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My home was trashed. A river of alcohol had been soaking into the wood floors for hours. The etched mirror behind the bar was smashed. Jagged pieces of glass were everywhere. The bar itself should have been more difficult to damage, as it was constructed from thick slabs of mahogany. Damage it, though, they did. Never underestimate a riled-up werewolf.

A few of his wolves must have stayed to play when Randy, Cam, and Joe carried me off. Chairs broken, tables cracked, lamps shattered—the utter devastation made my throat tight. They didn’t care about who they hurt. It was the id in unrestrained glory. They were the only ones who existed. Their needs and desires, the only ones that mattered. They took, defiled, and destroyed because they could. That wasn’t the wolf coming to the fore. That was the human.

Holding in a sob, I ran my hand along the edge of the bar, wanting to comfort an old friend. My hand came away bloody, a fine dusting of glass fragments now embedded in my palm. Pushing through the door to the kitchen, I headed for the sink and found more destruction. Holding my hand under the faucet, I assessed the room. Appliances crushed, refrigerator doors hanging open, spoiled food cascading out onto the floor. Picking glass from my hands, I had trouble breathing, the hurt weighed heavily on my chest. I wasn’t sure I could take much more.

Ignoring the sting in my palm, I made my way to my apartment. I’d felt less afraid facing a demon than I did my own home. Blowing out a breath, I stepped in. The stench made me gag. My couch had been shredded and used as a urinal. My books! A tiny gasp escaped before I locked it down. My books had been ripped apart, pages scattered, stories stolen. Little treasures I’d collected over the last seven years—nothing anyone would care about but me—were lying broken on the ground.

Steeling myself, I stepped into my bedroom. This was the main source of the stench. One of them had defecated on the bed. Drawers had been pulled out, clothing torn. The closet door was hanging off its hinge, boxes of books tossed around, and urinated on. Holes punched in walls.

I stood stock-still, stunned by the chaotic rage required to do what they had done. A fire would have been better, cleaner. I would have mourned the loss, but I wouldn’t have felt violated, as well.

They’d slashed the overnight case Clive had given me. It was just a bag, and yet my heart hurt almost as much as when I’d seen the books. I picked up the beautiful, floral bag and hugged it to myself, grieving for my home of the last seven years.

“Sam?”

I turned to find Owen and Dave standing in the doorway. I didn’t know what to say. My heart was breaking.

“Come out of there, sweetheart.” Dave waved me to them. “You don’t need to see this.”

Tears streamed down my face as I went to them, Clive’s bag still clutched to my chest. “Why would they do this?”

“People are fucked,” Dave said. “I tell you this all the time.”

“I’m sorry, Sam.” Owen reached for the torn bag. “Honey, you don’t need that. It’s ruined,” he said. “And you can stay with me until all this gets cleaned up and fixed.”

“Actually, Sam already has a room in my home,” Clive said. He strode up behind Owen and Dave, his eyes on me and the bag I still stupidly clung to. The bag had become more than a bag. It was something rare and beautiful that had been taken, abused, and left scarred. I couldn’t drop it.

“You’ll rebuild, right? The Slaughtered Lamb can’t just close,” Owen said.

“Fuck no. The assholes don’t get to win.” Dave studied the configuration of the rooms. “As long as you’re remodeling, you should change whatever doesn’t work.”

“It all works,” I said. “Worked.”

“No way. That kitchen setup was shit. I want an island and an eight-burner stovetop. A double oven. And a pot filler over the stovetop.”

“Now that you mention it, I’ve always thought the bookcases should be angled differently to make browsing easier,” Owen added.

“Why don’t you two go make a list while I talk with Sam,” Clive said.

Once they’d left, Clive gently pulled the bag from my hands and placed it on the ground, before pulling me into his arms, into an embrace I needed like my next breath.

“We will rebuild. We’ll gut it and start again. All traces of what they’ve done will be burned away. You are a phoenix, Sam. You rise from the ashes.”

I swallowed the sob lodged in my throat. He was right. When my home burned at seventeen, I’d moved to San Francisco alone, with only the clothes on my back, to start again. This was my crucible and I would rise from the flames. Again.

Nodding, I stepped back, stood on my own and assessed the damage with clearer eyes. It was gone and I’d rebuild. Taking Clive’s hand in mine, I adjusted my thinking. I wasn’t alone anymore. We’d rebuild and we’d move on.

* * *

I pulledat the collar of the dress again. It was perfect, gorgeous, but I wasn’t used to my scars showing. I was still dealing with a hardwired compulsion to hide them.

Clive pulled my hand from my neck and held it. “You look beautiful.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I rolled my eyes while smoothing down the front of the dress. If anything around here was beautiful, it was what I was wearing. Owen and I had gone shopping, and when I saw this dress, I had to have it. It was a wrap-around of soft, thin cashmere. The color, though—I’d been staring at it all evening and the closest I could come to describing it was an antiqued peachy-brown. It was rich and warm, and I loved it. I didn’t, however, love the V-neck or the fact that my legs were visible, but I was working my way toward Clive’s opinion that scars were sexy. It would be a long and difficult road, but I was on it.

“Our first date,” he said.

I snorted a laugh, because I’m lady-like. “I’m pretty sure we’re doing this relationship thing backward. First date after the banging?”

