Their thoughts were only whispers inside the tunnel of punk and heavy metal. Whispers like "Scars . . . alone . . . Get me off . . . A freak but . . ." And after a day in the city, trying to hide out in the park with his headphones, inanimate whispers were nothing. He could lose himself and his mind in the feeling, in the soft, wet bodies of the two women who bracketed him. They didn't need conversation, didn't require dinner first. Just like everyone else at Equinox, they came for the music, the darkness, the anonymity-the sex.

And sex was happening al around. Singles, doubles, hell, even triples. No sound track but the music.

This was his life. Hide and keep his ears covered during the day, hang out in the club al night.

Once an empty shel who took up nothing but air. Now a half vampire-half human who belonged nowhere and to no one.

Shit, he wasn't long for this earth, he mused as he let his fire-ravaged hands sink beneath the table, beneath a strip of smooth, wet silk.

And that was just fine by him.

The moan that came loud and strong wasn't inside his head this time, but rushed from the mouth of the female to his left.

"Yes. Oh fuck, yes," she cried, arching her back as he spread her pussy with his fingers and began stroking her spread her pussy with his fingers and began stroking her clit.

"Faster. . . . God. . . . Going to come."

Gray watched her, watched the rush of pink travel up from her chest to her neck and out her throat. It was beautiful.

Stunning.

He turned. To his right, another female, one who had been shadowing him al night, had her hands on him, trying to stroke him through his jeans.

"What's your name?" he shouted.

She smiled. "Marina."

"You have a very pretty mouth, Marina."

"So do you."

His turn. He smiled too. "Would you like to use it?"

"Gotcha, baby," she thought, then let her tongue flicker out to swipe at her lower lip. Grinning, she unzipped his fly and released his straining prick.

Gray's nostrils flared as she wrapped her soft hand around him, then lowered her head and took him into her mouth.

The band screamed, the crowd cheered, and as Gray slipped three fingers inside the wet heat of the woman to his left, he let the whispers of both lul him into a rare state of euphoria.

"Deeper . . ."

"Fuck . . ."

"Tastes like . . ."

"He's mine . . ."

Kate stood inside her newest prison. It wasn't tiny and cramped and stinking of ammonia. In fact, it was pretty damn lovely-white and pale blue with a fireplace, and the kind of carpets toes had orgasms over. But it was a holding cel nonetheless.

Standing at the door, she and Nicholas eyebal ed each other like a first date gone bad. He had her in his fancy mansion, locked up in the tower, waiting for his next move, and al she wanted to do was be alone, get her mind working on a plan to disappear.

"If there's anything you need just use the phone by the bed," he said, his hands gripping the sides of the doorframe, the stance accentuating the width of his chest.

Not that she was noticing or caring-or admiring.

"If I'm not here, Evans wil get you whatever you need."

"Who's Evans? A servant? True mate? Geisha?"

His mouth twitched with humor. "Evans handles the household. He takes care of the guests."

"Great. Thanks."

He raised a brow. "That almost sounded like you meant it."

"Did it?" she said, making her eyes wide with false surprise. "Well, I can fake it when I have to."

"That's unfortunate. A veana should never have to fake anything."

"Sometimes, with certain individuals, it's a necessity."

"Clearly you're hanging out with the wrong individuals."

"Don't think I have a choice."

His eyes narrowed and he leaned in, his mouth dangerously close to hers. "As a morphed paven my senses are highly acute. They can not only pick up the scent of location, fear, and anger, but lust as well." He laughed.

"And your scent, my stunning houseguest, is so vast and heavy with desire I could drown in it."

"Stop it," she said, stepping back.

"In fact, the only thing you're faking is that you're not attracted to me."

"Get out of here."

He grinned. "I am. I have a meet with my brothers, but I'll be back in a few hours."

"Bated breath, paven," she muttered, hand on the door ready to close it-shut him off, out, and her unfortunate reaction to him as well, but the sudden pain in her chest stopped her, had her lunging forward. She felt the breath leave her body, her lungs, and tried to swal ow, tried to keep what was left of the air inside, but it was no use.

"You okay?"

Sounding annoyingly concerned now, Nicholas put his hand on her shoulder.

She brushed it off. "I'm fine. Just tired."

"You sure?"

She took a deep breath, tried to refil her lungs, but it was no use. What the hel ? She forced herself to straighten up, face him. Maybe she needed to feed.

