He'd told her all about morpho and Meta, he'd told her about the credentis, he'd talked of his years in the military-and finally he'd told her his age.

"One hundred and eighty?" she exclaimed.

Synjon nodded. Across the small dining table, candles burning down to low flames, Petra sat with her arms folded on the table, her head jutting forward as if she was afraid she'd miss something. Her black hair spilled over her arms and her pale blue eyes glinted with feverish interest.

"How long can you live?" she asked.

"We," he corrected, "can live forever." He shrugged, amending, "If the blood continues to flow and we . . ."

She inched forward in her seat. "What?"

The events of a week ago pushed once again through his mind, and his unbeating heart. "Remain out of the sun. Though females can survive it, the sun is a morphed male's enemy."

Her eyes softened. "Is it your only enemy?"

"No." Cruen's face flashed inside his head, made his blood burn in his veins. There were many enemies within their breed.

"The woman," she began, "the one you carried so gently, the one you so desperately wanted to give your life for-"

"Do not speak of her," Synjon warned coolly.

"She was a vampire?"

"Yes," he ground out.

She bit her lip. "How did she die?"

A low growl rumbled in Syn's chest and his eyes narrowed on the veana before him. "I told you not to speak of her."

"I know," she said quickly, her eyes not meeting his. "I'm sorry. This is hard, I understand, but I have to know. It wasn't the sun? You said the sun can't hurt females."

The anger that surged through him in that moment concerned him. It felt reckless, and was fusing with his painful hunger-urging him to reach across the table and bite the veana. For her blood and her silence.

"It is time for your end of the bargain, Petra," he growled.

His fiercely uttered words seemed to snap her out of the one-track-questions race she'd been on for the past hour. "My blood?"

Was he wrong or did he actually see a flash of interest, of excitement, cross her wide-eyed gaze? "Yes," he answered. "I need your blood. You have no idea how much. But first, I need your breath."

* * *

"Am I doing this right?"

"Stop talking. We'll know in a moment."

They were seated on the floor, Petra on her knees. She had lit more candles, wanted to make sure she saw everything, was aware of everything. She was really nervous, wondering what she was doing, and if she could somehow screw it up. The idea sounded insane; blowing one's breath on another to heal them. Could she truly have the kind of power he was suggesting? Or was this some kind of attempt at manipulation or embarrassment before the real deal commenced?

The drinking of her blood.

"I can feel your timidity, Petra." He opened his eyes. They were the color of wet bark and they implored her. "For this to work, you must be confident."

"That's the problem," she said. "Confidence about something I've never done before, can't imagine will work, and-"

"Stop talking."

"Fine," she grumbled.

"Just focus. You have this power. I swear it to you."

"That would be great if I actually trusted you."

He reached out and gripped her shoulders. "Bloody hell, Veana. I'm not asking you to trust me. I'm asking you to trust yourself."

She stilled. Her breath catching in her lungs, she looked at him. His ravaged skin, his intense gaze, his mouth . . . Gods, how had this happened? How had she been the one near the caves that day, seen him carry the female? Why was she the one to pull him from the blistering sun? This male with no heartbeat. Who claimed he was a vampire, who swore she was one too. She took a deep breath. Was it the truth?

Was it her truth?

And if so, when did it kick in?

"Petra."

His voice, his command, pulled her back into the moment. If she did this and it worked, she would have her answer, wouldn't she? What the hell?

"Okay." She closed her eyes and for a moment just drew on her belief in herself and her strength. Then she pursed her lips and released her breath.

She heard nothing but her exhale.

"Again," he said tightly.

Her blood rushing in her veins, she focused deeper, her mind connecting with her will. She inhaled and blew her warm breath against his face. This time, Synjon said nothing. This time, after ten seconds or so, he sighed. Actually sighed. No pain accompanied the sound. Just an easy sigh of relief.

She dared to open one eye, see if in truth her breath had actually done anything at all. Through the strange field of view, she saw that his right cheek was . . . Her muscles tensed, she opened her other eye.

"Amazing," she breathed.

He touched his face. One small section, the section that had felt her breath, was completely healed. His eyes flipped up and he grinned. "Yes, you are, Love."

She just stared at him, shock barreling through her. How was it possible? If he was right about this-- If this was true, then . . .

"Continue, Veana," he demanded, cutting through her thoughts with an almost playful growl.

Her eyes cut to his and she gave him a slow grin. "Please."

"I don't say please."

"I'm not surprised. You have very poor manners."

"Continue, Veana," he said, then muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like, "Please."

Brimming with sudden and intense confidence, she cupped her ear. "I'm sorry. What was that?"

His lip curled with annoyance. "Just do it already."

She didn't move.

"You like truth, facts about our species, yes?" he said through gritted teeth.

"Yes."

"Well, then, here is another. Healing a paven, a Pureblood male, is a veana's pleasure."

She thought about this for a moment, then shrugged. "Pleasure or no, I'm sure these veanas would require the barest of manners. A please and a thank you." She lifted her chin. "It's common courtesy, Mr. Wise."

