Saxson Olaru had used his mind to do a lot of things in the past, and as a vampire, he had a unique and intimate relationship with blood—but he had never used his mind to pump blood into his lower region before, to force a functional erection.

Great celestial deities, what was wrong with him?

On one hand, he had everything he’d ever wanted right in his arms—right beneath him, in his bed—the female he had waited several lifetimes to claim. On the other hand, something wasn’t right: not with him, not with this Blood Moon, and not with his mind, heart, or soul.

That voice…

That name…

Kiera.

It wouldn’t let him go.

Just the same, he had only one chance to get this right. Any of it. All of it. There was no do-over button; he couldn’t just rewind his actions or his decisions. If he hurt his destiny deeply; if he betrayed her fragile trust; if he invaded her mind or her memories, investigated her like a criminal, those actions might haunt him forever—and eternity was a very long time to live with someone whose heart he had broken.

Or to live in a home built on secrets and lies.

As it stood, the facts were still the facts: Kyla had the markings of Lord Cetus on her inner wrist, however odd they may have first appeared; she had been within reach at the emergence of the Cetus Blood Moon, just as divinity promised; and humans were not aware of the Curse, or its meaning—hell, they weren’t even capable of seeing the phenomenon in the sky, unless they were the chosen of the gods.

Kyla had described that crimson moon with awe.

And her dreams—all her life, she’d had those dreams about Saxson.

She’d recognized his soul.

At this juncture, Saxson was looking forward to Saturday night’s reception: Marquis already knew the deal; Nachari, the wizard, would be there; and Saxson could ask his brothers for their counsel, their opinions, their much-needed feedback. He could ask them to watch Kyla closely, to watch the two of them together. If everything was still a convoluted mess after that, he would take his concerns to Napolean—he had no other choice.

Something was definitely up…

And it wasn’t the part of him that should be.

At least not organically.

Blanketing her body with his, he took her breast into his mouth and played wicked games with his tongue and his teeth until she began to writhe beneath him. He slid his hand down her waist, making quick, playful work of removing her panties and shimmying out of his own bulky jeans, and boxers, and then he blanketed her again.

Her eyes—those dark brown, chestnut orbs—sought his with such carnal hunger that he almost gave in to the urge to take her, but something stayed his hand.

As he thrust his hips toward her pelvis, he expertly rocked to the side, brushing against her thigh instead of entering her body, even as he penetrated her mind.

He took hold of her sensory awareness; he embedded his thoughts in her mind; and he guided her—mentally—through a contrived, short-term memory where the two of them were making love.

Heat.

Passion.

Thrusting.

Tasting, touching, exploring…

Their bodies coming together in bliss.

Saxson took Kyla to the peak of arousal and sent her over the edge, even as he threw back his head, feigned his own release, and collapsed on top of her damp, quivering body, grateful that the deception had come to an end.

Only, great celestial gods in the heavens, he felt like crap for doing it.

For making her believe they had just shared such intimacy…and passion.

But something inside of him—nothing within him—would allow him to see it through.

He was not capable of making love to his destiny, and that, above and beyond everything else, cemented the fact that something was very, very wrong.

To Saxson’s way of thinking, he would use the party on Saturday to seek the counsel of other vampires, and then, if needed, he would take his concerns to Napolean. If, through all that, his brothers and his king saw nothing amiss—had no dire concerns of their own—then he would put his doubts and his concerns to rest, and spend the rest of his life making it up to her.

His immortal life depended on this mating.

Was there any such thing as being too careful?

Kyla wrapped her arms around his shoulders and sighed in post-coital bliss, and Saxson returned the sentiment with a devilish, ingratiating smile. “Was that what you wanted, my love?”

Damn, he was a bastard! he thought.

She licked her bottom lip and giggled. “Yes,” she breathed with satisfaction. “Only, I may need to experience that again…and again…and again.”

He chuckled in a deep, raspy growl. “I aim to please, angel.” He brushed her hair behind her ear and planted a soft, languorous kiss on her mouth. “Mm. You taste like heaven.”

Son of a bitch—he was soulless.

* * *

Kiera Sparrow rested her forearm over her eyes, trying to staunch her tears as she lay in bed that night, feeling like the world was closing in on her—like she was doomed, no matter what.

She had done everything her captors had asked of her.

She had played her violin like her very life depended on the effort, taking inner solace only during those rare, grace-filled moments when she got lost in “Song from a Secret Garden.”

The rest of the time had been hell.

She had showered and bathed when they allowed it, eaten their bland, lumpy food, and bent over backward to please, appease, and submit to Xavier Matista, just to show him that she wasn’t a threat.

And she had gambled everything—placed all her eggs in one volatile basket—on escaping Saturday night, shimmying out a five-story window, despite her debilitating fear of heights.

She wanted to live.

She was much too young…

And she was doing everything she could think of to survive.

“Try to reach Saxson. Your bond is strong. He may be your only hope.”

Her tears began to drench her forearm, and she had to choke back her sobs. She had tried so many times that night—like a lost, blithering fool, she had tried!

She had visualized a blank canvas, trying to conjure an image of her words in dark, bold caps. She had led the exercise with deep breathing, trying to achieve some elusive, metaphysical state of being. She had repeated the refrain like a mantra, hoping to send it into the ether, with sound. And she had pictured a single golden cord extending from her third eye—she didn’t even know what that was!—to Saxson’s, some fairy-tale, mythical vampire, as she sent her plea through the line: “Saxson, can you hear me? It’s Kiera. I need help. I’m being held captive in a five-story warehouse by vampire-hunters, and I think you’re my only hope.”

Nothing.

No reply, no sensations, no vision or intuition.

Nothing but silence answered back.

And now, as she thought about those words—that celestial, cosmic force she had encountered in the bathroom—what little hope she’d had slipped away: If Saxson was her only hope, then were her plans to escape doomed to fail?

Her sobs grew more desperate, and she knew she couldn’t contain them any longer.

The pain.

The fear.

The horror.

The angst.

She rolled over onto her stomach, burrowed her face in the pillow, and wept like her body might come apart.

Saxson!

It’s Kiera…

Why can’t you hear me!