Shadow's Claim

Surely this was more than nerves, more than virginal misgivings. She was utterly terrified.

Her trembling brought to mind the moments from last night when he’d been struggling not to bite her. Though he’d been nigh mindless in the grip of his blooding, he now recalled two words she’d whispered, “Not again.”

She’d thought he was about to hurt her; clearly someone already had. Another vampire? Trehan didn’t think so—she’d shown no more reaction to that Horde vampire at the tournament than to any other contestant. Then who?

She was like the most absorbing book he’d ever encountered. How to turn the page?

Suddenly that strange and inexplicable frustration from months before returned, the dread that had woken him. He rubbed his chest. What had called to him so sharply then? It must have been related to her.

Protect.

Trehan traced behind her, secretly wrapping her within the mist. As his blood female, she was of his kind— even if she didn’t accept that yet—and the mist was a part of them all.

She soon calmed, not completely, but enough to steady her breaths and continue on to the tent.

He had to uncover what his little Bride feared. So he could destroy it.

Of course, he was the last person she’d confide in. But there were other ways to learn about her. His gaze fell to her neck, to her wildly beating pulse.

Using one of Lothaire’s tactics had brought about this meeting. Perhaps if this bargaining with Bettina proved successful, Trehan would employ another of the Enemy of Old’s tricks. . . .

* * *

I made it! Somehow Bettina had walked—alone at night—all the way to the vampire’s tent.

She glanced around the empty space. So where was he?

“Bettina,” he intoned from behind her.

She whirled around with a cry. “Y-you startled me.”

The vampire was studying her with a quizzical glance. Right now, his eyes were a steady, dark green. They were handsome.

He was handsome?

He wore black leather pants, the cut more old-fashioned, but they looked good on his muscular legs. His tailored white shirt was made from a light material that did nothing to disguise the latent strength of his chest, those corded biceps and broad shoulders.

The sight made her frown. She’d had the run of his body last night—but she’d wasted her chance to satisfy her curiosity. Great. She dragged her gaze up to his.

When not wearing a scowl, his face was . . . pleasing. He’d certainly cleaned up well after the melee.

She felt safer with him than out on the street, even found the tension leaving her shoulders, her temples and jaw. In its place, that heated awareness returned, bringing with it irritation. Was she actually attracted to this vampire?

Every time he was near her, those molten feelings returned—she seethed inside, not with anger, but with something.

“Please sit,” he said, ushering her to a divan. “Shall I take your cloak?”

Parameters, Bettina. “Look, Daciano, I came here to pay off boons, but I didn’t agree to open-ended favors. I want to set a time limit for this meeting. I suggest twenty min—”

“You’ll stay till dawn.” His tone brooked no argument. “Your cloak?” he asked again, as if she hadn’t spoken.

There went that plan. With an aggrieved air, she removed it, handing it to him. Or trying to.

For a long laden moment, he just stood there staring at her body, his eyes smoldering.

She’d deliberately worn a more modest outfit, one her godmother would consider “frumpy.” Bettina’s top of braided gold strands barely molded to her breasts; her jade silk sarong was split high, but only on one thigh. Accessories: a jet black mask, small diadem, and black full-length fingerless gloves. No flirty garters or thigh- highs.

All in all, this was demure by Sorceri standards. She’d seen Morgana attend a state dinner in nothing more than a micromini and glorified pasties.

She delicately cleared her throat; he exhaled a gust of breath, finally meeting her gaze and reaching out to take her cloak.

“Arresting, Bettina,” he said in a roughened voice. “Quite literally.”

Bettina was a design geek, a virgin who’d failed to seduce the male she was closest to. Now this vampire was looking at her as if she were a femme fatale. And for a crazy moment, he’d kind of made her feel like one.

“Would you like a drink?”

“I guess.” Desperately. “Sweet wine if you have it.”

“No demon brew?”

“Never again. The one time I tried it, a vampire appeared in my bed.”

With raised brows, he traced to pour her a glass. She thought she heard another exhalation. Had she rattled the centuries-old vamp?

Taking a seat, she surveyed his appropriated tent. A fire burned in a copper pit, the smoke venting out through a shielded opening in the canvas. Though a light rain had started outside, the interior was snug and warm.

The floor was a platform of wood, covered by luxurious rugs. A desk and chair occupied one side of the tent, that log-like scroll of rules on the floor beside it.

A deep bathtub stood in one corner, while a sprawling pallet of furs lay directly atop the platform in another. No raised bed for him—because vampires slept as close to the ground as possible.

As he poured himself a goblet of blood from a warmed carafe, she said, “I can see why you wanted this tent. It screams vampire.”

A slight frown. “You and I are not so different, Bettina.”

“We are wildly different.”

“Not so much that we can’t find common ground.”

“Oh? Is that why I’m here?” she asked, adding dryly, “To look for ‘common ground’?”

He simply said, “Yes.” Offering her the wine, he asked, “Were you worried about someone seeing you on the way here?”

She accepted it. “I wanted to avoid that, yes.”

“You seemed . . . on edge walking here alone.”

“You spied on me?”

“I watched over you,” he corrected, sitting beside her. “I would never let you walk alone this late at night.”

Bettina supposed that should irritate her, that she should rail at him for being a stalker and hate him even more.

Instead, the realization that she’d had a deadly guard watching over her the entire way was . . . reassuring. “That was your mist. You surrounded me.” She’d perceived the cool, comforting embrace of it, but hadn’t known what it was. It had blunted her panic attack.

Not all by myself, then. “So you truly can turn into vapor?”

He inclined his head. “All Dacians can. A talent born from a time before we came upon our mountain realm, when the light was too great and the shadows too few.”

Before she could ask him more about this, he said, “Were you that nervous about meeting me? Or was it more?”

More, so much more! “I have no idea what you’ll demand.” And yet she wasn’t frightened of what he might do. Again, she felt no trepidation where he was