Marina Perez hovered near the packed bar, her hand around a half-empty Corona. As the punk band blasted their sound onstage, her green eyes trailed Gray Donohue as he slipped into a booth in the back of the club, Equinox.

He was so hot, his metal-gray eyes watchful, predatory, his face a mass of striking angles and ferocity, and his mouth-Jesus, the mouth-so cruel with its promise of delicious sex that Marina could barely look at him for longer than a moment without her legs starting to heat up.

Her fist tightened around the bottle. Problem was, she wasn't the only one who thought he was tasty-who wanted to jump his bones and hang on for the ride. Every club he went to, everywhere she looked, females were going out of their way to get to him.

And it wasn't just the way he looked, Marina thought. It was the attitude he was throwing off. No fear, no inhibition, just a desire to devour everything: the air, the drinks, the music, the pussies of every female who sidled up to him-

he wanted to get his scarred, ravaged, extra-large hands into each of their thongs, then send them on their way and drink until he passed out.

Marina slid her gaze over him. Right now, tucked into the booth, Gray Donohue whispered into the ear of the redhead on his right, while his hand slipped under the table and under the skirt of the female to his left. As he whispered, the under the skirt of the female to his left. As he whispered, the redhead lifted her heavy lids, turned her gaze to wherever Gray's hand had landed, and grinned.

Marina whirled back to the bar and drained her beer to the very last bit of foam.

He was the best assignment she'd ever had.

Or he would be, if she could just get him to notice her.

Prisoner 626.

Not Kate Everborne.

Not Pureblood veana.

Just Prisoner 626.

The shrunken heart in Kate's chest squeezed. Every day for ten years, the Order had sent messages to the wal s of her cell, letting her know when it was time to feed, to sleep, to hit the john. Letters had bubbled up to make words; words made commands. When she'd been transferred to the credenti to work at the elementary school a few months back, the absence of those messages had been real y difficult at first. Al of a sudden, she was in charge of herself

. . . for the most part. But it was strange how something you hated for so long became so familiar that it was hard to function without it.

As the train slowed and the snow fel harder, she gripped the railing and her gaze moved over each word, each letter, the spaces in between. "It's done," she said softly.

"Did you real y expect anything else?" she heard Nicholas say, though his voice seemed far away.

She didn't answer him.

"Kate . . ."

"I'd thought they might show me a little mercy for coming in on my own, giving myself up, but this has changed everything. I go back now, after they've cal ed me in-pretty much declared me a fugitive-and I'm as good as locked up again." She slid her gaze over to him. "Happy, Roman?"

"Don't do that."

"What? Be devastated or pissed off?"

"You're reacting like a balas."

No, she was reacting like a prisoner who'd seen and carried and held on to the light of freedom for ten long years only to have it stripped away in an instant.

But what did Nicholas Roman know about that?

She stood there, back against the railing as the train picked up speed once again and the winter wind tried to freeze her regret. Then she reached down, ripped one pant leg from ankle to knee, and met his gaze. "Do it."

Nicholas Roman had the control of a machine. He'd been bred for it, practiced it as a balas on his knees, then as a young vampire giving and taking in the al eyways of Nice.

He could turn on the desire in seconds, then turn it off just as quickly.

As long as he was paid.

Currency had been a powerful motivator as a balas. It had kept his mother alive, then kept Nicholas in gravo when the pain of what he was doing to himself-what he was giving up to anything, anyone with the funds to buy him-became too much. Unfortunately, once he'd trained his cel s to react to the exchange of goods for services, he couldn't stop it. Even if he needed a fuck. The parts wouldn't go to work without the bil being paid first.

But as the train slowed and the veana before him spread her legs and asked him to put his hands on her, the need to jump, to take, to consume flared to life.

"It's there." She pointed to a slight bump just above her knee, on the inside of her thigh.

Nicholas growled low in his chest at the thought of the Order placing the steel tracking device under her skin. Had those aged bastards enjoyed making her feel like a lab rat?

Had they enjoyed touching her?

He ignored the momentary rush of aggression his query brought forward and dropped to his knees, spread the torn fabric back, and reached out for her. The second his hand touched her skin, he felt like he'd been shot by a barrage of bul ets. Every inch of his flesh, his muscle, his bone went hot and electric, and his fangs dropped-even his cock pulsed. Jesus, the thing wanted out, wanted up, wanted inside.

He closed his eyes.

He needed to get this under control before he went savage-before he turned into his father.

He needed to search her skin.

Forcing his eyes open and on the task, he started below her knee and worked his way over the cap, his fingers probing for the hard little piece of metal as his gaze searched her skin. There was no mark, but damn he'd never felt skin so soft, so warm-like a feather bed cal ing him in for a nap. He pulled air into his lungs, her air, her scent, and said, "Ready?"

"Just be careful."

Damn right. His thumb brushed over the circular device.

Too much of her blood in his system could trigger even more lust than was already coursing river-quick through him.

As the train slowed into the next station, Nicholas struck gently, his fangs easing their way through the muscle, careful not to take in too much blood along the way. His lips, fastened to her skin, wanted desperately to explore, to suckle-get his tongue in on the action-but he held himself in check. Had to. Had to. Christ, it was hard though.

Starving paven, thirsty paven.

Final y one fang hit pay dirt, and slowly he guided the razor-sharp tip around the rim of the thing. Then, he tugged.

Above him, Kate sucked in air. Nicholas made the foolish mistake of looking up. Her head was back, eyes closed, snow fal ing on her pale throat as she gripped the railing like she was climaxing.

Nicholas closed his eyes and tugged again until the tiny disk left her skin through one puncture wound and entered his mouth. He pulled back, but not as gently as he should have. He needed to get away, off her before he drank her dry like his body was screaming for him to do. Her skin was fine, no marks-just two smal puncture wounds that were already healing, but inside his mouth, on his tongue, he tasted her.

Not just her blood, but her.

It slithered down his throat, a taste, an essence so delectably powerful it blossomed in his throat, his bel y, and he wanted to rip her apart and consume her completely.

The thought was both terrifying and deliriously hot. His body was tight as steel, his chest too, his cock . . . fuck. It was like they were lying in a cave fil ed with gardenia and honeysuckle, not on a moving train in the dead of winter with snow fal ing al around them.

He felt no cold. Only heat. Delicious, delectable heat.

God, he needed to strip her bare and find out what the hel was going on before he went insane. 'Course a move like that would need to come with some kind of explanation, and he wasn't about to reveal his suspicions regarding their true mate status. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

He slipped the bug from his tongue. "Here." He stood and handed it to her, then watched as she stared at it, her eyes wounded like a baby deer. He'd seen that look on many, had taken that look away for many. But on her . . . He seemed to be able to feel it inside his gut, his soul. It was one unwelcome burden.

"Fuck me." She stared at the tiny bug for one more second, then hauled back and threw it over the side of the moving train.

"We need to go, Kate."

She looked at him. "I need a place to crash."

Nicholas didn't say another word, just nodded and opened his arms to her. A flicker of trust registered in her eyes as she curled into his embrace. He tried not to think about that as they flashed off the train.

Or when they touched down on the hard ground of the mountaintop near the caves.

What he did, he had to do. For her as much as for himself.

Still in his arms, Kate glanced around, at the idyl ic, overly serene setting: trees, rocks, a brook in the distance. Then she turned to look at him, her large brown eyes now wary under the light of the moon. "Where the hel are we?"

His expression grim, Nicholas didn't answer. Within seconds they were pulled from the mountaintop and thrust down into false daylight, their feet hitting sand with an audible crunch.

The table of the ancient ten spread out before them, and seated in the very center was Cruen, one thinning eyebrow lifted, red fangs flashing. "Not the Impure filth we were expecting you to deliver to us," he said to Nicholas, "but pleasing nonetheless."