Hunger.

Yes, that would explain why she had the urge to grab the back of Nicholas Roman's head every time he was near, pul him toward her and suckle the thick vein pulsing on his neck.

"You can go," she told him, acting as though the episode was over, gone now. Poof. But as she stared at him, chin up, she couldn't shake the breathless feeling inside her, and the dizziness, the sparks shooting off in her mind.

He looked less than convinced, but he nodded. "Get some rest, then. We have work ahead of us."

"Can't wait," she muttered.

"And, by the way," he said, backing up and out the door.

"The balas is next door."

Another wave of dizziness hit her, but she managed to close the door on his retreating frame and lean against the wood. Where was she going to get blood? she thought, trying to regulate her breathing. As was her way in Mondrar and in the credenti, she could eat berries and grains, nuts and seeds-but her body also needed the blood rations that the Order, in their eternal attempt to control both the purity and whereabouts of their flock, had provided.

As her breathing started to return to normal, the spot where her tracking device used to be, where Nicholas's fangs had penetrated her skin, started to pulse, to hum. It knew what she needed, what she craved.

His blood.

Nicholas's blood-pure, strong . . . delectable. And straight from the source. Goddamn, that would be wonderful. She could almost scent it, feel it rushing down her throat, coating al the right spots.

"You are in heat, veana!" She pushed away from the door. Maybe she could scrub the shit out of that spot, get rid of it al -the hunger, the lust, the thoughts, the asinine desires-drown it out, send it through the pipes to the sewer where it belonged.

Just as she was heading to the bathroom, there was a knock on her door. He was back. And that meant his blood scent, his devil eyes, and his dangerous hands were back too. Shit. Maybe if she backed off the bitchy veana thing for a minute, she might be able to get him to offer up a little O

Positive-just enough to get her through a couple of days.

Hell, he owed her a pint or two after dragging her in front of the Order like that.

She was on her way to the door when she heard a female's voice cal through the wood, "Kate?"

Disappointment washed over her. Satisfying her hunger was going to have to wait.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"Sara Donohue. I'm Alexander's mate. Could I talk to you for a minute?"

Gripping the knob, Kate drew back the wood to reveal an incredibly beautiful veana with long dark hair that was piled loosely on top of her head, and a pair of the most incredible blue eyes she'd ever seen. "I'm sorry-who are you?"

"Alexander is Nicholas's brother," she said, her tone impressively gentle and soothing. "I'm his true mate."

Kate remembered what Nicholas had said on the train.

"You've been watching Ladd."

"Yes."

She softened slightly. "How is he?"

"Okay. Sleeping now."

"Good. That's good."

"He's a tough one," Sara confided. "But who can blame him, right? He's experienced a significant loss."

The grounds of the Vermont elementary school popped up in Kate's mind along with Mirabelle's face as she lay dying in the snow-her fear, not for herself, but for the boy, paramount in her gaze.

"He's experienced a lot," Sara added.

"More than any balas should," Kate said with more passion that she'd meant to, or wanted to.

Her tone wasn't lost on Sara, and the veana gave her an easy, pleasant smile. "I thought you might like some company."

"That's real y nice," Kate said-and she meant it.

"Thoughtful."

"But you want to be alone."

Actual y, she'd like to be in Fiji. Or Crested Butte. She gave the veana a smal shrug. "You know what I'd real y like is to feed. At the credenti, the Order supplies our rations, but here . . ."

"Of course," Sara said. "I'll see what I can do, have something brought to your room."

"Thank you."

"Sure." With a quick inhale, Sara lifted her chin and looked past Kate. "You know, I used to stay in this room once upon a time."

"Real y? When you were abducted by a Roman brother?"

Sara laughed. "Kind of."

Kate's brows drew together. "Worked out wel for you, then."

"It was for my own good."

"Your paven sold you that story, huh?"

A blush spread from Sara's cheeks to her neck, making the blue in her eyes pop with intensity. "My mate has a way with words. His mouth is quite a persuasive tool."

Okaaayyy. Kate raised her brows. "That's a lot of info for a first meet, veana."

Sara laughed, shrugged. "Sorry. I'm a bonder."

It was Kate's turn to laugh, the sound dry and hoarse as it exited her throat. She liked this one. Not sure how much she could trust her-but Sara Donohue was definitely a funny, intel igent female.