Synjon looked away, trying to keep his temper under control. Even with the burns on his face, he was a formidable male, ruggedly handsome, sexually interesting. Petra had never truly thought of a male that way. Kind, yes. Strong, yes. Reliable, intelligent, honest, handsome-yes.

But sexually interesting, no.

When he turned back to face her, his eyes blazed with heat. He crooked his finger at her until she leaned back toward him. Then he followed suit until they were just a few inches apart. His lips parted and Petra's gaze dropped.

"Please," he whispered. "Blow me, Veana."

The words meant nothing to her in that moment, but the sensual purr in his throat was crystal clear, and it reached inside her chest, grabbed the muscle that refused to beat and for just one brush of a second set it aflame with life.

She swallowed hard and pretended she wasn't affected.

Then, she gave him a very pleased, innocent smile. "See. That wasn't so hard, was it?"

For a moment, he looked confused, then a slow wash of understanding, and of self-disgust moved over his face. His nostrils flared and he nearly snarled at her. "Close your eyes, resume your work. Let's get this done."

Petra was no fool. She knew exactly where his mind had gone. He'd forgotten for a moment about the female. He'd allowed himself to relax, to play. She wouldn't try to reason with him. It was not her business. Right now, she needed to complete their bargain.

With infinitely more confidence, and eyes open and watchful, Petra inhaled again and blew. Everything moved more quickly this time. As his skin changed and healed, Petra switched to another section until his entire face was free of burns and blisters. It was truly awesome, this power she possessed. She didn't know what to think of it, how to proceed, but the truth was, her world had just opened up.

Her eyes pinned to his face, she finished her work, used her healing breath on his neck.

"Mr. Wise?"

Her voice drew his attention and he opened his eyes. Petra nearly gasped. The bark-brown color of his irises now glowed with rich, sensual gold. She couldn't turn away, her skin prickled and hummed. She'd never seen anything like it, like him.

She cleared her throat and pushed out her query. "Is the pain gone?"

His gaze moved over her face, and she wondered if he was deciding how to answer.

"The burns, I mean," she amended, almost nervously. "I know the pain of losing-"

"Petra-"

"If you wanted to talk about it, you could, that's all I'm saying."

"Petra, please." His lips thinned. "And again, I'm saying please. What happened out there near the caves is my own. It will never be discussed here."

"Okay, but sometimes it helps."

"That is an innocent's perspective."

"And that is a cynic's response."

He sighed, his teeth clenched as he glanced past her to the windows. "Bloody hell. I never thought I'd be pleased to see the impending emergence of the sun." He turned back to face her. "Since we can't seem to finish this . . . whatever it is-"

"Bargain," she finished for him.

"I'm going to need somewhere to hold out."

She stood up. "Come on. The bathroom is the darkest and most shaded room in the treehouse."

She'd never seen anyone look so insulted. She started to laugh. "What?"

His nostrils flared. "I am to nod off in the toilet?"

"It's a very nice bathroom," she assured him, not able to control her grin. "I designed it myself."

"I could try to flash before the sun comes up." He growled. "But I think I'm too fecking weak to risk it." He got to his feet and followed her. "I will remain in your loo if I must, Veana, but I won't wait all day for blood. I want you now."

She whirled around inside the arch of the bathroom door, her skin humming with his words. "Perhaps you would like to rephrase that, Mr. Wise."

He came to stand before her, his gaze taking full command of hers. Petra saw hunger and curiosity burning there, but it was the strain of grief that truly tugged at the muscles in her chest. He was thinking of her. The female he'd brought to the rainforest. Did he feel guilty for being with Petra now, standing here before her, wanting her blood, and maybe something more?

And if he did, Petra thought, her eyes searching his for answers, for a mutual understanding of this attraction she felt, would that guilt send him away the minute he had what he wanted?

She mentally shook her head. Wasn't that exactly what should happen? Wasn't that what she wanted as well?

The knock at the front door stunned them both, and they jerked their heads toward it.

Synjon dropped into a predatory, fighting stance, a low growl sounding in his throat.

Petra made an attempt to shove him into the bathroom. "Get in there." But it was like trying to move a boulder.

His eyes flashed with fierce, hungry heat. The kind that usually led to fists connecting with faces. "Are you sure you don't want me to answer the door for you?"

The knocking grew louder and more insistent.

Petra glanced at the door, then back at him. She hissed, "You want blood, Mr. Wise?"

He sniffed at the thinly veiled threat. "All right. I'll disappear into the loo. But it would be a grave mistake to forget about me."

Petra didn't answer him, just closed the bathroom door the very second he stepped back.

Forget him?

Was he kidding? How could she forget him? She was actually going to let this male bite her again, let him remove, drink, and consume blood from her body. As she headed for the front door and whatever stood behind it, a strange and unexpected rush of heat overtook the nerves inside of her. If she wasn't mistaken, though her mind cringed at the idea of feeding her blood to the dangerously handsome Synjon Wise, her body was more than just able and ready.

It was willing.