bitter and sweet on my tongue.

Mircea pulled me up before I was ready, pressing against me with tongue and teeth and lips shredded with bite marks from weeks of torture. He cried out when we kissed, but I don’t think it was from pain. I wrapped myself in his body, all hard muscle, sweat-drenched skin and matted hair, and felt him begin to press inside. Blunt, thick strength took me, sinking deep. I shifted up, wanting even more, and in a moment he was so far inside that there was no distance left to close.

He paused for a moment, and we stared at each other, his eyes finally wide open, wild and pained and so golden that I couldn’t see any brown. When he finally began to move, there were no short thrusts from his hips, but an unrelenting deluge, the muscles of his arms and the power of his thighs reducing his body to one long undulation. And suddenly, every cell was screaming to get closer, to clench tight around him on the downstroke, to live inside his taste and smell, to feel every thrust in my teeth. For a moment it was almost like being possessed, only it seemed to go both ways. Some part of me whispered through him with every thrust into my body, which in turn increased my own pleasure until I was sure I would die of it.

“Perfect,” he said brokenly, before swooping in for another kiss. Mouth open, tongue plunging deep, he stroked in perfect time with his movements inside me.

And it was suddenly too hard, too fast, too much. My breathing fractured into harsh, quick gasps when I could get air at all, my body spasming as my mind fought to sort it all out. But it was complete sensory overload, pinned inescapably, pummeled by every forceful movement, the pain blending with the pleasure. He pounded into me while growling into my mouth, biting my lips, saying the same thing with breath and hands and body. Mine! It whispered through me with every deep thrust. Mine. Every frantic push of his hips, every deep, wet kiss echoed with it. Mine, mine.

And then, whether my body could take it or not, it was suddenly even more. Between one breath and the next, we became an extension of each other’s passion, somehow living inside the other’s skin, more like one body than two. His pleasure felt like mine, was mine. He swallowed and I felt it in my throat; he lost himself in the motions of having me, and I felt his every stroke.

His fingertips brushed against my scars with a deep inner thrill (mine, mine) before dropping to my hip, caressing the soft roundness. His hand was on my breast, and I felt my own shivery skin through his fingertips, knew the sensation of my shudder passing down another’s spine, felt his joy as my muscles quivered and then relaxed, surrendering completely.

Orgasm was both heavenly and painful when it finally came. It felt like we were breaking through a barrier into each other, falling deep, tearing loose from the last pretense of control. He thrust again and again—no finesse, no thought, just this, the rapture of it. Every touch burned through me, the pleasure that burst inside my veins echoed in his. I couldn’t tell which one of us gave that raw, stuttering cry: mine, mine, mine.

Without warning, everything came apart. The sensations, color, heat, pleasure, were so intense that I worried I might never be able to put myself together again, intense enough to hurt and make me beg him to stop, beg him to never stop. It went on and on, waves of pleasure in time with Mircea’s unsteady thrusts, sparked harder by the wild shocks that emanated from me, from him, from me, until I couldn’t remember how to breathe anymore.

He suddenly stopped, and there was an odd look in his eyes, surprised and a little broken, but mostly amazed. I was pretty amazed too, because I’d never made anyone look like that before. He stayed there for a long moment, staring at me, before rolling off, and pulling me back against him, his chest rising and falling harshly as he breathed.

He pulled the coverlet up over both of us, making a warm little cocoon. It was easy to just lie there, watching the nearest candle gutter and wax dribble over the holder. It finally went out, leaving the room dim, shadowed and strangely cozy. And it was while we lay there in a tangle of limbs, unsure quite where one body left off and the other began, that I felt it. Nothing dramatic, nothing extreme, just a small snap. But suddenly I was entirely back in my own skin again.

The geis was gone.

“Dulceata?,” Mircea breathed. And I felt it as soon as he said my name, an even, soft hum of something that recognized me and welcomed me like it had known me forever. But it wasn’t a spell. It was the way I’d always felt around him, something that had been masked by the geis and its constant low, stirring heat, its hunger and desperation and pain. This was less overpowering but deeper, more persistent and sweet. I kissed him softly and it tasted amazing, warm and familiar and home.

“Are you all right?” I asked, but I knew the answer even before he smiled slightly and opened his eyes. Long lashes dipped over too-sharp cheekbones, but I felt the same weightless flutter in my stomach as always when that gaze met mine.

“I will be.”

Compared to all my problems, saving the life of one man didn’t seem like much of an accomplishment. So why was I suddenly grinning like an idiot? Maybe because, somewhere along the line, I’d learned to take my triumphs where I could get them. Tomorrow there would be trouble and danger and pain, and I didn’t know if I would be smart enough or strong enough or capable enough to handle it all, especially now that I understood what I was up against. But I knew one thing: today, finally, something had gone right.

“The other you will be back soon,” I said, hoping he was lucid enough to understand. “And I told him too much. He can’t be allowed to keep those memories.”

“No one can erase a master’s mind,” he said hoarsely. “I doubt even the Consul herself could do it.”

“But if you remember, you’ll try to change things—”