The mixture of white, Asian and aboriginal children had permanent scars on their lips from the elongated fangs that apparently couldn’t retract like the adults’. They were filthy, naked, and started shrieking and calling out in unintelligible noises when Dev entered with Lord Charles and several of his men.

“I don’t want you to think I’m inhumane,” Ruskin commented. “At home, they each have their own cage, as well as a large enclosure.”

He put out a hand. One of the men reached into a meat safe and came out with a fistful of raw meat, dripping with blood. The children went into a frenzy, crashing against the bars.

“Only a little bit, my pets. Tomorrow you get real blood, but you must hunt fiercely for it.” As the man handed the meat to Charles, a startling change came over the children. They shrank back, eyes rounding in fright. When he put a hand into each of the cages, without exception, they were tentative in how they reached out to take it, though once they did, they set about snarling and tearing it apart between them. Dev glanced toward one of the men as he brandished a wicked metal spear at one of a more enthusiastically savage group.

“What’s that for?” he asked while Charles was crooning to the children.

“If they get too hungry and turn on each other. He doesn’t feed ’em for a while before they hunt, so they’ll stay on track. Most the time they do pretty good in the cages, but they’re a bit crowded in. Still, they know if they damage each other, he’ll punish the lot of them. He’ll—”

Dev shook his head, a short, sharp shake. He didn’t need to know. He felt sick. When Lord Charles finished and turned, a cruel, satisfied look on his face, Dev didn’t bother to mask it.

“You’re a right bastard, you are,” Dev said. “No wonder she thinks you shouldn’t be running this region.” Lord Charles’s lips thinned, but when two of his men moved forward, he raised a hand. “No. Lady Daniela would feel I’d been unsporting if I paid you for that remark as you deserve. You must start out in the condition you’re in now.” His voice dropped, his eyes as dead as a reptile’s. “But tomorrow night, when they catch you, and they will, I’ll have the pleasure of hearing your screams.

They’re children after all, and have to squabble. They usually tear apart the body in their eagerness.” He didn’t want to be here anymore. It was a bloody shame he’d been telling Danny the truth. For whatever reason, he felt he had to stay, see this through. Not only because he’d given his word, either.

He knocked.

Inside, Danny closed her eyes. She’d been sitting on the bed, brushing out her hair, staring into space. She could touch his mind, his thoughts. Feel him move around the house, do a quick check of the outside. She’d told him to come to her, but knew after what he’d seen in the barn, what he’d seen in the dining room, he might not. And how could she blame him?

She could have reinforced the call, brought him to her. But she didn’t. One, she wanted him to come to her of his own volition, didn’t want to have to coax him. She had that much pride. Second, because she knew she was going to have to take another choice away from him. If he came to her room of his own free will, well, that would help her rationalize it was all for the best. Not for the first time in the past few hours, she was glad she didn’t have to face herself in a mirror.

But when she bade him enter and rose, all that went away for a moment. Because his gaze alighted on her, and for a moment he had the expression he’d had at dinner, when he first saw her in the dress, before everything happened. Yes, vampires were beautiful, there was no way around it. But when he looked at her, she felt like he saw her in the dress, and found her beautiful, with or without the vampire allure. And that mattered to her. God, she really was young and stupid, she was sure. But maybe she’d outlive her folly. She hoped he’d outlive it.

She’d worn a peach satin nightgown and robe. As he entered, she released the diamond hook closure at the gathered waist of the robe, let the sheer cloth float to the floor. The gown had a V neckline, and an inverted V seam beneath the bust that made the nip of her waist even more delicate, the area of her cleavage more riveting. It was the type of gown he might have seen Greta Garbo or Mae West wear in the pictures in England or Europe, but here she was in full color, very real, and ready to let him touch.

She knew the color combined with her pale, cream skin to make her look both ethereally beautiful and deceptively fragile to a man, an irresistible combination. His gaze coursed over her, then dropped to her bare feet. Since he’d discovered the pleasure of worshipping her feet, she thought it was a new obsession for him. However, in his mind, she found it was more than a fetish. Seeing her bare feet helped him keep things in perspective. Her feet somehow said she was real, approachable. A woman he’d seen vulnerable, something that helped him relate to her, to what had happened tonight.

