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  Rafe was chatting up another of dad’s minions, probably a clone of tall, blond and sculpted. Pop had rather singular tastes while mine were catholic, bordering on indiscriminate. It had taken young Stefan to hone my fancy to the darker spectrum.

  Cracking my eyes open, I was dismayed to find myself laid out like a corpse on the same narrow wood bench, in the same ramshackle shed, as before when my pup had heroically bounded uphill to save us from the depredations of an out-of-control pack of ravaging wolves.

  I didn’t recognize the other demon until Rafe introduced him as Jefrumael and the synapses fired. Jef was Dad’s right hand and go to man when assassinations and general mayhem were the order of the day. I’d heard about, but never seen him.

  That ole Jef was here and not out on a mission to take out offending traitors, or securing the missing tactical nuke, did not leave me with a warm fuzzy. Especially since no negotiated price had been agreed upon for services rendered.

  Rafe finished off the last of the stitches, and to his credit he was gentler than any human medic had ever been with me. What had once stood tall and proud had shriveled to an embarrassingly inflamed, reddish dangly bit. I sighed with relief. A couple pints of blood and I’d be right as rain.

  To Assassin Extraordinaire Jefrumael, Rafe ordered, “Feed him,” and to me, “Those stitches will absorb in an hour or so. Don’t fuck anything until after that’s healed,” pointing to my new Prince Albert piercing.

  What the holy fricking hell?

  No no no no!

  “Orders.” Rafe was sounding less and less like a minion and more like somebody who had clout in Dad’s multilayered, multi-dimensional space. Though my time there had been necessarily brief, given that one little misunderstanding, the thought occurred that if Jef were Michel du Velours’ right hand man, what did that make Rafe?

  Anyway I spun it, there was nothing there that said this ends well for Dreu.

  That wee shiny ball hadn’t been placed there to enhance my sexual prowess or to treat young Fane to the next level of orgasmic pleasure.

  It was a tracking device, plain and simple, and under ordinary circumstances might have been a real buzz kill. But the man in Armani didn’t know everything there was to know about me … or my insatiable appetites.

  Naked as a jaybird, I struggled to sit upright while putting some space between me and the corded, veined wrist being shoved toward my parched lips.

  “Not too much.” Rafe was in dictator mode: short, sweet, to the point and not taking no as an answer.

  Jeffy looked about as enthusiastic as I felt: mouth pursed in a straight line, eyebrows gone uni in bushy blond splendor, the eyelids at half-mast and hidden by thick, silky lashes. Under those lashes blank orbs flashed in mottled garnet splendor.

  On another day, I might have been turned on. Today was not that day.

  With a shudder I had at him, ripping and tearing through flesh and muscle as appetizing as acid-washed treated leather. When the endorphins released, his eyes rolled up as his lovely mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ of ecstasy while I eased him onto the bench.

  Rafe humphed to himself, apparently surprised at the assassin’s reaction, but then he shrugged and reminded me not to drink too much or to engage in heavy lifting until his handiwork had healed.

  Fifteen minutes, tops.

  He apparated, vanished, into mist. I wish I could say he left a trail of stinky sulfur in his wake, but he didn’t. Or if he did, I wasn’t aware of it. My senses were drunk on the power of the libation streaming down my throat.

  Soft as a baby’s bottom, warm as a summer breeze, iridescent with the shiver of silk on my nipples gone rock hard … his essence coated my insides with such feral, wanton need that I barely noticed the thin line healing as my engorged cock rammed hard against my minion’s thigh.

  My minion.

  Vampyr Dreu suggested that leaving the creature unsatisfied was cruel and unusual punishment for such a purveyor of sensual pleasures as myself. Demon Dreu concurred, recognizing that cementing a new partnership with an exchange of good fellowship and a blood bond went further to guaranteeing an asset’s loyalty.

  I want could be parlayed into actions and consequences but I want more made for slavish devotion.

  I didn’t train all those years as a cleric for nothing.

