Shades of crimson coated the walls of the small coliseum-like room. Smears of blood trailed along the steps like a winding river leading down to the dais. Every few feet, puddles formed in the crevices of the stone floor, staining the white grout a coppery brown.

The tangy scent of iron filled Carvell “Carver” Marceau’s nose, and his fangs descended.

He should’ve eaten before he arrived, but he never knew what the queen might demand. He doubted she’d ask him to slaughter thirty men—again—simply for her own delight, but he also knew better than to say “never” when referring to Queen Morana’s commands.

Many years had passed since his last visit, and he doubted she’d grown in patience or compassion. If she did demand such a thing from him, he’d have no other option but to oblige.

Corpses littered the walkway, sprawled haphazardly with their throats torn, lying in pools of their own blood. The rubber soles of Carver’s sable boots squished and squeaked as though he traversed through a rain-battered street. Rivulets of the thick liquid appeared in each crack which sloped downward toward her enormous marble throne.

At the base of the dais, he came to a stop. His face, often described by her majesty as regal, remained downturned until she deigned to acknowledge him.

He cast his eyes up, only once, to see she clutched a man in her arms. Her embrace wasn’t tender as she pulled at his jugular. When Morana’s eyes darted to Carver, she paused, then ferociously tore the man’s head from his neck and carelessly dropped his body. It landed with a thud. The crack of human bones shattering echoed throughout the empty throne room.

She kept her gaze fixed on Carver, watching . . . waiting.

For what? Weakness, possibly contempt, but most of all—anything that spoke of treason.

It was a test.

Everything was, when it came to the Kresova queen. But Carver had become a master of self-possession in his long years away from her court, and his expression remained composed. Face still lowered, he waited patiently for her to speak first.

One didn’t talk to Queen Morana. Not unless a permanent death was planned. She hadn’t maintained her reign over the ancient vampire race of the Kresova this long with kindness and shows of mercy.

Morana’s beauty could not be denied, and though she appeared youthful and innocent, she was thousands of years old.

Most of the vampires in existence hadn’t been around long enough to remember she was not the first vampire–simply the most cunning.

“Ah, mon assassin, you’ve come to see me at last.” Her voice rippled through him like an electric shock to his nerves.

Carver couldn’t deny his draw to her. She had sired and turned him. Their connection would never cease to be until her death—or his.

“Oui, Majesté, I am at your service.” He bowed low, his gaze firmly on the blood-stained floor.

“Do you know why I have called you to my side?”

“Non, je ne sais pas, Majesté.” He didn’t know why she’d ask for him after a two-hundred-year absence. He’d assumed she’d found a new butcher, as she liked to call him, and moved on from the slight obsession she had formed.

Carver tensed as her slipper-covered feet entered his field of vision. She stood on the upper steps of her throne, keeping herself high above his six-two frame.

“Will you not look upon your queen?” Her blood-soaked hand reached for his chin and brought his face up only inches from hers

Her silver gown had drops of blood over the bodice. Thick liquid dyed the hem a dark gray. He took in her angular face, and their eyes met. Though her wide mouth was still smeared with fresh blood, it didn’t diminish the crystal blue of her irises.

He held in a shudder of distaste and kept his expression neutral.

“Ah, that is better, n’est-ce pas?” Morana clicked her tongue and stepped back toward her throne.

One of her recent meals lay slumped down into the seat, his blood leaving a puddle on the cushion. With a flick of her wrist, the man flew across the room. He crashed into the wall with a crack, his motionless body broken on the floor.

Carver nodded and waited for her to situate herself before she spoke. The back of his neck tingled as he sensed two bodyguards hidden in the shadows. He didn’t need to look to know they scrutinized his every move.

“Now, where were we?” She clasped her hands together in her lap. “Oh, oui, I need you to track down the Kresova responsible for turning new members without my permission.” A smile lit her pixie-like face.

“Of course, Majesté. With whom should I speak to get the details?” He was careful in his wording, his voice steady, sure to include her title.

“Speak with anyone you choose.”

“Oui, Majesté. Anything else you require?”

A smirk lifted the corners of her mouth, and she tilted her head. She didn’t move, but a vampire as old as she, didn’t have to. Suddenly, Carver felt the heat of Morona’s hand as it caressed down his chest.

Hundreds of years ago, part of Carver’s purpose was keeping the queen’s carnal appetites satisfied. Even as a human, his stamina and mastery had been something to behold. They’d often referred to him as the Lord of Pleasure.

The gift he possessed had been both his saving grace and his ultimate doom. When the queen of vampires chose someone, there was no walking away.

She stroked the muscles of his stomach, her hands slowly easing down the V of his abdomen, to her favorite part of his anatomy. If she asked him to please her again, here and now—whether he wanted to or not—he would.

As quickly as her desire had risen, it dissolved. “Non.” Morana waved a hand to dismiss him. “I want this problem gone. Compris?”

Carver nodded, already making a mental list of who to talk to. “Oui, considérez cela comme fait, Majesté.”

Morana smiled, showing her fangs, then shooed him from her sight.

Carver lowered his head and bowed. He walked backward a few paces, then turned and took the last several steps from her chamber.

When his feet finally hit the pavement outside Morana’s chateau, Carver released the breath he’d been holding. A sweet, creamy vanilla scent enveloped his senses from the wide array of flowers lining her enormous property.

He’d prepared himself to witness her openly vicious behavior, but this new quiet ferocity had Carver questioning his queen’s true plans. She’d never been one to hold back, so why now?

Carver climbed into his Ferrari Enzo, pressed his finger on the button, and the engine growled to life.

Tension bloomed in Carver’s chest. Whatever Morana had in store—it was big—and when Morana did big, the body count was always high.