“Mm-mm.” She didn’t want juice. She wanted Parker. When he went to get out of bed, she grabbed him and held him down. She draped herself over him, one leg between his, one arm over his stomach. She wiggled until her head was under his chin. “Stay.”

He wrapped his arms around her, cradling her close. “My pleasure.”

Amara drifted off, serene in the knowledge her vampire would be there when she woke up.

Parker waited until he knew for certain Amara was sound asleep before slipping out of the huge, Craftsman-style four-poster bed to explore the room. He had to bite back a grin at that. Greg was right. Chickie has a four-poster. The simple, elegant bed rested on dark hardwood floors and was topped with a pearl-gray, checkered comforter. The walls were a grayish-purple, the ceiling painted a paler shade. Double doors led out to a Juliet balcony currently covered over by thick blackout curtains and a turquoise wing chair and white table sat by the window, the table piled with books.

He liked it. It suited her. It was simple yet feminine, uniquely hers. The only thing he could see changing was the overdose of purple; he’d love to see some other, more masculine colors. The turquoise chair would be an excellent starting point since he favored blues and greens and, apparently, so did she.

“Parker? Can I talk to you for a moment?”

The whispered voice of Brian, through the door, reminded him that he had some apologizing to do to his poor Renfield. The man must have been terrified when Parker went feral. He’d have to make sure to make it up to him. He glanced ruefully at his torn pants. No way would they stay up.

“Here.”

He looked up at the soft whisper to find Brian’s arm sticking through the partially open door, a pair of jeans dangling from his fingertips.

“Thanks.” Parker pulled them on and stepped into the hallway. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Brian was grinning. “You saw me touch your singele sotiei. Of course you lost it.”

“How did you know?”

“The same way I knew the words of the casuta. I’m a Renfield. It’s my job to know.”

Parker was impressed. “Yes, I suppose it is.” Parker shook his head. “I haven’t heard those terms from someone else’s lips in years.”

“Being a Renfield in Maggie’s Grove is an honorable profession. We’re trained in how to take care of our vampires. We all learn that singele sotiei are precious. We understand that and your reactions to them and how to deal with you when you’ve gone too far to control yourself.”

“What’s he talking about? And why the fuck did you go all Bram Stoker on us? You’ve never done that before.”

“He’s never had reason to before, has he?” Before Greg could respond, Brian continued. “Singele sotiei means blood wife, literally. The one person Parker’s beast can bond to, who will be with him for eternity. Sometimes that relationship is sexual. Sometimes it’s less. Sometimes it’s more.”

Parker had the feeling that with Amara it would be more.

“And casuta? What does that mean?”

Parker winced. Greg was going to love this one. “Obeisance. It’s the ritual soothing of the beast, lets him know the person being viewed as a threat isn’t one at all.” It also let the beast know the person chanting was his vassal, his to protect, but Greg didn’t need to know that. It was a holdover from when vampires ruled territories in places like Transylvania and the Carpathian Mountains. Legend had it the gypsies who’d served them had come up with the casuta, and the beast responded to it in ways Parker didn’t understand but was grateful for. Especially now.

“Under normal circumstances, the chant and the display of submission would have returned Parker to normal, but I’d touched his unclaimed sotiei. I’m lucky Amara didn’t fight him, or I’d be passing through the Veil.”

“Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.” Parker’s smile was rueful. “How do we stop this from happening again? I have no desire to harm you.”

“You’d better not.” Greg sounded seriously pissed.

“I don’t. I actually like the little bugger.” Brian coughed, and Parker realized what he’d said. He flipped them both the two-finger salute. “Sod off.”

“We stop it by you claiming your sotiei.” Brian shrugged. “Or I learn yoga, because I’ll be in that position a lot.”

“Naked yoga?”

Brian bit his lip, a shudder passing through him. His eyes closed to half-mast. Parker had no idea what Greg was doing, but from the smell of lust, he’d bet Greg had his metaphysical hands down the Renfield’s pants. “People. Not in front of the children.”

Brian jumped and moved quickly to the right. “Um. Anyway. You need to finish what you started, or the beast will become even more aggressive as time passes.”

“What about Terri?”

“We deal with her, one way or another.”

“We finally get to kill the wicked witch?”

Parker leaned against the wall, his thoughts racing. “Looks like. The sooner the better.” Terri would not harm Amara, not now. Not ever.

“Down, boy.”

Brian’s eyes were wide, his knees partially bent. Parker licked his lips and realized his fangs had descended. He bet his eyes had begun to turn red, the color of hunting. “We’ll keep Amara safe, I swear.” Brian frowned, his expression darkening. “I think it’s time you met the mayor.”

Parker looked at his bare chest and feet. “Perhaps I should be dressed when I do.”

“I’ll make the call. You get the clothes.”

“No. You get the clothes. I’m not leaving Amara alone.”

Brian nodded. “Pick up the receiver and say Dragomir Ibanescu. I’ll be back in ten minutes.” The Renfield raced down the stairs and out the door.

“This town is very strange.”

He followed at a slower pace and took the opportunity look at the rest of Amara’s home. The wood of the ornate Victorian banister was smooth under his palm. Parker approved, even as he disapproved of the first room he stepped into.

Amara’s living room was much different from her bedroom. This room droned gloomy and period from the camelback couch to the dark wainscoting and rose wallpaper. Tufted leather armchairs with clawed feet flanked the green velvet couch. The couch faced an ornate fireplace, the carved mantle done in the same wood as the wainscoting. Brass and crystal sconces did little to lighten the atmosphere. Spindle-legged mahogany tables held porcelain lamps with heavy, gold-fringed shades. A cream ceiling completed the overly done Victorian look. The only truly good thing about the room was the nine-foot ceiling, and even that was barely noticeable with the dreary colors.

Unlike her bedroom, this room would require a complete makeover. He could live with the wainscoting. He could even live with the green couch. But the rose-pink walls, those sconces and…were those naked women on the lamps?

He wandered to the dining room, mentally flinching from the horror of naked brass women draped in fringe. Now, this room wasn’t nearly as bad. The Queen Anne table had the simple lines Parker preferred, and the chandelier, though dripping in crystals, didn’t make him want to break out in hives. Though the wainscoting remained, the color of the walls, a turquoise a shade or two lighter than the chair in her bedroom, managed to keep the room both formal and cheerful.

The kitchen was much more his style. Here were her Craftsman roots, with mission-style cabinets, Carrera-marble countertops and rubbed-bronze appliances that said old-fashioned without croaking out old.

So maybe the living room was a holdover from when the home had been Glinda’s. If this was more Amara’s style, he could definitely live with it.

He found the phone and picked up the receiver. “Dragomir Ibanescu.”