  The assassin wore a loose-fitting outfit similar to styles I’d seen used during martial arts exhibitions. The name escaped me. I parted the jacket and pulled the pants over his straining cock, twitching and shivering in such anticipation that it sent a frisson of excitement and lust coursing through my demon veins.

  I don’t have time for this…

  Actually, I did. Time had slowed, placed into a bubble by Rafe, and only when we exited the cabin would it restart. That didn’t mean time slowed for Fane and the wolves.

  Thinking about Fane should have brought me up short but I was way past the point of good sense and moral superiority. I was going to cheat on my lover, for all the wrong reasons, slip-sliding down that questionable slope of self-serving good intentions.

  A string of Hail Marys usually salved what little conscience guided my actions. I doubted it would work today.

  Tonguing the gash shut, I let his wrist fall across his belly.

  “D-don’t s-st-stop…”

  “Ssh, I’m just getting started.”

  Twisting and squirming like some wanton hussy, the assassin slid boneless to the floor and spread his legs, inviting me to explore, to woo, to deflower.

  Mindful of being on the clock I opted out of the foreplay part of the program—ticking off a plus in column one for when young master Stefan found out about this particular transgression. Following the trail of ash blond silk veeing into a fully aroused demon, I let my tongue do the talking, flicking teasing stabs at the wide slit and alternating with vicious pinches to his bulbous sacs.

  He squealed and arched his hips.

  My minion was into pain.

  I was growing to like Jefrumael very much. His taste was akin to ambrosia, musky and woodsy, not at all what I expected. Precum spilled in torrents, oiling his length and salting my lips with thick, rich-like-caramel goodness.

  Don’t enjoy it, Dreu. Just do it. Make him come, make him yours.

  But how could I not savor the banquet spread so temptingly before me? Slim hips oscillating with every pull, thrusting up and back, fingers twined and tangled in my hair…

  Spreading his thighs further apart, he lifted one leg and shifted the muscular thigh to rest against my face, rubbing seductively as whispers of longing hissed past his tantalizing lips.

  I needed only to pierce the thick muscle, to draw hard, forcing the fluids to commingle in my throat and sending the assassin into a morass of such ecstasy I would forever command him as my own.

  No one, not even another Vampyr, could take him to that level of pleasure and pain intersecting in one perfect orgasmic storm.

  Only one other had I ever launched to such heights of bliss: Fane.

  I needed this … the power, the sensation, the blind trust. To inflict the sting of control, to force the demon to surrender totally, completely, and without reservation to my domination.

  Fane was alpha, it was who he was. When the time came, he would do the same to others as I stood by to watch. And I would understand.

  Would you, Dreu, would you?

  Violate his trust and lose his love.

  Dare I risk that? That most fragile emotion, so new, so precious?

  It was the wolf’s nature, and it was mine.

  Fangs lengthening, I bit down hard as the demon jerked in surprise, screaming his agony as I withheld the endorphins, sucking with deep, grasping pulls until, sobbing, the assassin sprayed my throat with his seed. Using my fists to squeeze his balls until they turned blue, I milked every drop as the creature writhed piteously.

  “Good, it’s good… oh, my dear sweet lord, it’s so…”

  Energized, I stood with ease, my leg and my cock healed, if
not satisfied. If someone accused me of enjoying that little display of dominance, I could rightly deny obtaining any pleasure from the act. That denial was a small penance in pursuit of a larger objective.

  What that objective might be, I had no idea. Michel du Velours had locked horns with my Vampyr half, using his own rules of engagement.

  At one time, the thought of fucking all of my demon father’s minions senseless might have ranked up there with the seventy-five virgins mythology. I was no longer that naïve cleric devoted to simple pleasures of the flesh.

  But first things first. Not bothering to keep the distaste out of my voice, I asked, “Did you bring me something to wear?”

  “Yes, Sire. On the table.”

  Sire.

  Pops had provided soft chocolate linen trousers with a Michael Bastian label, a supple leather belt and a tan cashmere turtleneck sweater. The Demon Lord preferred going commando so it surprised me to find designer briefs, cupped to coddle my equipment with velvet softness. Loafers and socks sat on the floor.

