Ever wake up, feeling like there’s someone watching you sleep?

Ever have that someone watching you sleep dressed like a naughty Catholic schoolgirl? Welcome to my world.

Agnes Concepcíon looms over me, eyeing me with interest. And when I mean interest, I mean she’s focused on my jugular and licking her lips. I jump and scramble to the opposite side of the sage couch. “What the hell, Agnes?”

She hops off the armrest where she was crouched, her movements smooth and feline. “The master has returned and would like you and the Fate to join him for dinner.” She adjusts her tiny librarian glasses. “But first he requests a private audience with you.”

“With me?” I rub my eyes and look in the direction of the bedroom.

“Yes, with you,” Agnes says, already annoyed.

Except for the flames dancing in the fireplace, the rest of the living room is dark which does nothing to squelch Agnes’s spooky vibe. She’s smiling, and still very fascinated with my neck.

“What time is it?” I ask.

“Almost nine.”

“Nine?” I hadn’t planned to fall asleep, let alone sleep the day away. But following a breakfast fit for a Fate and his nanny, Johnny passed out in the bedroom, and I suppose I passed out on the couch. I reach for the phone on the coffee table, cursing when I realize I missed several texts from Gemini.

Agnes huffs. “Are you coming?”

“I have to text Gemini first,” I reply, tapping my screen.

“It is an insult to keep the master waiting.” She hisses when my fingertips continue to fly across the screen. “Do you want me to drag you there?”

I glance up. “Do you want me to set you on fire, or for my boyfriend to show up here with his pack and drop kick your front gate open?” I return to my message. “Don’t get your thong in a bunch. I’ll be with you in a second.”

She turns away in a huff. “Just so you know, Celia is my favorite.”

“I’m sure she’ll sleep better at night knowing that, Agnes,” I mumble. I know she hears me, even as she slams the door shut behind her.

You were sleeping? Gemini replies in a text.

Yes, sorry, I respond.

It’s only because I didn’t sense you were upset that I’m not already there, he texts back.

I don’t have to be there to know he’s growling. You were going to bust down the gates, weren’t you?

No.

Liar.

He replies with a sneer emoji followed by a bat and little trickles of blood. Second in Command or not, my mate is damn cute, even when he’s threatening to tear a vampire apart.

I’ll make it up to you later, I write. Off to meet Lady Aleksandr.

Be careful, he answers.

I freshen up in the bathroom and knock on Johnny’s door. I’m not sure what kind of hours a rock star keeps, but he stirs when I open the door. “Hey, you all right?”

He nods and rubs his eyes. “Yeah, a little disoriented, but okay.”

I lean against the doorway. “Misha invited us for dinner, but he wants to meet with me privately first. Why don’t you get a shower and clean up? The vamps will come for you when it’s time.”

He seems like he’s having a hard time moving. I’m not certain why until he meets me with those same sad eyes. “They’re still dead, aren’t they? Drake and everyone, that wasn’t a dream, was it?”

I glance down at the floor, wishing I could tell him otherwise. “No, Johnny, it wasn’t a dream.”

He nods in that heavy way he does when the world seems like too much. I start toward him, but then he swings his legs over the bed and marches into the bathroom.

I walk to the door and press my hand against the frame. I want to say more, and somehow bring him comfort. Yet when the shower goes on, I determine he’s already heard enough.

I leave him to his thoughts, and likely his sorrow, and step out of the guesthouse. The grounds are massive, surrounded by gardens most would kill for, not realizing how much blood was spilled to maintain them. I don’t mean the gardeners’, although knowing the naughty Catholics, I’m sure they’ve had a taste. I mean everyone the vamps have mowed down over centuries to gain power and expand their wealth.

A few years ago, when I was awesomely naïve, I used to think vampires were the Mafioso of the mystical world, in retrospect, there’s so much to these immortals, including what they’ve endured for eternal beauty and what they’re capable of doing to maintain their positions among the elite. These creatures aren’t dumb, they’re alarmingly cunning and cutthroat.

We rightfully feared them, except when Celia inadvertently returned Misha’s soul, one vampire in a sea spilling with blood emerged, baring the longest and most lethal fangs of all, and ultimately giving her his heart.

