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“Only an idiot would make that kind of a vow. They often end in ruin.”

Most immortals refused to make them because those oaths had a way of backfiring and were binding until death. Few could predict the perils of being constrained so totally. “Have it your way. We’ll both stay on guard and rest not an instant. But you’re looking done in. So cold . . . tired . . .thirsty. At your age, you must need to sleep every night. I’ll bet you’re wishing you’d drunk my blood now.”

“Will you let it go? I don’t have to listen to this. I can leave.”

“And I’ll follow. I won’t let you out of my sight, leech.”

She rubbed her temples. “You saved my life, almost as if you cared, and all the while, you’re plotting to kill the one I love best in the world.”

Yes. Which must be fucking with her mind. Good. “You’ll sleep. And then you’ll discover that if I wanted to harm you, I wouldn’t have to wait until you were vulnerable. You’realwaysvulnerable.” The thought of hurting her made his gut tighten with something like anxiety. No, no. It must be the last of the opium leaving his system.

“So reassuring.”

When her shivering resumed—this time from obvious exhaustion—that unwanted protectiveness returned. “Fine. Ialone will make a vow. I vow to the Lore not to harm you while you sleep tonight.”

Almost against her will, tension ebbed from her, her lids growing even heavier. “I will rest a moment. Then we must push on.” She curled up on the cave floor. In moments, she was asleep.

Even breaths. Parted lips. A lock of blond hair teased her cheek.

She was a ruthless warrior, yet fragile. At times tonight, she’d spoken as if she’d forgotten their animosity, reminding him of a rose opening in the desert, not knowing that the harsh sands would soon destroy it.

Had their trials together softened him toward her? A touch. But it wouldn’t save her. It wouldn’t save her brother.

Silt pulled the sand from his pocket, whirling it above his palm with difficulty. He was still tapped out by that platform from days ago. His sorcery sputtered and he grimaced, pocketing the grains once more. He’d blamed others for severing his bond to sand, but he’d done it to himself as well—with every lungful of smoke.

He thought of that lion shifter addicted to the taste of mortal flesh. Was Silt any different with his pipe? He’d surrendered to its spell without even a fight.

He returned his attention to the mysterious vampire. She would’ve fought.

Silt’s gaze traced over her finespun features. He’d noted her beauty upon first seeing her, but after beholding her in battle, a part of him found her . . . glorious.

He could watch her sleeping for lifetimes as the firelight danced over her ethereal face. Judging by her shifting expressions, her clever mind supplied a rich dream life. When a weak quake rumbled the cave, she frowned but didn’t wake.

Shame she was related to a male Silt would soon destroy.

Still, watching her like this relaxed him. And with that ease, hazy recollections arose from the night of his capture. Though he’d been passed out, he must have absorbed memories as if through diffusion.

He recalled Mirceo battling Sequara. As suspected, the vampire had slain her as she’d defended Silt. He briefly closed his eyes. He’d always known she would die for him.

Then snippets of a conversation between his concubines and Mirceo swirled in his brain. Instead of rousing Silt to fight the trespassers, they’dpropositionedthe vampire.

Perfidious females! He’d warned them not to hold any affection for him, but now he wonderedwhythey hadn’t involuntarily fallen for him. In that perfect window after smoking his pipe—and just before smoking some more—he’d once been a somewhat generous lover. He wasn’t awful to them.

This princess would be half in love with him if he put forth any effort whatsoever. How badly it would hurt her—and therefore her brother—if she lost her heart to Silt.

Tempting. But he had no time to toy with her.Nightside isn’t through with us, he thought as another quake rumbled. The stakes were life-and-death, and all he wanted was to smoke and blunt the impact of them.

Mina rose silently, readying her weapon. The sorcerer had fallen asleep without insisting on a vow from her.

His last mistake.

While she’d rested, the plague had seemed to gain a foothold. After dreams of a moonlit desert, she’d been inundated with red-hot scenes of blood drinking—with this male in every one.

And now a cold-blooded kill was on the table. Taking a life without a fight struck her as wrong—her parents were rumored to have been murdered in cold blood—but what wouldn’t she do for Mirceo?

This cave’s dying fire reminded her of that night Mina had asked him why they had no parents. Later, she’d awakened and crept silently into his suite. She’d found him staring at the flames of his bedchamber’s hearth with blood-tinged tears tracking down his face.

Had he been struggling with the unimaginable responsibility of raising a child? Or missing his mother and father? Perhaps he’d also pondered Mina’s last question, one he’d answered only with a tight smile: