At this late hour, the nearly depleted solar meant only the faint running lights along the corridor floor remained, and they weakened even as Mal passed. Not that he needed the light. These passageways were imprinted into his memory, and with the fresh blood in his system his eyesight was crystalline, lights or no.

Before he made the turn into the hall where Anna was being kept, he registered Doc’s slowed heartbeat and relaxed breathing. Mal padded around the bend and stopped. Despite snoozing, Doc’s feline balance kept him upright. A deep, throaty rumble purred out of him. Maintaining human form took the same effort in varcolai as it did vampires. Asleep, Doc had shifted to an in between state, the closest he could get to his true form under the witch’s curse he lived with.

His flattened nose and split lip disappeared as he shook himself awake, apparently sensing Mal’s presence. With a few blinks, his pupils rounded and his fangs receded. ‘S’up?’

Mal nodded.

Doc yawned and arched his back with remarkable flexibility, then rubbed the back of his neck. He stared at the floor. ‘About earlier—’

‘Forgotten.’ Mal tipped his head toward the locked door. ‘Anything?’

‘Stuck her head out once. But she’s been in sand land now for’ – Doc checked his watch – ‘almost three hours.’

‘I’ll take over.’

‘I’m cool.’ Doc eyed Mal as though his beast was about to rip through his skin and devour the city.

‘I’m fine.’ He forced his human face into place. ‘Go check on Fi.’

Doc ran his tongue over his teeth and, after another hard look at Mal, shrugged. ‘Later.’ With a quick wave over his shoulder, he jogged down the corridor, his stride long and quiet.

As Doc disappeared, Mal opened himself to the woman on the other side of the steel door. The blood made everything easier. His senses slid over her like a wisp of satin. Her breathing and heart rate mimicked what Doc’s had just been. She slept.

He splayed his hands on the door and inhaled, testing himself. Her perfume sang through his veins, and suddenly the blood he’d consumed seemed inadequate. Need. The golden haze was back, hugging his bones, making him ache for her. More.

How could her scent affect him this much after he’d just fed? The realization that he still wanted her chilled him, then he relaxed and accepted it. She was comarré. No vampire could be near her and not hunger. Not want to claim her.

Her patron was dead. Her blood rights were her own. Unless she chose to sell them again. Or give them away. Take them. Drain her.

A needy flame ignited in his belly. He doused it in reality. Imbecile. For once, he agreed with the voices. He was anathema. She was as close to vampire nobility as a human could get. The chance she’d share her blood with him was … nonexistent.

He inhaled again, drugging himself with her scent, pressing his cheek to the door. If anything, her scent seemed stronger, sweeter, more forceful. He tipped his head back and opened his mouth. She tasted of power and promise and blood as hot and sugary as a summer plum. The voices went dead silent.

He shook himself. Took his hands off the door and backed away. Where was this coming from? He wasn’t hungry. He was sated. Complete. He needed to snap out of it. Get away, get away, get away …

Maybe he should. Talking to her when he felt like this was a very bad idea. She was sleeping anyway. He should skip the talking. His hand strayed to the handle, surprised when it turned. She’d left the door unlocked even after he’d warned her. If she wasn’t afraid of him, she was a fool.

A little push and the door swung open. The paint had been scraped off the porthole in thin lines. Moonlight sifted through the scratches, suffusing the room with an underwater glow. She sprawled on the bunk, gleaming softly, her face toward the far wall, one arm in his direction, palm up, her fingers half-curled. Like she was beckoning him.

He stepped through. There would be plenty of time for talking in the morning.

He stood beside the cot and watched her sleep. Had her patron ever stood at her bed like this? Some old fanged creature with Lucifer’s bank account and a false idea of his importance. Had he been kind to her? Or treated her like one more possession? Used her? Mal hoped to hell not.

‘She’s not yours anymore,’ he whispered, hating the image in his head of some noble prat floundering on top of her. Rough when he should be gentle because he owned her and it was his due. Mal’s fists tightened with the need to shatter something. That was what he did best anyway. Not protecting. Not comforting. Destroying. Killing. That’s what he knew. What he’d always known. Mortal or immortal, death was his legacy.

She’d leave when she found out. He couldn’t blame her.

He needed to go. He shouldn’t be this close to her. Couldn’t be trusted. He’d told her that and yet she’d left the door unlocked. Pretty little fool.

Something glistened on her cheek. He leaned in and brushed her hair out of the way, the strands like cool water. The makeup covering her marks had worn off. The moonlight caught her signum and brought them to life in a subtle dance of gold across her cheekbone that turned into vines and flowers scrolling up her temple and arching over her brow.

Beautiful. Wrenching. Like he’d been privileged to see something both intimate and sacred. He should go.

He couldn’t.

Not until he saw the others. From what he knew about the comarré there should be more signum on her hands and feet. He desperately wanted to see them. Needed to. He kneeled beside the bed and slid his hand beneath her upturned palm. The veins at her wrist throbbed. Not delicate like he’d expected, but thick. Lush with blood. He should go.