  I dressed while Jefrumael put himself to rights. It didn’t take long for the glow to dissipate. The creature would be asking himself some pretty hard questions for which neither of us were going to spew forth any satisfactory answers.

  That tiny metal ball on my dangly bit most likely broadcast every divine minute of our little walk on the wild side. He knew what we’d done. And why.

  I wasn’t sympathetic. Jeffy only had to worry about being embarrassed and losing his job.

  I was going on a one-way guilt trip to Hel, coach class.

  At the door, I waited until the assassin joined me. When I opened the door, the clock started ticking.

  Jeffy asked, “Sire?” with a world of hurt in his voice.

  Ignoring him, I plowed past his huge body into a frigid night awash with stars glittering like diamonds and ordered him to drive.

  “Where to, Sire?”

  “Dreu, Jef, just Dreu.”

  As to destination … it was a good question. A fair amount of time had elapsed making the odds of finding Fane hale and hearty less likely.

  “Down the mountain, Jef. There should be a settlement where we can hole up and think about what to do next.”

  My minion muttered something in his guttural tongue as he steered the vehicle to access the rough path heading downhill. The filthy window hid the forest and the jewel-studded sky from view as we bounced over ruts, the twin beams barely slicing open a path before us.

  I stared at nothing and let the tears flow silently.

  Chapter Four

  It might have been a rosy-fingered dawn but the ice and the fog and an overall layer of dread and dense, mocking forest had me on the lookout for Vladish-inspired decorative accents.

  Nothing said Romania like heads impaled on sticks in front of the castle walls.

  Feeling on the near side of drunk and disoriented, I realized I needed a nap, a long one. And that wasn’t the Vampyr half having its way with me. Apparently demon metabolism ran hot with the prospect of a flame-out all too real.

  Conventional wisdom suggested mixed parentage often gave added hybrid vigor and a nice boost to what the geneticists called complementarity. That was nature’s way of giving a little kick in the arse to desirable traits from both species to come together in a yowza way.

  Maman’s and daddyo’s prowess aside, I suspected I’d missed that bullet train to excellence and popped out with the equivalent of Downs. Some days I felt more inadequate than others, especially after my walk on the dark side of acquisitions.

  Jef was all Sire this and Sire that, driving me batshit with the whole adoration gig.

  Be careful what you ask for, Dreu…

  I needed the instruction manual for how not to be a useless tool in the supernatural arsenal. Surely there was more to life, more to my life, than idle dalliance and the pursuit of the next sexual high.

  Along with hiding me from Demon Central, Maman had committed me to servitude in pursuit of a greater good. Surely she had not intended that pursuit to include endless blow jobs on obese prelates, deep-throating my way to a prurient kind of salvation, one where body and soul united in a harmony of corruption and venal abuse.

  I’d tried self-flagellation, when the pain blanketed the pleasure and the reasons against outweighed the reasons for. That kind of penance hurt, really hurt when done right—and I always did it right, salting the wounds to leave thin white scars. Pushing the envelope, at least until reason intervened.

  Sneaking a look at my driver, I considered my options. Jef’s face, in profile, was not unpleasant. As tall as my wolf, he had a leaner, harder edge, with squared off chin and hawk-like nose. Blondish curls framed his face in a most satisfying way and inexplicably I felt repelled and drawn to him.

  The weird elixir I’d engorged on, that potent mix of demon seed and crimson heat, still sent a frisson of excitement, fear and guilt coursing through my veins. I’d made him my bitch. The problem was … what had I done to myself?

  I needed answers, clarification, illumination…

  Mostly I needed a Hallmark card that said Sorry I fucked up big time and a nice rump roast for Fane to sooth what was going to be awkward and potentially life-threatening for me. Weres weren’t known for their compassion and understanding. Rumor had it that when they mated, it was for life. There was no doubt in my mind that my darling wolf considered us more than just a temporary item.

