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  Get the hell outta Dodge!

  So why were his fangs throbbing in his gums?

  Why was his heart racing in his chest?

  And why couldn’t he take his gaze off her exquisite body or her stunning face?

  The female was positively striking.

  She was incomparable, to be sure: that regal bone structure; those dark, exotic eyes; the perfection of her smooth, flawless skin. Every plane, every slope, every gentle angle on her face was absolutely transcendent. And that was to say nothing of that body, those gorgeous feminine curves, barely concealed beneath a thin cotton sheet. Her skin was a pure copper hue—rich, hazelnut coffee swirled with vanilla cream—and her hair was as dark as the night and ten times more enchanting: thick, softly textured, and full of subtle waves, even as it was loosely pinned to the crown of her head.

  And when he’d touched her—oh gods, he should not have touched her—those thin, elegant shoulders leading to that long, enticing neck; every instinct in his vampiric body had wanted to bend over and taste her. Bite her. Pierce her carotid artery and drink to his heart’s content. He couldn’t cross the room, put enough much-needed space between them, plant his ass in the silly little chair fast enough. And now, instead of peppering her with questions, he was staring at the female like a hungry, wild beast.

  He needed to get a grip.

  And fast.

  Tearing his eyes away from her face, he stared at a plain white clock hanging on the wall. There was nothing else in the room to distract him. “Tell me, Natalia”—his voice sounded ragged—“what do you know of your father’s business?”

  She jerked in surprise, and her dark eyes narrowed. “Is that why you’re here?” she asked, sounding oddly disappointed. “To inquire about my father?”

  Santos furrowed his brows. “Your father, and you. What do you know about your father’s business?” He regarded her eyes, yet again, and all traces of emotion had been replaced with a mask of indifference.

  “Who are you?” Her voice grew suddenly cold.

  Interesting.

  Very interesting…

  He deepened his tenor and increased the coercion. “Answer me now, Natalia: What do you know about your father’s business?”

  Helpless to defy the vampire’s compulsion, she closed her eyes instead. “Everything.”

  He swept his hand through his hair while the disturbing word sank in: everything.

  Natalia Giovanni knew everything about Luca’s criminal empire?

  Damn.

  “You know about the human trafficking, the prostitution, and the slavery, not just the real estate and the legitimate holdings? You know about his entire corrupt enterprise?”

  Natalia didn’t flinch. “Of course.”

  Now this set Santos’ teeth on edge. “Of course,” he mimicked sardonically, “how could you not? What role do you play in Giovanni, Inc., Princess Natalia?”

  To his surprise, this elicited a laugh: snarky, low, and defiant. She opened her eyes and stared right through him. “What role do I play?” She nodded her head. “I’m Luca’s only child, his daughter, and his heir. I play whatever role he gives me.” She started to whisper something beneath her breath, but quickly pulled it back. “No, Mr. Olaru, I’m not a corporate executive for Giovanni, Inc. I don’t keep—or cook—the books. I don’t run around with my father’s henchmen, and my hands are relatively clean. Well, as clean as hands can be when one lives in a sewer. I attend public functions, participate in charitable events, and entertain his wealthy friends—not as a whore, but as a representative of our wonderful company. Soon, I will marry one of his more despicable business associates, an international partner whom I’ve never met and likely will not meet before the future arranged wedding; and I imagine I’ll take orders from him as well. Does that answer all your questions, Santos? Have I given you a sufficient dossier on my father?” She tilted her head to the side and smirked. “I’m not sure if he’s hiring right now, but he always has room for another…predator. However, you might fare better if you approach him directly. I don’t handle his…intimate…personnel.”

  Santos nodded slowly—wow, he had really pissed her off—and by the strength of her emotion, the hurt just beneath the surface, he knew there was more to Natalia Giovanni than immediately meets the eye. And there was more to her knee-jerk, glib answer, the assertion that she knew everything about Luca’s shady business, than her snarky reply revealed. “Does your father traffic in illegal arms?” he asked bluntly.

