The collar of his coat flipped up to mask the brands that were now seared into the skin of his cheeks, Nicholas pushed his sunglasses to the bridge of his nose with his index finger and moved through the crowd. On the stage to his left, an al -female heavy-metal band rocked out, their hands working their instruments, their bodies gyrating against their mike stands. The guitar player, a tal redhead with ripped fishnets and dragon tats up both arms grinned at him and tried to catch his eye, but he was on the hunt for one hidden somewhere in the strobe-lit shadows.

The Eyes, the New York City street rats who ran the sales of drugs, blood, and body to both human and vampire had texted Nicholas twenty minutes ago-just as he was getting bawled out by his brothers for going it alone before the Order. It had been a real shame to have to bail on Alexander's lecture, end Lucian's rant regarding his bul shit actions and inconsiderate stupidity. But hey, the Eyes were claiming to own some information Nicholas wanted pretty badly, and rescheduling his brothers' tantrum for sometime next century seemed the wisest course of action.

Pissed at the lack of control they had over the situation with the Order, Alexander and Lucian had made it clear they'd wanted to be at this little meet and greet. But the Eyes tended to clam up around blood they didn't know, and Nicholas wasn't going to risk that.

Nicholas wasn't going to risk that.

He walked around the bar, his gaze sliding from one face to another. His brothers would ease off, calm down, and get on board once he came home with the location of Dare and his recruits. Because Dare's whereabouts was the reason for this meet.

Had to be.

Better be.

His gaze shifted to the hal way leading to the emergency exit. There. Bingo. A tall, lean figure stood under the pale red sign, deep in the shadows, the agreed-upon Mets cap tilted low. Nicholas headed in that direction, but even before he reached the hazy spotlight of red, he knew something was off. Way off. The one waiting in the shadows wasn't a member of the Eyes, wasn't an Impure-and definitely was not a paven.

Another step forward and her blood scent hit him like a battering ram-up the nostrils, into the lungs, and straight down to his cock.

Holy shit. His hands dropped to his sides, hovered near his weapons. What the hel was this? As one who'd spent years sel ing his flesh, only the scent of currency made his body react like that. He inhaled again, fil ing his lungs with that luscious, highly addictive scent she was throwing off, as his brain searched for clues into what was waiting for him under that Mets cap besides a few strands of escaped blond hair.

She was a Pureblood veana, and if the abilities of his newly morphed status could be trusted, untouched by a paven.

What the fuck was going on here? Had Dare orchestrated this meet? Or was this something else altogether? Some one sent through the wrong channels-

the Nicholas Roman for-hire channels-the one he kept private for . . . private clients.

The veana lifted her head then and he saw her face for the first time. Jesus. She was gorgeous. Drop-dead. Her skin was smooth and tantalizing, like cream with a touch of honey mixed in, and her nose was smal and perfect. But it was her lips that real y made his cock stir . . . ful and pale pink. Christ, he wanted to run his fangs, his mouth up one cheek and down the other, catch her lips as he went, suckle the dark pink top, then the extra-plump bottom.

Then there were her eyes. Large, deeply brown, tough as a brick wall, and screamed disaster. They were the most beautiful y haunting things he'd ever seen. And he'd seen many pairs of fine eyes.

She was his perfection, and well, that just couldn't be an accident, now, could it?

As he headed for her, his hands stole inside his coat, closed around the guns at his waist. She was tal for a veana, perfect height in fact, and even in the credenti rags she wore, he could tel she was built for a paven's hands-his hands.

He released the safeties on his twin Glocks as he met her under the red glow. He didn't want to shoot up the place, but he wasn't about to walk into a trap unprepared either. "Who are you?" he asked her.

Her eyes met his with an abrasive wariness. "A Her eyes met his with an abrasive wariness. "A messenger."

Her voice coated the air around him, like satin for the ears. Whoever had sent her knew him well. "Have a message for me?"

She nodded. "If you're Nicholas Roman."

But who knew him that well, save his brothers?

"Are you?" she asked. "Nicholas Roman?"

He wanted to see how this played out. He nodded. "Yes."

She turned then, cal ed out to someone behind her.

"Ladd. Come here."

Nicholas reached out and grabbed her, had her back to his front and his gun trained on her temple in under a second. "Don't move, veana."

She didn't. But she did growl at him. "Put the gun down, asshole."

"Not a chance."

"You're going to scare him."

"Scare who?"

"Don't do this."

"Scare who?" he said again, his tone lethal, his hand crushing against her ribs.

"The balas," she uttered between gritted teeth.

A boy stepped out of the shadows and into the pale red spotlight where the veana had been just seconds ago. His hair was snow white and his dark eyes were wide and fil ed with fear as he took in the sight before him.

Nicholas dropped his gun at once, but didn't release the veana. His tone went dry and deeply suspicious. "What is this?"

The veana didn't struggle against him, but she turned her head and looked up into his face, her large, haunting eyes threatening to bore a hole right into his skull. "This, Nicholas Roman, is your son."