Vampires don’t have souls, at least, they’re not supposed to. Balancing life and death as he does, Misha will one day be unstoppable. So I don’t necessarily flounce into the massive 33,000 square foot, three story structure known as The House of Aleksandr. I strut with caution.

“Hello?” I announce. “Anyone home?”

“Merde.”

I try not to roll my eyes, a hard feat in the presence of these vampires.

Chef rushes around the French-inspired kitchen slaving away. I’d always envisioned chefs as full-figured people, dressed in white uniforms, black pants, and funny hats. That’s before I met Chef. He has the shirt, the pants, and hell, the funny hat, too. But Chef looks more Gucci model than gold-medalist cook.

The black pants hug an ass so tight you could throw marbles against it and they would crack. Oh, and that white shirt is close to splitting from his overly muscular chest. Wisps of curly black hair escape the funny hat, and if he’d eat half the magnificent meals he prepared we’d need the jaws of life to extract him.

To his benefit, Chef prefers to dine on people. Not that he particularly likes anyone. He rarely speaks, unless you count all the swearing he does in French.

“Merde,” he shouts again.

I take a seat at the counter. “Hey, Chef,” I say. “Thank you for breakfast—”

He stops in the middle of banging his pots and pans to point a knife at me. “I only prepare such things for you,” he says in a thick and overly dramatic French accent. “Tonight you will dine on lamb stuffed with lentils.”

“Okay, if you insist. Where’s Misha?”

“In zee solarium.”

He whips around, just to swear at the lamb stretched across the counter. He probably needs a nap, or perhaps a virgin to munch on.

I walk through the house and into the grand foyer, my steps the only sound. I’m wondering where the hell everyone is when the familiar feel of vampire magic has me glancing up.

What looks like Misha’s entire keep waits along the open hall on the second floor. I rest my hand on the railing. “What are you guys doing up there?”

They exchange glances, not that anyone bothers answering. I start to climb when their hands shoot out, waving madly and clearly telling me to stay put.

Sweet, child-like laughter drifts from the solarium. I glimpse toward it and then back at the vampires. “Misha’s fiancée has a kid?” I ask.

Panic spreads like fire among them and they try to shush me. Apparently, I’m not supposed to mention the kid.

“The master’s expecting you in the solarium,” Agnes mutters through her teeth.

“Okay,” I say, slowly, wondering what the hell has them on edge this time.

I cross the wide foyer, feeling the vamps’ stares burning holes into my back. Again, the little girl laughs. I stop at the entrance to the solarium.

“Hey, Misha.”

His name doesn’t quite make it out of my throat. He turns from where he was speaking with a young woman on the couch. I glance around, expecting, I don’t know, his fiancée. The only other person present is a very stone-faced woman dressed in black, watching them from her spot in the corner.

The girl stands when Misha does. “Good evening, Taran,” he says.

“Hey,” I say again, my attention returning to the young woman.

She’s wearing a blue sundress, very conservative and simple yet likely very expensive. Her skin is olive like mine and her long black hair hangs to her waist. Dark, almost black eyes blink back at me warily. She’s tall for her age, at least five feet six inches, and stunning. When she’s all grown up, she’ll be gorgeous. But she isn’t a woman yet, and she has no business standing this close to Misha.

I frown and walk toward them, wondering why someone so young is hanging at the supernatural equivalent of the Playboy Mansion.

“You look rested, my dear,” Misha says to me. A few strands that escape his clip fall to brush against his charcoal silk dress shirt. “And lovely as always.”

The sweet-looking girl furrows her eyebrows. She didn’t like the “my dear” comment and she sure as hell doesn’t like him referring to me as lovely.

I don’t like the additional step she takes toward Misha. “I’m Taran,” I tell her. “Who are you?”

Misha smiles. “Allow me to introduce you to Breasha. She is to bear my son.”

A breeze smacks against my face as Misha’s vampires appear at once. Vampires always come to the aid of their master, and I have theirs by the throat.

Misha straightens, easily breaking away from me. I grab him by the collar and force him nose to nose with me, ignoring the escalating hisses from the vampires.

