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“How?” she prodded, undaunted.

“I haven’t the slightest notion.” With her sitting so close that he could feel the heat of her body and smell her intoxicating female scent, he did not care. “I think you’ve done enough tests and observations this evening. It is time for my payment.”

Her breath hitched and her cheeks flushed crimson, but she did not cringe in revulsion. Instead she moved her stool closer and gave his own words back to him. “Very well. How shall we proceed?”

Nearly drugged from her beauty and the warmth of her presence, Rafe reminded himself to tread with caution. He did not want to frighten her.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered roughly.

Cassandra gave him a suspicious glance before she obeyed. Reverently, he reached forward to caress her hair, wishing he could use both hands. The heady scent of rose petals perfumed the air between them, charging the narrowing chasm with promise. Savoring the softness of her skin, he trailed his fingers across her cheek before moving lower to grasp her chin. His cock hardened immediately.

Giving her ample time to pull away, Rafe leaned forward and pressed his mouth to hers. At first her lips were stiff and tense, but then they yielded in exquisite supplication. Warm, so warm. Hunger blazed within him, though not for her blood. What he wanted was more of this. He wanted to pull her closer, devour her mouth, and claim her heat as his own.

A soft moan escaped Cassandra’s lips, making his cock harden further. Rafe pulled away before he lost control, biting back a growl of savage need.

Long lashes lifted to reveal sea-green eyes blinking up at him. “Fascinating…” she whispered.

Rafe stepped back farther, straightening his spine and willing himself to regain composure. “I believe that is satisfactory payment for now. I will leave you to your experiments.”

Before she could respond, he left the laboratory, not daring to look at her lest desire overcame him and he hauled her into his arms.

“Cristo,” he muttered under his breath as he strode down the corridor to his study.

He’d never imagined that such a chaste kiss would have such a profound effect. Just one touch of Cassandra’s luscious lips, and he was straining against his trousers like an untried lad.

Rafe sighed and lit a cigar, willing the tobacco and peace and quiet to calm the raging fires of his lust.

“My lord.” Anthony entered the study, holding an envelope in shaking hands. “You’ve received a missive from the Elders.”

The harsh chill of winter seemed to enter the room, stealing the breath from Rafe’s lungs despite the merry glow of the fireplace.

“Give it to me and leave,” he snapped, hating the way his voice cracked.

Anthony handed him the letter with a bow, as if hiding his reaction to Rafe’s ire.

Eyeing the Elders’ crest with dread, Rafe sliced open the envelope with a fang. He winced as the sharp edge of the paper cut his lip.

Lord Villar,

We commend you for your promptness in informing us of your prisoner and your summary of the circumstances and reasoning behind your decision to take this mortal into your custody. After our deliberation, we have decided that you shall have thirty nights to decide whether to dispense with this female or to submit a petition to bring her into our fold as one of your people.

We trust you will use your wisdom on this inconvenient matter and anticipate your response as soon as you’ve determined your course of action.

The letter was signed by all twelve Elders.

“Cristo.” With his good hand, Rafe crumbled the letter as if the action could destroy its dire edict. Blood trickled into his mouth like an ominous portent.

* * *

Clayton Edmondson paced the dusty floor of the abandoned warehouse, eyeing the gathering of vampires before him. Only thirty had deigned to arrive. For now that would have to be enough for his cause. If all went to plan, he would no longer be second-in-command. No, he would be Lord of London and that disfigured, pathetic excuse for a vampire, Rafael Villar, would be knocked from his throne and vanquished.

Bile rose in his throat at the thought of the Spanish cur. After decades of kowtowing to the Duke of Burnrath, London’s true Lord, Clayton had only wrangled the position of third-in-command. Despite having only one fully functioning arm, Villar had been named second. The insult had never ceased to rankle, but soon it would be avenged.

Clayton surveyed his audience, allowing them to build up anticipation. He’d been a skilled orator since his mortal days on the stage. Proper delivery of his lines had never been more crucial.

Clearing his throat, he gave the assembly one more piercing stare before he began. “Blood drinkers of London, I have gathered you here today to bring attention to a grievous error made by our absent Lord. An error that, as members of this prestigious city, we must rectify if we hope to maintain not only our dignity, but perhaps even our safety.”

His announcement was greeted with wide eyes and curious murmurs. Clayton hid a smile of triumph. He had them in his palm.