Lucian sat with his back against the rock, Bronwyn curled in his arms like the sweetest fucking thing in the world. It was a momentary blip of time, of bliss, and he couldn't help wondering, as the wind blew cool air around them and the skies threatened rain, if he would be able to remember it when his soul died-if he would be able to remember her.

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, breathed in the scent of her hair. This wasn't him, this tender paven, and yet it was-at his core. Clinging to each other in Cruen's reality felt like the last moments before death; you did things and said things you wouldn't have the balls to do and say if your life was guaranteed. For one second of time, Lucian was almost thankful for his fate because it had called on him to recognize the true feeling of affection for a female.

He drew in air, quick and hungry, as she stirred against him, as she turned her head into his chest and nuzzled him.

"How long?" she whispered, her breath warm on his skin.

"I don't know," he said.

"Do you feel different?"

Yes. But not in the way she meant. "Not yet."

She kissed his collarbone, and he wanted to tell her to stop, tell her to stand up and run-get the fuck away from him before it was too late.

And then she tipped her head back and looked at him, her face flushed, her lips swollen from his kisses.

Fucking veana. Didn't she know what she was courting here?...

"He's won, Luca," she uttered, her dark eyes the color of wet bark.

Lucian's nostrils flared and his fangs dropped. "Only round one, Princess." Cruen would suffer greatly for this-all of this. Lucian would strip him-not only of his life, but of his skin, inch by inch. "It will be his only victory, I swear it."

She reached around him then and cupped his neck, drew him down to her, to her mouth. God, her sweet, perfect mouth. A wet, warm sheath, not unlike her cunt, that he could get lost in for days. He kissed her, a kiss so filled with desire and despair he nearly cried out in her mouth. But the sudden cry that was wrenched from him, the debilitating cry that echoed throughout the island, had nothing to do with emotion and everything to do with the bone-shattering pain that had just slammed into his gut.

"Fuck!" He tore away from her mouth. He was on fire-but from the inside. Everything burned-his bones, his organs, even his teeth.

Bronwyn scrambled off of him, her eyes wide and fearful, her hands trying to find an inch of skin that wouldn't hurt at her touch. "Oh, God, no...not yet..."

Doubled over, Lucian howled like a wolf caught in a steel trap. Every inch of him felt as though it were being crushed beneath a semi truck, every happy feeling he'd had from a moment ago bled right out of him.

"What can I do?" Bronwyn begged beside him, her voice panicked, terror-filled. "Lucian. What can I do? Please tell me!"

"It's coming," he uttered, shaking his head-against the pain, against the future. "He's coming. For me. Nothing to be done..." It was the pain of the world on his shoulders, the pain of the world reviling his presence-the pain of an animal that was dangerous and sick in the mind and needed to be put down before it bit again.

The only reason he didn't end it now, stab himself in the neck or smash his brains in with the very rock that had ended his life with its cruel message was that he'd meant what he told Bronwyn-animal or not, he would get revenge on Cruen.

"Let me help you," she begged him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. "Can I hold you? Anything, please!"

He pushed her off. "No. Get away!" The pain was too great, as was the fear of what he could do to her. Fuck, her scent was already stronger in his nostrils.

Where was Cruen? Why hadn't he grabbed his white ass out of this reality and got to work on whatever scheme he had planned?

Bronwyn hovered over him, unwilling to heed his words. "Lucian, please!"

"Swear to me," he grunted over a new wave of pulverizing pain. He felt it...he felt it now...

"What?" she asked, tears in her voice.

He looked up, blinked through the endless suffering, saw the grief and guilt in her eyes for the paven he was barely holding on to.

"As soon as we arrive," he uttered, his fangs...they were moving inside his mouth...growing...expanding.

"Arrive? Arrive where?"

The rain began. Tiny drops on his back. But they were anything but soft and soothing. It was like shards of glass entering his skin, over and over.

"Promise me you'll run!" he cried, cursing-at the pain, at Cruen, at the one who bore him and the one who'd made him.

"I don't understand." She shook her head violently, trying to get close to him, but he kept moving away.

"When we get...out of here...Promise me you'll run away!"

"From you?" The rain started falling heavier now. "No! Lucian, you're not like that! I won't believe-"

His eyes flipped up and she gasped at his face. "Oh, God, you have the brands. On your face. Circles, empty."

"The Breeding Male!" His voice. It had changed, an animalistic howl echoing through his brain.

He saw Bronwyn reaching out to touch him; then her eyes went wide and she disappeared.

"Princess!" he uttered hoarsely, then collapsed on the ground, his call met only by the sound of rain hitting the forest floor before he too was flashed away.

Synjon Wise stood before the Order and demanded payment of another kind for his years of service. "You owe me."

"Take great care, Lieutenant," the white-haired veana warned him, her lip drifting upward to display a fine pair of bloodred fangs.

"Snarl all you want to, love." He walked forward, didn't stop until he hit table. "My life has belonged to you for decades-"

Her gaze was cold. "That was your choice, not ours."

Since Cruen's defection, it seemed that this veana was now in charge. And while she played the game in a far fairer fashion than her predecessor, she was anything but sympathetic or trustworthy.

Hell, none of them were.

"I find it odd," he began, his gaze moving down the table of wine-colored robes, black circle brands, and ancient flesh, "that with all your great wisdom and power, you cannot find one Pureblood veana."

"It is unfortunate," she agreed, looking thoughtful. "Cruen's powers have been underestimated by the Order before. We cannot let this continue unchecked."

The members nodded in unison.

She fixed her dark eyes on him. "You will make sure that it does not."

Syn chuckled. "I came here for your assistance, not the other way round."

She joined him in laughter, as did a few of the others. Not surprisingly, it was far from a joyful sound, but something one would hear before the blows of death were upon him.

Which meant, Syn realized quickly, that these sodding bastards were going to try to work out a deal with him. They were going to barter his mate's safety. And if he didn't pucker up and kiss arse, he was either screwed or on his own.

"Cruen has taken something that belongs to me," he said brusquely. "And I want it back."

More than something that belonged to him really. Bron was the closest thing he would ever have to a friend, a real love of the heart, and he would protect and care for her with everything that was in him-for as long as life remained in him.

The veana placed her hands on the long table before her and asked in a soft, curious voice, "Does she belong to you?"

A growl shot from Syn's throat, and he leaned on that very same table in a brazen, didn't-give-a-shite-about-his-own-life sort of way. "Careful, Veana."

Her brow lifted. "After what has transpired this eve, I am beginning to have doubts about your union with Mistress Kettler."

Heat started in Synjon's chest and starting churning until it spiraled out of control. What was it they thought they knew? Whatever suspicions they had, he dared not show uncertainty. "She bears my mark. She belongs to me."

"I hope so," said the veana. "For everyone's sake, I hope so."

Synjon leaned in, feeling the magical weight, the supreme power of the other Order members surrounding her. "Make no mistake, love. I will defect right along with your previous leader if you dare to question or interfere," he returned with venom. "Do you have another like me in your political arsenal? One who will kiss, kill, or capture at the drop of a hat?" He raised both black brows. "I doubt it."

Up and down the table came hisses and low, angry chatter, but the veana in charge sat back. She spread out her arms and called for calm. "It would be grave to lose you, Lieutenant."

He sniffed and stepped back.

"But." The word jumped in the air between them and remained. She arched one white brow. "We would manage."

His snarl cut into the desert heat of their reality. "Send me back."

"Not yet," the dark-skinned paven beside her interrupted. "We have a job for you."

"You've got to be kidding!"

"We do not 'kid,' as you well know, Lieutenant."