“Are you crazy?” I glance at Breasha. “She’s a child!”

Breasha, who initially covered her face in horror brings down her hands, glaring at me with tremendous indignation. “I am fifteen,” she tells me in a thick Eastern European accent.

Misha’s shaking body forces my attention back on him. The bastard is straight up laughing. He rights himself in one easy move, leaving me holding the collar from his silk shirt.

“My son will not be born for another decade,” he says, like that’s supposed to excuse this.

“Or perhaps sooner,” Breasha adds hopefully.

I blink back at them, allowing the remains of Misha’s collar to fall to the floor. “Please tell me you’re not claiming this little girl as yours,” I demand, my temper rising.

Misha stops laughing and steps toward me, his expression absent of humor. No way. No freaking way is he doing this. “Celia is going to lose her shit when I tell her you’re hitting the middle schools for dates.”

“I am not hitting the middle schools—”

“I hope she shows up here and stakes your ass, you creepy bastard.”

“Taran, you will not tell her anything—”

“Oh, yes, I will.” I turn away and storm toward the exit.

Jeffrey– a newly turned vamp—steps in my path. “The master is not done speaking with you.”

I scream, my knees buckling when his hand clamps down on my shoulder. That same hand sizzles to a crisp when I release my lightning and shoot it across the length of his arm.

Jeffrey shrieks, as does Breasha, and the creepy woman dressed in black, when he smokes.

He wobbles backward, collapsing and kicking his feet in agony.

Misha, bless his heart, is kind enough to haul him up by the face. “I thought I made it clear the Wird sisters are not to be harmed,” he tells him, his voice calm and deadly.

Breasha and her guardian’s screams are only slightly overpowered by Jeffrey’s howls. Misha’s fingers dig deep, crunching the bones and caving in Jeffrey’s face.

“Misha, let him go,” I say.

He holds tight, not bothering to look at me. “No. He must answer for the insult.”

For touching me as Misha’s guest, and for threatening the mate of the Second in Command to the Pack. I understand the rules. It doesn’t make Jeffrey’s re-death easier to stomach.

 Horrible plopping—Jeffery’s brains hitting the slate floor, I presume—precede the eruption of ash. I’m not watching, my concentration so fixated on the giant windows, I start to singe the glass. Jeffrey, being as young as he is, doesn’t need his heart destroyed to die, not with the force of his master bearing down upon him.

Instant silence is followed by two very hard thuds. I cringe, knowing no one bothered catching the future Mrs. Aleksandr or her escort when they fainted.

I lurch away, gagging at the lingering smell of Jeffrey’s cooking brains. Misha catches up to me in the garden. One minute I’m alone, the next he’s in front of me with his arms crossed.

“What the hell were you thinking?” I ask, glaring.

“I told you. Jeffrey must be punished for the disrespect he showed you,” he replies coolly.

I throw my hands out. “I meant Breasha. Damn it, Misha. She’s practically a little girl.”

“I’m aware of what she is, as well as how it appears. Don’t think I haven’t given her age any thought.” He watches me closely. “I’m a patient vampire, at almost three-hundred years of age, and with an eternity still ahead of me, years have become mere breaths to take. It’s for this reason, and more, I’m in no rush. My plan is to wait until Breasha is well into womanhood before I ask she bear my son.”

My heart thuds in sickening beats. “And how long will you wait to ask if you can deflower her?”

Misha’s gray eyes flash with anger, only to soften when he regards my features. “I don’t take women against their will,” he tells me. “If you must know, I’ve never bedded anyone younger than twenty-seven.” His eyes flash for a different reason. “Although I would have made the exception for your sister.”

Yeah, you would have. “Celia isn’t an option, Misha. She never was.”

He quiets, and I do, too, yet not for long. “You’re expecting her to bear your children.”

“A son,” he clarifies. “But only if she wants to.”

He takes a seat on one of the wrought iron benches. “Perhaps we should discuss the matter,” he says. He sprawls across the bench, one leg bent, the other stretched.

One of his arms rests against the back, the other dangles loosely at his side. His shirt is ruined, the collar appearing chewed off and the expensive fabric is likely splattered with brain bits. He should look ridiculous, but I don’t think Misha ever could.