  She shifted nervously on the table. “Um, I’m not entirely sure, but it wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “Does he sell drugs?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Hmm. I see. So you don’t know everything. Is Luca involved in illegal gambling?”

  At this, Natalia rolled her eyes. “I know about the human trafficking, the prostitution, and the slavery, Mr. Olaru. Isn’t that more than enough?”

  Santos crossed his arms over his chest, studying Natalia intently. She was right on the edge of either rage…or tears…and there was one sure way to get at her culpability, to discover just how deeply she was involved in Luca’s illegal activities—and that was to push her over the precipice. He stroked his chin with his thumb and his forefinger in a purposeful, cocky gesture. “How do you live with yourself?” His voice was intentionally harsh. “The women. The Fortress. The sexual abuse. Why don’t you just call the fucking police?”

  At this, her eyes filled up with tears, and she bit down hard on her lip to hold them back. She was struggling mightily not to answer, actually resisting his compulsion.

  “How can you let them suffer?” he persisted.

  She tightened her jaw and stared daggers, straight through him.

  “Answer me, Natalia.” He laced his voice with undiluted power, and her body began to tremble, but she didn’t utter a word.

  Damn, this woman had an iron will.

  He rose from the chair, strode directly to her, and cupped her jaw in his hand, locking their gazes together and boring his crystal-blue orbs into her dark, troubled pupils. “How can you let them suffer?” he repeated.

  She slapped at his wrist, but it didn’t budge.

  He tightened his fingers on her chin, and she dug her nails into his forearm.

  Staring up at him through tear-stained lashes, she grit her teeth and nearly snarled: “I am my father’s trip-wire, the pin in his grenade. My darling dad has placed a contract on the head of every woman, girl, and child housed within that hellhole, The Fortress. Should I disappear…should I disobey…should I pick up the phone and call the fucking police…” Her voice trailed off and she glanced at the plain white clock, now looming above them both like a ghostly specter. “Should I fail to return home at exactly 10:40 tonight, they all die. They all get slaughtered. That’s how I live with myself, Santos. I live exactly as my father instructs me, so all those women stay alive.”

  Santos relaxed his grip and took a cautious step backward. “I don’t understand,” he murmured. “Explain.”

  She smiled then, and it was the saddest smile Santos had ever seen. “Somewhere in the world, scattered across four unknown countries, there are four hired killers—mercenaries, thugs—and they’ve each been paid a handsome price to eliminate every living soul in that compound, should my father give the word. Oh, and he has backup, upon backup, upon backup. Killing him won’t kill the contracts. And the only man who knows the identity of the assassins is dead—my father can reach them, but he cannot name them. No one can. So you tell me, Santos Olaru: How fast can our police department act? How quickly can the FBI marshal its forces? Can the CIA or the DEA—hell, the National Guard—assemble faster than four hardened criminals can murder a host of women and children? And would our country even care? Is The Fortress booby-trapped? Will the chambers explode; will the walls collapse; or is there gas or some other deadly poison hidden in the pipes and walls? Maybe there are cannons in the basement. I honestly don’t know; I never g
o in there. I can’t bear to see my father’s atrocities up close. But I do know that everything I do, everyone I know, and everything I touch is monitored—my phone, my tablet, my beautiful room.” She laughed half-heartedly, and her sad, beautiful eyes became vacant. “Why do you think I’m such an expert hacker…why I’ve learned to move through cyberspace like a ghost? I don’t just follow—and hide—from strangers like you; I maneuver around my father and his goons. It is the only world I exist in where the trip-wire isn’t live, and the pin cannot be pulled.”

  Santos blinked several times, trying to make sense of everything Natalia had just told him.

  Trying to digest the full breadth of what she was saying.

  It seemed too outlandish to be real, but her emotion—that wasn’t fake.

  The female had an incredibly strong constitution—she was stubborn, defiant, and brave—but she was also this close to falling apart, coming unglued right on that table, despite her carefully constructed masks.

  He held his compulsion, but he gentled his voice. “Have you ever heard of a man named Xavier Matista?” It was best to change the subject, get a little more out of her while she was still talking freely…while she was still emotionally raw. “General Xavier Matista.”