It was a rationalization to help him cope, not the true reality. For she wasn’t human, and while she might have emotional moments, she was not even slightly vulnerable when it came to dealing with a human male. But she wouldn’t disabuse him of the notion. Not until she had to do so. So she told herself as she moved back to the bed and turned, looking at him.

Come here. I want you.

What was the matter with her? She’d meant to be smooth, casual, seductive. And yet she had a craving for the clean, mortal smell of him. The feel of his arms sliding around her readily. As if there were nothing repulsive about her, as if she hadn’t had Ian’s blood sprayed all over her dress, her hair.

“You make it hard to take the reins, love.”

“Yes, I do. Because the reins belong to me.” Changing tacks, she turned, moved toward the night table and poured them both a strong whiskey. Brought the glass to him, peach and perfume within his grasp, his senses. “It’s not beer, but you look a little pale at the edges, Dev. Drink with me.”

Dev took it, and followed her example, downing it in a fiery draught that burned to his belly. When she pressed her lips together, moist with the liquor, he leaned forward, put his mouth over hers, his tongue flicking on the bottom, then the upper lip to collect the taste, giving her a not-so-friendly nip. “Maybe they change hands occasionally, those reins. Sometimes they lie loose, and the horse chooses the direction.”

She tilted her head, considering him, her mouth now moist from his. “I saw you looking at her collar tonight. Ian’s servant. Some vampires do that. Collar their servant, to remind them of their bond to their Master or Mistress.” Her fingers lifted, traced the strong column of his throat. He swallowed under her touch. “I could imagine one on you. A thick strap with a triangular buckle. Simple thing, but very tough, what you’d put on a hunting or fighting dog. Because while I might own you, you’re a bit unpredictable.

That’s what makes you so lovely to have.”

Curling his fingers around her wrist, he held her. “You can’t own someone, love.”

“Maybe,” she agreed softly. “But you can possess them. I think that’s why you’re still here.” Dropping his hand, he poured himself another whiskey. “Those sticks you wore in your hair. They were Chiyoko’s, weren’t they?”

“Yes.”

He nodded, stared into the drink. “You typically riffle through a dead person’s belongings for things that strike your fancy?” Her gaze frosted. “I don’t explain myself to others. A vampire can’t afford weakness.” Dev gave a bark of laughter. “Love, we all have weaknesses. Yours are sunlight and a man’s tight arse. Glad to oblige you with the latter,” he added. “But don’t blow smoke up it. Why’d you take them?”

Danny looked away. “I wanted something of hers on me, when I fought him. I don’t know why.” Dev pushed down his irritation, though it took effort. The temptress or the bitch. She seemed adept at swinging between the extremes of each. “Staff gossip says when you do choose a full servant, it’ll likely be a woman. Because you prefer them.”

“And what do you think, Dev?” She turned with a waft of perfume, a shimmer of gauzy material that gave him the hint of hip and breast.

“You like girls. They’re easier to dominate, because they’re used to men being in charge. I suspect they’re a vacation for you, the difference between taking a bubble bath and fencing an opponent you’re not sure you can beat.” Putting down his drink, he stepped toward her. “But most of the time you like the challenge more than the bath. Tonight was about neither. It was about distraction.”

He let his attention pass with deliberate leisure over her throat, her breasts, down the slope of her abdomen to the flare of her hips, all tempting satin and silk softness. She was watching him, intrigued by his words, but beneath the softness was something as lethal and unyielding as mortar fire, as ruthless. The way he knew there was venom to certain snakes, a sting to stonefish, fatal bites from spiders. They could all be killed by man if he had the right weapons to hand, but they were going to bugger him good before they were taken out.

That had been her expression tonight when she’d faced down Ruskin, an easier look for him to accept than the one she’d had right after taking Ian’s head. But the night he killed his family’s murderers, it was on his own face. At times, a man snatched the cloak off the Grim Reaper, donned it himself and said hang the consequences, seizing the chance to be the bringer of Death.

“You loved her. And your father.”

She nodded, a short, barely there movement, then turned toward the mirror, which confirmed she had no reflection. That, and the effect of the sun, the need for blood, those things were all true about her. But there were things that weren’t true. So following that odd instinct that had guided him since he met her, he moved across the wood floor and Persian carpet as she stared at the empty image. Sliding his hands on her shoulders, the roundness of them, then down, he framed her breasts, just an easy grip. A sigh slipped out of her and she leaned her head back against his chest.