“What happens if she doesn’t want to have your kid? Who will bear your son then?”

“I have other options,” he replies casually.

“You mean, Ileana.”

His sudden stillness is response enough. “What do you know about that?” he questions.

“Just that it wouldn’t be a good match. She’s . . .”

“Powerful,” he answers for me.

“That’s what it all comes down to, doesn’t it? Getting more and being more. It’s why Johnny is here.”

He raises a perfect brow. “Need I remind you, you’re the one who asked me to keep him.”

“I asked you to keep him safe on behalf of the Alliance,” I counter.

He motions in the direction of the guesthouse. “And I have.”

“Yes, just for the chance to one-up the witches.” I knew he wouldn’t give up an opportunity to influence Johnny, or for Johnny to owe him a favor. Misha considers his interactions with other supernaturals like a game of chess and will always seek the right moment to hump the queen.

He flashes a fang, not bothering to deny it.

“About your future kiddos,” I begin. “What makes you so sure you’ll produce a son over a daughter?”

He shrugs. “I’ll simply will it to happen.”

“Oh, yes, I heard about your semen.”

“My what?” he asks, chuckling.

“You know what I mean.” I shift my weight to one hip. “Why the sudden interest in family?” I ask. “Is your biological clock ticking or something?”

Misha’s smile fades. “There comes a point when every being becomes aware of his own immortality. As I am one of few vampires capable of creating a legacy, I feel obliged to do so.”

“Sounds like it’s more than a sense of obligation to me,” I say carefully, watching how his focus sweeps across my face.

“Perhaps,” he agrees, his voice and his stare growing distant.

I almost ask if Celia has anything to do with this. But that’s a can of worms better left sealed and buried. He wanted children with Celia. He wanted Celia, period. Her relationship with Aric never discouraged him, but her pregnancy . . . that affected him in ways I never imagined.

“Why does it trouble you to know that I’ve chosen children with another?” he asks, affirming my thoughts.

“Because if you’re going to have babies, Misha, have them the right way. Not like this.”

“Like how?”

“With a young woman you’ll never love.”

“You assume a great deal,” he tells me.

“Then don’t let me. Explain yourself. Why her? What’s so special about this girl?”

“Her lineage,” he answers simply.

“Her lineage?” I look back to the house, trying to pick up on something other than vampire. “Don’t tell me she’s a witch.”

“No, not a witch,” he replies, appearing amused.

“Then what is she?” Although I ask, I’m no longer sure I want to know.

Misha leans back in his seat and brushes a strand of his loose hair behind his ear, only for the soft breeze to sweep it back against his cheek. A small smile forms around his perfect lips. “She is a direct descendant of Vlad Dracula.”

“The Impaler,” I clarify. “The original master of all the masters?”

“Yes.”

I glance up as if I can somehow see her from where I stand. I can’t. That might be a good thing because holy shit, I think Misha has lost his damn mind.

“She’s not a vampire,” I say.

“No.”

“So then why . . . What’s the point?”

“Breasha is of royal blood.”

“So?”

“She has been educated in the best schools.”

“And?”

“Her family history is impeccable.”

“I still don’t get it.”

Misha stares back at me as if questioning my intelligence. Typically, only his vampires look at me that way. I scowl at him. “She’s the most suitable choice,” he explains as if I’m missing the obvious.

“Because of who her great-great-great-great granddaddy was?” I ask.

“No, because of her blood. Any child I bear with her will be unstoppable.”

He abruptly stops speaking, clutching his heart and curling in agony.

I hurry to him, cupping his shoulder. “Misha, what is it—”

I leap back when his fangs elongate and his savage gaze meet mine. The earth shifts, not shakes, not rumbles, it shifts. First left, then right, knocking me on my ass.

“Taran!”

Johnny stands a few feet away, his tattoos swirling and travelling across his arms and around his body, the tailspin of movement and energy punching through the air like angry fists. But it’s Misha, roaring in pain that lures my focus back to him. His shirt falls away in pieces from the surge of vampiric magic coursing through him.

At once the world erupts in gold, blue, and white and I’m thrown across the garden.