Clive grinned, kissing my cheek. “Whereas, I believe we’re doing it perfectly.”

“Are we still talking about the banging?”

Clive laughed, a sound that made wings flutter in my chest. He didn’t do it nearly enough. It was a source of delight and pride when I could prompt it.

The ma?tre d’ rushed over. “Mr. Fitzwilliam, I apologize for making you wait. Your table is ready.”

Clive rested his hand at the small of my back as we followed the man through the restaurant. It was on the top floor of a building in the Financial District, with a wall of windows overlooking the city. The lighting was low, the carpet black, the walls almost as dark, but the tables were topped with stark white linens. What I loved about it was the illusion of privacy. Large floral arrangements in white, with accents of pale green, were scattered throughout the room, situated under spotlights. They glowed in the dim light and blocked the view of other tables.

The ma?tre d’ led us through the main dining area and down a short hall to a private room. I walked straight to the window and looked out. I felt like Batman, standing on a rooftop, surveying my city.

A moment later, Clive slid his arms around my waist and rested his head on my shoulder. The shoes I was wearing made us closer to the same height. “Do you like?”

I put my hands on my hips, superhero-style and said, “Yes, Citizen. All seems to be quiet in our fair metropolis this evening.”

Tickling me, he kissed my neck. “They’ve brought the wine. Would you like to sit?”

Being unused to wearing anything but sneakers meant that, yes, I was ready to sit. Owen picked out the heels. He was right. They were gorgeous, but they also hurt like hell. I didn’t know how women wore these things all the time. Women were frickin’ warriors.

The chairs were upholstered in a tone on tone black jacquard that matched the carpet and walls. Two large urns with magnificent sprays of flowers sat to the sides. Clive held my chair for me and then was pouring us both glasses of a deep red wine.

I held my glass to the light. “This is wine, right?”

He held his glass toward mine, and we pinged them together. “To new beginnings.”

Nodding, I echoed, “To new beginnings.”

We drank. When he leaned toward me, I gladly met him halfway, leading with my lips. The kiss was soft and slow, promising everything.

Flustered, I took another sip of wine. “Which reminds me, do you guys eat? I’ve been living in your house for a few days and have yet to see anyone besides me eat.”

Clive took a moment to answer. “Can we? Yes. Do we? Rarely. Our bodies don’t need it and sometimes process it poorly. It’s easier not to.”

Worried, I thought about the whiskey he always drank when he visited the bar, the wine in his hand. “Does it make you sick? You don’t have to eat and drink to make me more comfortable.”

Shaking his head, he said, “No. I’m one of the lucky few. I lost interest in it long ago, though. Before you came along and started changing things.”

Stomach flutters. “So, how do you get what you need?”

He leaned in and whispered, “Are we talking in code?”

Grinning, I smacked his arm. “We’re in a restaurant. I’m being discreet.”

“Ah, of course. A paragon of discretion is our Sam.”

“A-ny-way, back to my question.” I pinned him with a look while I sipped my wine.

He stared back, one eyebrow raised. “You know what I am. Becoming missish, are we?”

Was he right? Instead of talking around it, I asked what I needed to know. “Is there sex involved when you drink their—” I glanced back at the closed door, before lowering my voice. “Blood?”

Brow furrowed, Clive studied me. “Come again?”

“I’ve read books, seen movies. I know all about your kind, mister. You can just forget about that kinky vampire crap if you expect me to stick around.”

“This ought to be good,” he mumbled. “Exactly what do you know of vampires?”

Granted, my knowledge came from popular fiction, but still. “I know you drink blood, and may or may not turn into bats—”

“Not.”

“I know you can mesmerize women.” God, I loved it when he joined in the silliness. It was as though a heavy mantle had slipped from his shoulders, if only for a moment.

“I could do that long before I became a vampire.” He smirked. “Have you seen me?”

Snickering, I countered. “I know you can fly and that you’re strangely fixated on Jim Morrison and coastal towns.”

Confusion colored his expression for a moment before he rolled his eyes. “Lost Boys was not a documentary.”

“Says you. I know your kind sparkles in the sun. Or turns to ash. Not sure which.” I took a sip. “The learning curve on that one is pretty steep. Imagine that poor sap who went out into the sun, hoping to sparkle like a disco ball and instead burned to a crisp.”

“In his case, we’d consider it a necessary thinning of the herd.”

“Right?” I sniggered.

“But back to your original question. No, I don’t have sex with the people I take blood from. Regardless of what you may have read, that’s not a common occurrence. When we’re having sex, do we take a sip? Possibly. But none of it is a given, other than needing blood to survive. At this point, I rarely drink from people. We have bagged blood we drink in glasses. We’re not heathens.”

Oh. “Okay.”

“Can you live with that?” Clive slid his glass away and took my hand, grave expression back in place.

“Yes.”

“Can you live with me?” His hand gripped mine, tighter than I’m sure he was aware. It was okay, though. I could take it.

“I am living with—”

“Permanently. Will you stay with me, Sam?”

“Oh.” I thought about my home, about the life I’d led there for the last seven years. It’d been a good one. Did I want to give that up? Live with vampires? Be drawn into all their political intrigue and bullshit? Not to mention, I still had Abigail to deal with. Maybe a demon, too. My life was a mess. I looked into the eyes of the man I loved. Could I live without him? Probably. Would I want to? No. So…

“Yes.”