At last dropping the lifeless body to the floor, Jagr roared as the power rushed through him.

Although not a full demon, the cur’s blood was far more potent than a mere human, bringing with it a satisfying rush that eased the black rage.

Shuddering in relief, Jagr allowed the madness to recede. Slowly, the red haze dissipated from his mind, clearing his thoughts and relaxing the knotted muscles.

As the fog lifted, he glanced around the ruined kitchen with a frown.

What the hell?

Painful minutes passed as he struggled to recall where he was and what had happened.

His last true memory had been of himself in a small, cramped cell. The imp—Gaynor, yes that had been his name—had yanked him through a portal. That’s when things began to get fuzzy.

There’d been pacing and cussing and futile attempts to break down the door. That he damned well remembered. Then he’d gone deep inside himself to avoid the looming panic, hadn’t he?

So how did he get out of the cell?

“Jagr?”

Regan’s soft voice, along with the tantalizing scent of midnight jasmine, was nothing more than a whisper, but both slammed into him with the force of a two-ton truck.

Oh…shit.

The lingering fog was blasted away as images of his escape from his prison seared through his mind with cruel clarity.

The invader entering the cell. Leaning over him. And then…

Spinning on his heel, Jagr frantically studied the slender form standing in the door leading to the basement. Even through the shadows he could detect the faint marks that marred her slender neck.

Marks he had put there.

Regan wasn’t a coward. Granted, she didn’t have one of those hero complexes that demanded she always dash around proving her courage, but she could face pain and even danger when necessary.

So it wasn’t fear that kept her in the basement as Jagr charged out of the cell and headed upstairs to battle the curs.

At least, not fear for herself.

For the moment, Jagr was at the mercy of his rampaging emotions. No big freaking surprise there. The vampire had to have a major case of PTSD after enduring centuries of torture, and being locked in the tiny cell had obviously pushed all his buttons.

And while she refused to believe he would seriously hurt her even in the midst of his bloodlust, she knew that during battles anything could happen. Friendly fire wasn’t just a human danger.

If she were accidentally injured, the stupid man would hold himself responsible for rest of eternity.

So ignoring the desperate urge to rush up the stairs and make certain Jagr didn’t allow his blind rage to get himself killed by the guards she’d slipped past only a short time ago, Regan hovered near the bottom of the stairs, clutching the dagger and hating the feelings of helplessness.

Thank the gods that the marks from Duncan’s damned silver chains had already healed. At the time, she had been infuriated that it had taken so long for Levet to convince Salvatore to meet with the stupid cur. She might sympathize with the King of Were’s reluctance to strike a bargain with an out-and-out traitor, but her only concern was being released so she could get to Jagr.

And of course, there had been long minutes wasted as she’d argued with Levet. The gargoyle had been determined to return to Hannibal with her, but while Regan would have taken any assistance she could get, she couldn’t dismiss the thoughts of her sister.

If Duncan could honestly reveal where she might be hidden, then she didn’t want the bastard out of sight for a moment. He wouldn’t be allowed to disappear before Salvatore could get the information out of him.

With a shake of her head, Regan returned her attention to the cramped basement.

Distantly she could sense the bothersome drain of the hexes that lined the cell, and the lingering scent of Jagr’s desperation, but she concentrated on the crashes echoing from above. One hint that Jagr was in danger, and she would be up those stairs and kicking some cur butt.

At last the sounds of the short, brutal battle came to an end, and sucking in a deep breath, Regan made her way to the top of the steps.

What she discovered as she stepped into the trashed kitchen didn’t particularly surprise her. Windows shattered, one wall cracked, pots and pans scattered, three injured or dead curs on the floor, and the fourth being rapidly drained by the infuriated vampire.

Still, she couldn’t help but admire Jagr’s brute strength.

No wonder Culligan was always so nervous when it came time to negotiate with the local clan chief.