  Rumor also suggested the reason for that monogamous devotion was because female weres were few and far between, and most of them ended up with the alphas if said dominants were strong enough to fend off suitors. Obviously Elliot and company didn’t rate high enough on the scale to merit passing on their genetic potential, but it certainly did explain their overall posturing and general level of brio.

  Of course, there were always other options; but like Fight Club, no one ever talked about the purely lupine population. Some things were better left unsaid.

  Jef hit the brake and eased us to a smooth stop. Below us the valley spread out with charming grace, verdant even in the grip of a pre-winter blast of bone-numbing cold. Undulating like virginal, plump breasts, each hillock sported a cluster of settlements seemingly in close proximity from this exalted vantage point, but in reality separated by miles, even as the crow flies.

  “Sire… Dreu?” He nodded in the direction of the closest town at the base of the hill. “There should be lodging there.”

  I agreed and motioned for him to proceed while I drifted back into the funk that had me in its sweaty little palms.

  Awakening from a pleasant dream in which young master Fane and the assassin both pleasured me to the point of madness, I uncurled and stared out the window onto the rear wall of an ancient inn.

  Jef was absent from the driver side seat. In his place my wolf sat with arms crossed, every line, every crinkle, every muscle spewing belligerence and bile.

  I couldn’t decide whether to cry, to bolt from the car, or to bury my beauty with rough kisses and invading tongue. He filled the small vehicle the way he filled my heart. Completely, totally.

  With a tentative touch I drew his attention, ready to lie like a Trojan to keep him from finding out about my betrayal.

  I needn’t have bothered. He turned to me, his handsome face transformed into a beatific visage of angelic lust. Before I could act on my impulses, the assassin returned, with a scowl and an apology.

  “They are full up, Si—” Jefrumael bit his tongue, choking back the honorific. He glanced from me to the wolf, testing the lupine’s measure and clearly not finding the balance tipping toward Demon Wins. Continuing, he explained, “They had one room left but not en suite. We’ll have to…” again pausing, this time it was with less a sneer than a calculating look, “…share the accommodations. The bath’s at the end of the hall.”

  Silently I wondered how Jeffy knew a term like en suite, and then gave a brief thought to exactly what kinds of assassinations were his specialty, and where he was mos
t likely deployed for that purpose.

  Michel du Velours’ reach might be more extensive than I was first aware, offering up both future possibilities and not a few areas for concern.

  There’d be time enough to think about that later. The fog would burn off, I would tan, then third degree—not a prospect I enjoyed facing. I had to prioritize: determine what Elliot the Ugly and his were pack were up to and why, figure out what to do with an acolyte acquired under questionable circumstances, and think on what Pops had in mind for my immediate future.

  That smidgen of guilt about me and young Fane, and our unspoken commitment to new beginnings being hoisted on my own petard, still sat heavy in my gut. I needed to come clean, and soon. That did not appeal.

  Mostly, I wasn’t looking forward to sharing a small pension with two hulking hunks of testosterone without laying down a few ground rules to keep me from becoming collateral damage.

  But that was neither here nor there. We needed to get inside, get settled and find me a snack.

  Romanian mămăligă appealed. It was a kind of corn porridge that tasted better than it sounds, served with cold, whole milk—raw was best—complements of dad’s chef. Mitica had added creamery butter, sour cream and cheese to the concoction, elevating it to cuisine rather than the strict peasant fare it once was.

  My mouth watering, I glanced at Fane, anticipating topping off that repast with a few sips of my now favorite vintage.

  Fane exited the car while Jef came around to escort me inside using his bulk to shield me from the advancing rays. Bookending me through a dim hallway wainscoted with dark walnut and a scarred floor of some highly polished wood, Jef led the way up a narrow flight of stairs, then down another hallway to yet more stairs, ending finally on a short landing.

  Fane shoved me aside and held his hand out to Jef for the key.

  I sensed more was at stake than territorial rights to the room. My wolf made it clear: his space, his Vampyr, his fuck buddy. I let my eyes bleed black with a silent plea for Jefrumael to exercise restraint and not challenge the wolf, when every fiber of the demon’s being broadcasted oh hell no from every pore.