He was ever loyal to those that mattered. Josephine meant nothing to him. Nothing more than a mystery to be solved—and a liability to be handled.

A liability with the most exquisite bite.

In a whiskey voice, she said, “If you hadn’t decided to capture me, I would’ve fang-fucked your neck till you screamed.”

Filthy, wicked girl. I want her NOW.

She smiled, flashing those sharp little fangs, and his mind went blank. As if his legs knew better than he did, they stumbled toward her. “Josephine.”

When she held up her ripped thong, his steps faltered. She’d rolled him again? He’d never felt her. Never scented her until now.

How? How?

Next she waved to her necklace—which was back around her slim, pale neck.

He swallowed hard. They both knew what else had been in his pockets.

For the second time tonight, she raised his talisman with a mean smile.

Bluff her. He shrugged. “Still just a trinket, vampire.”

“Are you a liar on top of everything else, Ruin?”

“It’s pronounced Roon,” he said absently. “Not Roo-in.”

“Of course, Roo-in. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” She nodded at the nymphs. “Ladies.” She began to disappear.

He vaulted forward, arms outstretched, but the only thing left of her was her echoing laughter.

THIRTEEN

Hours into the morning, Jo tossed and turned in bed, determined not to think about the dark fey’s blood. Or anything else about him.

Like his grin—slanted, a touch sneering.

Or his scent—leather and evergreen.

Definitely not his body—long, tall, with rippling muscles she wanted to bite.

She’d already gotten off in the shower to fantasies of him, had even sunk her fangs into her own wrist. When she’d tasted his blood mixed with hers, she’d come over and over, until she’d dropped to her knees in the tub. . . .

Now she glared at his trinket, sitting on her bedside table. “Dickwad.” She punched her pillow.

At the beginning of the night, he’d been unemotional with that blond nymph, like a robot. He’d coldly informed her, “I’m coming.” He’d all but yawned as he’d gotten his nut.

With Jo, he’d bellowed so loud the whole city had heard it. Why would he want to be with others when he’d liked her best?

They’d been good together.

Briefly. Before he’d decided to kill her and all.

When would it be her turn to find a partner to hold her hand? She pined for her own groom, one who’d gaze into her eyes and tell her, “You are everything.”

But pining was a problem. Whenever she was filled with yearning like this and she did manage to doze off, she risked her own type of sleepwalking.

Sleep-ghosting.

She would go intangible, sinking through her bed, through the floor, and then into the ground. Nothing could awaken her before she opened her eyes to total blackness, shrieking and scrabbling for the surface.

If she ever solidified underground, she could die—already entombed.

Worse, what if she didn’t sink? What if she floated? The stars seemed to beckon her. . . .

Finally Jo relaxed enough to drift off, and the strangest dream arose. She was in a boggy field, toiling under a scorching sun. She wiped her gritty forearm over her sweat-drenched face.

No, not her arm. Not her face.

Rune’s? Somehow she was seeing a scene from his point of view.

The castle’s bells tolled. His head whipped toward the sound. My father is dead. The mortality curse that had befallen Sylvan’s leader had ended even a regent’s immortal existence.

Serves you right for trying to colonize the Wiccae realm, old king. Rune felt no sympathy for the distant sire who’d spared his life but had never graced his bastard with a spoken word.

The demon slaves who worked these fens shoulder to shoulder with Rune turned away. To them, a baneblood like him was already dead, and good riddance. They feared his poison. They wondered why he hadn’t been stoned to death as an infant like all the other dark fey halflings.

Perhaps that would have been a mercy.

Because with the king’s death comes mine.

For all his fifteen years, he’d known his days were numbered. But when the king had fallen in battle, bespelled by a warlock general, Rune had thought he’d have at least a few weeks more to plan.

Now panic filled him. How to escape? The queen’s demon guards would soon come for him.

For his head.

His eyes darted. Crossing the fens with no food or fresh water would be suicide. He bared a claw, drawing blood to ink an invisibility spell on his forearm. His powers were undeveloped. Maybe this time the combinations of runes would work.

As his black blood spilled, laborers swooped up their young and fled, cursing him to the hells.

Frustration boiled inside him, and he yelled, “I never wanted to be like this!”

Concentrate. Another carefully crafted symbol. Just as his dam had taught him. Only one more left—

Royal guards traced into the fields, seizing him.

He fought wildly, but the guards’ armor repelled his claws and fangs. The demons had already transitioned into full immortality, were massive brutes. They bound his hands to prevent his clawing. They muzzled him to prevent his bites.

Taking me to the executioner.

Yet once they’d beaten him down into the mud, they made no journey to the block. They hauled him to a bathhouse, stripping him and scrubbing his skin like an animal’s.