  She blinked several times, like someone coming out of a trance. “No. I…I don’t recognize that name.”

  He nodded, turning his attention to Jocelyn Levi-Silivasi’s long-ago suspicion that the Dark Ones might be involved in Giovanni’s human-trafficking ring, and the Swingle-Duplex penthouses. “Do any of these surnames ring a bell? Just tell me if you’ve ever heard any of them spoken: Nistor, Gervasi, Zeclos, Marandici, Zahora, Zvara…” He studied her expression carefully as he rattled off each name: families and lineages from the house of Jaegar. He was just about to say Vadovsky—head of the Dark Ones Council—when Natalia dropped her head, clutched her left wrist, and squeezed her forearm until her knuckles became mottled.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, following the peculiar motion.

  “My wrist is on fire!” She gasped.

  He glared at her wrist and frowned. “What do you mean, on fire?”

  He reached for her hand to pry it free from her arm, but she immediately drew it back. “I don’t know, but don’t touch me!”

  The sheet she had been clutching slid down her chest, exposing the full curves of her breasts, just short of…exposing everything…and Santos inhaled sharply. “Let me see your wrist, Natalia, while you fix that sheet.”

  She glanced at the top of her breasts and grimaced, then slowly extended her arm. “It feels like a freakin’ branding iron, like there’s lava inside my veins.”

  Alarmed by her words, he took her hand more forcefully than he would have liked to and rotated her wrist to examine her arm. He had already fashioned an ice-cold breath, and he was holding it inside his lungs, ready to cool her blistering skin, in the event it was truly burning. As he bent to study her wrist more closely, an electric bolt shot up his spine, and he drew back with a start, stunned by the phenomenon he was witnessing: There was an oblong rectangle, with four distinct, jutting quadrants, etched into the flesh of her arm. And raised, like a scar, inside the uneven lines were several idiosyncratic dots and patterns, all as familiar to Santos as the nose on his face.

  A tail.

  Two fins.

  And a head better known as Job’s Coffin: a distinctive, diamond-shaped cluster of stars, denoting Alpha, Beta, Gamma, and Delta.

  Santos was staring at an original Greek constellation.

  Delphinus, his own ruling lord…

  A dolphin, leaping from waves.

  Natalia appeared dumbstruck—rattled and afraid—as she gawked at her wrist in fright. “I must be allergic to this sheet or something in the parlor,” she complained, struggling to get up without releasing her covering.

  Santos released the compulsion.

  He would not delve that deeply into this female’s mind, not if she truly was his destiny.

  He backed away from Natalia and began to pace around the room, scanning the top of each wall for a window.

  Nothing.

  The parlors were designed to be private and dark.

  He chose to reach out to his brothers instead.

  Telepathy would have to take the place of sight.

  Besides, he didn’t have time to make his way outside, and he wasn’t about to leave Natalia unattended. Ramsey…Saxson…are you near a window? Are either of you outside?

  Ramsey’s guttural, no-nonsense brogue burrowed into Santos’ mind. Brother, where the hell are you?

  I’m looking right out my back window, Saxson chimed in.

  Santos struggled to remain as calm as possible, if only for Natalia’s sake. His feral instincts were riding a razor’s edge. No time for Q and A, Ramsey; just answer the question—can either of you describe the sky?

  Delphinus, Ramsey bit out. Delphini! He named each of the celestial god’s designations.

  The moon? Santos asked.

  Red as scarlet, Saxson replied. The sky is pitch-black, and every last cluster is shining as bright as the noonday sun.

  Before Santos could reply, Ramsey rushed a string of questions: Who is she, Santos? Are you with her? Do you need some help?

  Santos let out a low, drawn-out hiss.

  Holy.

  Hell.

  He still couldn’t quite grasp what was happening.

  Speak up, brother, Ramsey insisted. Or in another two seconds, we’re gonna track your blood and show up, whether we’re wanted there or not.