Watching from a relatively safe distance, Regan sensed the moment Jagr’s maddened fury began to slip away. It was in the hint of warmth that threaded through the biting chill in the air, and the loosening of the warrior’s bunched muscles.

Of course, she wasn’t stupid enough to run and throw herself in his arms as she strangely ached to do.

Instead she softly called his name, careful not to startle him by moving forward.

For a moment, she thought he meant to ignore her, then slowly he turned, his expression wary as his gaze slid a searing path over her.

Sharp relief flared through Regan as recognition flared in those beautiful blue eyes. He was back. And lucid.

Taking a step forward, she abruptly halted as the ice-blue gaze landed on her neck and recognition morphed to black regret.

Christ.

She resisted the urge to lift her hand and hide the telltale marks. Instead, she held herself perfectly still as he walked toward her, his movements jerky, as if his mind and body were at painful odds.

“Regan,” he breathed, not stopping until his cool power wrapped around her like a welcomed blanket.

Regan licked her lips, unable to bear the look of shame that twisted Jagr’s stark features. Since their first memorable encounter, she had ruthlessly fought to keep this man from tromping over her defenses. Even when her own body had betrayed her.

In this moment, she knew if she truly wanted to be rid of him and his aggravating interference in her life, all she had to do was keep her lips shut and allow him to drown in his own guilt. It was etched on every line of his face.

But even as the thought fluttered through her mind, she was already shoving it down the black hole where it belonged.

No freaking way.

And she didn’t give a shit what it might reveal about her pathetic emotions.

“Are you okay?” she demanded, resisting the urge to wrap her arms around him and offer the comfort that he so obviously needed. He wasn’t ready. Not yet.

Proving her point, he gave a slow shake of his head. “No, I’m damned well not okay,” he rasped, his eyes never leaving her throat. “I hurt you.”

“I’m fine.” She waited a beat, but when his eyes refused to leave the fading bruises, she reached up to grasp his face in her hands and forced his head up. “Jagr, look at me.” Grudgingly his gaze met hers. “I. Am. Fine. Got it?”

“I very nearly killed you.”

“Ha.” She narrowed her gaze, her tone angry. This was no time for touchy-feely crap. Not with a wounded warrior bent on self-flagellation. “I might not be an oversized oaf like some I could name, but I’m not that easy to get rid of. I would have stopped you if I truly thought I was in danger.”

His jaw tightened. Annoying, stubborn vampire.

“No, Regan, you couldn’t have. If I hadn’t hesitated…”

“But you did,” she interrupted, squeezing his face as if she could squeeze in a bit of sense. “No harm, no foul.”

“And the next time the madness overtakes me?” he rasped.

“Next time? Does it happen often?”

“It did in the beginning.”

Well…duh. She’d be worried if he hadn’t gone Rambo after what the Kesi and her merry band of torturers had done to him.

“And now?”

His gaze abruptly dropped. “It doesn’t matter.”

Regan snorted. He didn’t want to answer because he must know it would only prove her point.

“How long since the last time you…” She caught herself, not willing to call him mad. He might be maddening, but he was the sanest demon she’d met in her entire life. “Lost control?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“How long?” She growled low in her throat as he remained mute. “Jagr?”

“It’s been several centuries,” he grudgingly confessed.

There. She knew it.

“Fine. Then I’ll start worrying a few hundred years from now.”

His expression hardened as his fingers dropped from her neck. No doubt telling himself he might accidentally hurt her.

“This can’t be dismissed. I’m dangerous.”

“Only because you were imprisoned.” Damn, she wished he wasn’t too huge to shake. Trust her to get entangled with the biggest, most difficult demon to ever walk the earth. “Christ, anyone would have gone a little nuts. It wasn’t your fault.”

“This isn’t about fault, it’s about consequences.”

“And what are these dire consequences?” she demanded. “A few bruises that I know damned well have already healed?”

His eyes flashed a frigid blue. Regan smiled ruefully. His anger, and even power, was always coated with ice rather than fire. His means of controlling the rage inside, she was beginning to suspect.