“There she is.” Magh pointed to the mound.

“Wh-what are you saying?”

Her demon guards traced in front of Magh. “She’s buried there, with hundreds of others. Has been for centuries.”

Shock engulfed him.

“She was a favorite of my husband’s, enjoying his protection, but your position was precarious.” Magh’s voice sounded distant. “Your mother knew I had you in my sights, would soon strike. She begged me to spare your life. I vowed that I would, but only if she agreed to quietly abandon you for a life as a pleasure slave in a faraway brothel. Anything to save you! Alas, the poor dear hadn’t been frozen into her immortality yet—which she must have known.” Magh sighed. “Ah, the sacrifices we mothers make. Don’t worry, she wasn’t long in that hellish place. After a bit of rough bedsport, she was . . . broken.” Magh examined the end of one of her flaxen braids. “Her life was short, her death brutal, and now her bones are naught but dust.”

Buried.

Brutal.

Dust.

His lungs constricted. His legs buckled. As he knelt in front of the mass grave, Magh’s guards collared him and bound his wrists.

“On to the next stage of your life,” she said in a mirthful tone. “I have a new occupation for you, cur.”

“Gods give me the power,” he bit out. The collar prevented him from tracing, the bindings from fighting. “I will destroy you and all your spawn.”

“Oh, I think your next employment will keep you far too busy for that. . . .”

TWENTY-FOUR

Josephine’s breaths were light against Rune’s chest. He sifted his fingers through her hair, trying out this “afterplay.” He’d never stuck around after he’d used a female sexually. Certainly not after an interrogation.

As he stroked her silken locks, he smelled meadowberries anew, calling to mind recollections from his boyhood. He remembered the times he had briefly escaped to the high meadows, to a glen filled with berries. Their taste had been even sweeter than their irresistible scent.

With sugar on his lips and breezes rustling the leaves, he’d lain among them in bliss, never wanting to return to the sweltering fens.

The taste of Josephine had been sweeter than anything he could’ve imagined. . . .

Though he’d lost his wager against her, he was surprisingly relaxed. She hadn’t won per se; he’d been defeated by his own loss of control. But how could he blame himself?

Her bite gave her an unfair advantage.

When her fangs had entered his flesh so slowly and her tongue had flicked in readiness, he’d nigh lost his mind. Even now he shuddered.

After she’d fed, he’d been dazed, wanting only to explore her. For hours as they’d pleasured each other, he’d listened for every hitch in her breath. He’d awaited the telltale flush across her breasts that signaled her approaching orgasm. He’d watched for her irises to flicker.

In the past, these reactions had been benchmarks to gauge a subject’s willingness to talk.

Tonight each of her responses had been a discovery—about a woman who aggravated him, invigorated him, enthralled him.

He’d nuzzled her ears until her little toes had curled. He’d tongued that tiny dip in her bottom lip. He’d taken her mouth—at his leisure, whenever the impulse struck him—so many times his own lips were bruised. He ran a finger over them now.

For eons, his last kiss had been a lethal one.

No longer. There’d been no barrier between him and Josephine, between their bodies, their desires.

Was the insatiable Rune sated? He was still erect for more, yet he could swear he was almost drowsy. Perhaps not sated, but satisfied.

Again and again, he’d wondered if she could be his mate. If he actually got one. But even if she was his, nothing would change. He had no interest in settling down with one woman. The Møriør still required his talents—which included extracting information from targets—whether through fair or foul means.

And he wasn’t going to simply retire his burning need to stamp out the royal line of Sylvan.

Though Magh was long dead, she lived on through her vile spawn, like her first son, King Saetthan. There were only fourteen left. Most lived on Gaia, in hiding from Rune.

With each Accession, hidden things came to light.

The Møriør would help him hunt those fey, just as Rune would help in his allies’ endeavors. No, he wouldn’t surrender his dreams when he was so close. Which was why Josephine would never lie so trustingly with him again; he had plans to use her against Nïx. His will would be done in the end.

Best to savor this now.

Josephine shifted against him. Like many vampires, she was a deep sleeper. She hadn’t even awakened when he’d inked a temporary tracking rune on her back.

Her eyes moved behind her lids. Would she dream his memories? What would she think about his past? He wasn’t ashamed he’d been violated and used.

Just that he’d eventually submitted to it. . . .

Hours passed as she slumbered on. He occupied himself tracing the contours of her breathtaking face and musing which memories she might see if she had the ability.

When she woke, she blinked open thick lashes to reveal those bright hazel eyes. She drifted upright. “Will you really let me leave? I have to get to—I need to get home.”

He bit back his irritation. Her first thoughts were of escape. If he’d pleasured any other female so thoroughly, he wouldn’t have been able to get rid of her.