Sara popped up a finger. "And I'm not a veana, by the way."

"But you're mated to a Pureblood?"

"It's a good story. Maybe I can tel it to you sometime."

"Maybe."

"But not tonight," Sara said, her understanding smile easy and no-pressure. She gave Kate a little wave as she backed up. "I'll see you later, and I'll make sure you get a feed, okay?"

"Okay," Kate said. "Thanks."

She closed the door and waited for several seconds to hear the sound of the female's retreating heels. It had been a nice gesture, coming to her room like that, trying to do the make-the-captive-feel-at-home thing. She wondered if Nicholas had anything to do with it. Had he asked Sara to check in on her?

Ditching the shower she'd been so keen on jumping into a few minutes ago, she slipped out of the room and walked the six or so feet down the hal to the room next door. A nervous energy bubbled in her stomach, and she hoped Ladd was asleep when she walked in there so she wouldn't have to face him, explain herself and the run back to her credenti-or talk about what had happened to his mother and, God help her, about what would happen next.

Because . . . she had nothing.

Shaking off her nerves, she opened the door, saw the balas asleep on the bed, his smal body curled into a pil ow, and grateful y released a breath as she went in and sat down on the bed.

A garden of emotions ran through her as she watched him slumber. She was envious of his peaceful, calm state of being. She was angry with his mother for having been late to pick him up yesterday, angry that she showed up at all, and brokenhearted that she'd ended up dead and leaving her son and some random veana who happened to be on parole, up shit creek without a paddle.

She inched her hand closer to Ladd's smal one, stopped before her fingers touched his. She was covetous of the fact that he had a father who didn't even know him but seemed moderately interested in his welfare. And she was grateful for the closeness and protectiveness and kinship she felt when she was around him. He may have been a balas and she a grown veana, but they were forever connected by tragedy.

"I'm sorry." She whispered the al -encompassing apology into the darkness.

And in his sleep, Ladd reached out and placed his smal hand over hers.

Nice, France

1899

Nicholas could barely move. On the bed that had once been his mother's, he lay curled up in a ball, whimpering softly. He had been worked over well and good by both a veana and a paven , who had called him their grand chien , their big dog, as they wrapped his neck in a collar and proceeded to beat him with a stick as the male screwed him at one end and the female knelt before him, her legs spread. It wasn't always this way. He also serviced many who gave him a modicum of pleasure, who were kind to him. In fact, there was a veana who had lost her child to sickness and had wanted only to be held, kissed sweetly on the cheek.

Nicholas lived for those days.

"Nichola."

Nicholas heard the familiar sound, the raspy call from the other room. She never called to him while he was servicing, but he knew she must have listened. Was she proud of her balas ? At fifteen, he earned twice what she had per week. It kept her in blood and gravo .

"Nichola, please."

He didn't want to go, didn't want to see her or hear her anymore. But she was his mama, and to deny her would be his end.

He pushed himself off the bed and limped into the front room, feeling as though the male's stick was still lodged inside him. His mother lay on the canape , terrifyingly thin, her eyes hollow and emotionless, her short hair dirty from a continuous refusal to wash. "I need my medicine, mon petit . The pain is desperate today."

As a balas , Nicholas could do nothing but love her, but as a young paven he had begun to resent her. "The gravo is killing you, Mama."

She attempted a laugh, her fangs black and completely worn down. "I was dead long ago, Nichola. The moment I sent you to your knees."

She looked almost regretful. It was rare to see her in any real way, and it touched his unbeating heart. "Let me take you away," he said as he had so many times before.

"We will go, find another life."

"Go where?" she said bitterly. "There is nothing but this."

Her eyes were hooded and tired. "You want to quit, do you not? Run away from here and from your mama?"

Oui. Mais oui. Nicholas looked away. "I will not leave you."

"Of course you won't, mon petit ." The momentary expression of regret evaporated and the familiar mask of self-pity returned. "Where would you go? You can do nothing but this. You are a putan . It is what you are, all that you are."

Her words cut into him more than any stick or fang or blade, but he forced himself to believe it was the pain that made her speak so, not her lack of love for her balas .

He stumbled back into his room and dressed, his clothing scraping against the cuts and bruises on his skin.

Even now, even as his body pained him so, he would go out into the streets and bring her back her gravo .