Burning Up

She was going to have to make love to the vampire.

THREE

Amaris’s stomach coiled into a sick ball at the thought of taking Raniero into her bed. She glowered at the fire, impatient with herself. I’m a Blood Rose, curse it. Making love to them is what we were created to do.

When it became obvious the Varil were a threat to the kingdom, the first great wizard king had transformed human champions into a race of vampire knights. To ensure the knights did not likewise become a threat, the king had then transformed his most talented female sorcerers into Blood Roses with the magical power to seduce and tame them.

Though vampires could sire vampire sons with mortal women, Blood Roses were born only to Blood Rose mothers. By law, the king alone could grant a Blood Rose’s hand in marriage, and he granted that boon only to those he considered most deserving. Since drinking a Rose’s blood made a vampire stronger, his allies had the advantage over any would-be vampire rebels.

Like other Roses, Amaris was well-versed in the Arts of the Rose. Her mother had sent her to one of the best Gardens in the kingdom to learn the traditional skills: how to charm, how to flirt, how to use her mouth and hands to bring her vampire lover pleasure.

Unfortunately, vampires could not be trusted. Her father was proof of that.

And Orel, of course.

For a while she’d actually believed all the silly songs the troubadours sang in the Garden. Songs of gallant vampire warriors romancing their lady Roses, sweeping them away to lives of love and passion.

She should have known it was all utter rot.

As a child, Amaris had watched her father torment her mother until Sava finally had enough and petitioned the king for a divorce. Ferran had been so scandalized that any vampire would beat a Blood Rose, he’d granted it on the spot. The king had even issued a royal order that Tannaz keep his distance on pain of death. The vampire hadn’t dared break it.

At least until he’d fallen in with Korban and grown bold. Bold enough to murder both his former wife and her lover, Marin’s father.

And then there was Orel, handsome, seductive—and insanely jealous. Amaris had met him while she was still at the Garden, and had promptly believed herself in love.

Until the day he’d seen her smile at another vampire.

Once back at the house they’d shared, Orel had ranted at Amaris like a madman before knocking her senseless. She’d awakened with him on top of her, beginning a rape. Terrified, enraged, she’d fired a blast of magic into his face. He’d fled, burned and screaming.

That experience had left her determined to never be so vulnerable again. She’d begun combat training with Basir, who was both her mother’s lover and a skilled swordsman and sorcerer. After two years of hard work, Basir had pronounced her capable of defending herself.

But Orel’s attack had taught her something else as well: vampires could not be trusted. No matter how loving they might act, they were predators, no different from the Varil. Any Rose who let down her guard with one would rue it.

Now Amaris had to lull her captors into believing her cowed and cooperative. She felt confident that given enough time, she’d spot an opportunity to rescue her sister and escape.

But to buy that time, she was going to have to seduce Raniero. So she’d give the vampire her body—but never her trust.

Dawn was breaking when Amaris returned to the cramped chamber she’d been given in one of the castle’s towers.

Moving quickly, she swung the door closed and hurried across the room to fling open the wooden shutters. The edge of the sun was just peeking over the horizon, painting streamers of rose and violet across the sky. Beneath them, the Korban Mountains lay in thick black shadow.

There wasn’t much time.

Amaris took a deep breath and drew a long, thin dagger from the sheath that hung from her embroidered belt. Concentrating fiercely, she angled the knife point up, so that the rays of the sun poured over it. Gathering her will, she began to chant as the rising sun warmed her face. Magic swirled around her, flowing into the dagger, making the thin blade blaze.

Raniero woke half naked in a bed far more comfortable than the ground he so often slept on as the king’s investigator. Blinking, disoriented, he tried to roll off the bed, only to discover two things: he was weak as a babe, and his wrists were chained to the posts of the bed.

Rage lengthening his teeth into fangs, he jerked his head around to stare at his wrists. The manacles that encircled them were covered with magical runes he read with a wizard’s ease.

A draining spell. ’Twould sap his strength and magic, keeping him from breaking the chains.

Peering down the length of his body, he saw he wore naught but his breeches. His ankles, too, were chained.

With a growl, he dropped his head back on the feather pillow.

Who the six hells gave a prisoner a feather pillow?

The thought made him scan his cell in narrow-eyed suspicion.

It looked more guest’s chamber than prison. The room was clean, with fresh rushes on the floor, and a fire burned in the fireplace, reducing the autumn chill. Two chairs sat before the fire, and there was a small bedside table on which an unlit candle stood beside a golden goblet. No window, but vampire that he was, he was rather glad of that. At least his captors couldn’t cook him with the sunrise while he was helplessly chained to the bed.

What the six hells happened?

The last he remembered, he’d been about to take that vampire’s head in an effort to keep the bastard from attacking the Blood Rose who had appeared in the middle of the fight.

The Blood Rose.

Raniero ground his teeth in rage as the truth burst upon him. She’d been working with the vampire. They’d gulled him with their playacting, and he’d swallowed the bait whole.

Fool, fool, fool! And by now his men were likely all dead, bodies devoured by the thrice-damned Varil.

He closed his eyes, sickened. Poor Gvido had so feared those monsters after seeing the aftermath of one of their raids. Raniero had often been woken by the boy’s nightmare cries. How he must have suffered, dying at their hands.

And Olrick. He’d planned to retire and spend his last years surrounded by grandchildren while playing slap and tickle with his wife. Raniero would have to tell Gavina he’d gotten her man killed.

And then there were the others: Kellar, Favdo, Jacil, Magar, Brothan, Lor, and Shaco. Good men, brave men, all loyal king’s warriors. He would have to tell their wives, children, and parents. And the king, who would be deeply grieved.

At least his majesty would see the families were paid a death pension. They would not be left impoverished.

Just grieving.

Raniero’s eyes narrowed. His captors would rue this day. Which raised the question: why had they left him alive to seek vengeance?

He considered his prison again. It appeared someone was entertaining fantasies that he could be bought.

The idea was infuriating. But galling as it was, perhaps he should pretend to play along, that he might gain