  Not advised, Santos shot back, still collecting his wits. I’ll get back to you both; I just needed confirmation—I’m not someplace where I can see the sky, but I’ve got her. She’s with me. Hang tight for a bit. With that, he closed the connection and spun around to regard Natalia.

  His destiny.

  She was no longer standing in front of the table.

  Rather, she was huddled on the floor, trying to crawl beneath the obstruction, one hand clutching the sheet in a death-grip, the other held up and out in a piteous gesture, like she was pleading with Santos not to harm her.

  He was just about to squat down when it hit him: Despite his best efforts, he had lost his composure…his civilized, human mask: His fangs were fully extended. His eyes were undoubtedly glowing red. And that distant, inhuman rumble echoing throughout the parlor was not the wind or an airplane flying overhead—it was a primordial vampiric snarl.

  Shit.

  Just shit.

  Chapter Seven

  Natalia cowered beneath the massage table.

  Well, as far beneath the table as she could shimmy and manage.

  Santos Olaru was like a creature from a dream—a nightmare, that is.

  His unique black-and-blond locks were practically electric with energy; his stunning crystal-blue eyes had long since turned red—yes, deep sanguine, pulsing red—and that gorgeous mouth, that beautiful smile, those perfectly aligned white teeth? They were sharpening. Lengthening. Jutting down from his gums in two razor-sharp, thin points.

  The man had fangs!

  And now he was squatting down in front of her, those otherworldly eyes seeking hers.

  Why oh why had she lied about Oskar—angry, yet still wanting Santos to think she was available—when she’d told him she was promised to a man she’d never met, an international business associate of her father’s? At least if she had pretended to have an intimate companion, a significant other in her life right now, Santos might have expected her fiancé to show up. He might not be so confident that the two of them were all alone…that they would remain alone for hours.

  Natalia tried to back up, but she was tangled in the sheet, and heaven knew, she didn’t dare release it. The man was a savage—was he even a man? What the hell was he going to do to her? “Santos,” she whimpered, her voice sounding raw. “Please…please…whatever I said…or did…I’m sorry.”

  He closed his eyes.

  He regulated hi
s breathing.

  In fact, he became so still—so quiet—that Natalia could hear her own heart beating, trembling like a tambourine in her chest. And while his fangs did not recede, his entire countenance softened. “Natalia…Antoinette…my angel. Please do not fear me.” His voice was a hushed, ragged whisper. “I would never, ever harm you. In truth, I would protect you with my life. I am not angry, my love—I am a slave at this moment to my primitive nature and to you.”

  Natalia drew back in surprise, trying to make sense of his words: I am a slave to my primitive nature…and to you?

  What the heck did that mean?

  And why had he called her my love?

  He extended his hand and crooked his fingers, beckoning her forward. “Come out from beneath the table, Natalia. Please, sit down. We need to talk.”

  She stared at his hand like he was brandishing a loaded pistol, and as insane as the questions sounded in her mind, they spilled out of her mouth in quick succession: “Who are you? What are you? Why do you have fangs? What do you want with me, Santos?”

  He sighed, and he truly sounded weary. Concerned. “I am Santos Andrei Olaru, firstborn of a curse to Santiago and Ruth; brother to Ramsey and Saxson; warrior in the house of Jadon; and sentinel to our king, Napolean. I am Vampyr, Natalia. Nosferatu. A creature of the night. The distant progeny of celestial gods and humans, and I am also your eternal mate.”

  Natalia opened her mouth to speak—or protest—to pepper him with further questions, or maybe just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming, but nothing other than a squeak came out. She tried again. “You’re a warrior…in what? Some house or club? You’re the offspring of celestial…who? What’s Vampyr—you…you don’t mean vampire, do you?” Even as she asked the question, and her mind shouted, Foul play; this is bullshit, she already knew the answer. His eyes. His teeth. That animal nature. Yes. Santos Olaru was a vampire.

  And Natalia Giovanni had finally lost her mind.

  She was having a psychotic break.

  Hallucinating.

  And any moment now, she would either come back to lucid awareness or slip away for good.