Then he stops.

He stops.

He wipes his hand across his mouth and without hesitating, brings my hand once more to his lips to close the wound. Then he bends his head to my neck and I feel the rush of cells regenerating, of skin renewing itself.

When he’s done, we both sink back on the bed. Instead of the pleasure of coupling, we’re drained, exhausted and confused. I feel it in Lance as strongly as in myself.

I had questions for Lance. I imagine now he’ll have questions for me. But nothing he asks can be as disturbing as the questions I have for myself.

A shudder of disgust racks my body. We’re lying close, but not touching. I’m afraid to touch him. Afraid he might pull away.

I’ve never lost control like that. Never felt the bloodlust so strongly I didn’t know when to stop. I’m embarrassed and ashamed, hiding it behind a curtain of carefully guarded thoughts. I want to say it out loud, admit it to Lance, but the truth is too damning to drag into the light. I was jealous. Jealous of a mortal woman. Jealous of the woman who may very well have saved Lance’s life.

Lance breaks the silence first.

“I should never have brought you here.”

His simple declaration fuels my shame. He blames himself.

Not what I expected. Not what I deserve. My shoulders tense, a second tremor of disgust raises bile in my throat. I open my mouth to object and he puts a finger over my lips.

I didn’t know he would be in town. Stupid. I should have asked Adele when I talked to her. I didn’t think.

A thousand questions present themselves, but the most important thing I can say now is the truth. You’re here because of me. Because of that thing that attacked me in my garage. You’re here because you were helping me. None of this is your fault.

Lance doesn’t answer. His mind is troubled; he is unconvinced. I take his chin in my hand, turn his face toward mine. We have to talk about Julian. Why did he attack you last night? Why did you let him?

Lance releases a long breath. He doesn’t try to pull away, but he doesn’t meet my eyes, either. Julian is my sire. I owe him.

Owe him? I think of the animal who sired me—Donaldson—who never planned to turn me, only to rape and kill. Somehow the idea of owing a sire anything is as repugnant as it is ludicrous.

I sit up in bed, pull a corner of the bloodstained sheet up and shake it in Lance’s face. Julian is the reason this happened. What the hell is going on? He’s more than vampire. He possesses magic. How?

Lance sits up, too, leans against the headboard. He claims his mortal mother was a gypsy, his father a warlock. He’s been vampire nearly five hundred years.

A warlock? I flash on Belinda Burke and her sister, Sophie. Both witches, the female equivalent. The black magic witch of the pair, Belinda, I killed with my own hands. Magic is passed along in the genes like bone structure and eye color. That explains the magic, though I didn’t know it was possible for a warlock to become vampire. Two incredibly potent creatures combined in one. Leads me to the next question.

How did he become vampire?

This time there is no hesitation. Lance begins to talk as if sharing the story might lessen the burden of his guilt.

He was born in Labourd in Basque in the sixteenth century, during the time of the Spanish Inquisition. His father was burned at the stake as a Sorginak witch. His mother barely escaped to Italy with her own life and the child. But when he was sixteen, plague hit her village. She died within a few days. Julian was left to die, too. That’s when he was “rescued” by a mysterious stranger who restored him to life and took him to live in Eastern Europe.

Lance releases a breath, looks away, then back at me. You’re not going to believe who he claims sired him.

Let me guess. Vlad. Dracula. Who else would such an egomaniac claim as his sire?

Lance’s eyebrows shoot up. How did you know?

If Lance’s expression weren’t so serious, I’d be laughing. You are kidding, right?

He shakes his head. No. And he seems to be able to back it up. He has documents that date back to the fourteenth century, given to him, he claims, by Vlad.

Now I do laugh. How could you believe that crap? Is that how he seduced you? What was going on in your life that would make you vulnerable enough to fall for such bullshit?

Lance tenses. Anger shadows his eyes and tightens his mouth. He pushes away from me and swings his legs out of bed.

I’m immediately sorry for the outburst. Truth is I know nothing about the circumstances of Lance’s becoming. I was taken without my consent. Perhaps he was, too. I watch him as he disappears into the bathroom. He slams the door shut and I hear the shower. He’s back in a few minutes dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. I jump out of bed and step in front of him before he reaches the door.

I’m sorry.

He stops, but only because I’m blocking his way. I can see he’s fighting the urge to push me aside. I hold up a hand in apology. I really am sorry. I had no right to say that.

His shoulders remain rigid.

Please. I want to hear more. I want to understand what the connection is between you and this man. It’s more than a familial bond. You let Julian whip you like an animal and you were willing to bear the scars of that whipping forever. I need to understand.

Lance takes a tiny step backward. I can’t tell you why it happened. I won’t. I can only tell you that by allowing you to help me, I may not have forever. Not after this.

After what? For Christ’s sake, Lance, tell me. If you don’t, I swear I’ll go after him. I’ll make him tell me. I’ll kill him if he doesn’t.

Lance lets a smile tip the corner of his mouth. You plan to kill him anyway, don’t you?

Then you lose nothing by telling me, do you?

Jesus, Anna. The sternness has returned to his face. You may be powerful, but do you really think you can best a five-hundred-year-old vampire? You said it yourself; he’s more than vampire, he possesses magic.

I can tell by the set of his jaw that this argument will get us nowhere. At least tell me how he turned you. You know my story.

His expression says he recognizes a diversionary tactic when he hears one. His thoughts confirm the look, but to my surprise, he turns around and takes a seat on the edge of the bed.

Better sit down, too, he says. This may take a while.

Then he adds, “Suppose we could ask Adele to bring us coffee first? I smell it brewing.”

I nod and he reaches for the phone, makes the request and hangs up. “She’ll be right up.”

“Then I’d better get dressed.”

I’m glad for the chance to gather my thoughts. Instead, as I pull on shorts and a T-shirt, I find gathering my thoughts is the last thing I want to do. Thinking means examining what happened in that bedroom and I can’t face it. So instead, I listen. To Adele’s knock as it announces her arrival, listen to Lance and her chat about last night—he gives her a highly fictionalized version of our evening—and listen to the clank of a coffee service being set up. I wait until I hear the snick of the door closing behind her before reappearing.

Lance is pouring coffee into two mugs. He’s pulled the bedclothes up over the pillows to hide the blood. He looks up when he sees me. “Adele says good morning.”

I take the mug from his outstretched hand, avoiding his eyes. Sip.

Kona blend. Good stuff.

We return to our perches on the side of the bed. I don’t look at Lance or push him to begin. I know he will when he’s ready.

And he does.

He drains his cup, slouches back against the headboard.