Chapter 1

Averill slowly exited the Underground and took in the clear view of the moon. A few more days and it would be full. She was crawling with anxiety. Desperate to have the wolves return with Alasdair . . . Bryce. That’s what he was going by now, Bryce. He’d always be Alasdair to her. The man who was drained within an inch of his life and left for dead. Averill could have let him die. She gave him immortality. She saved him. That’s what he chose to forget.

He should have worshipped her. Instead, he resented her.

And for what? It’s not as if he was happy in his mortal life. Hadn’t he been driven out of his home by the wolves? Did he really think a life loading ships by the docks would be what satisfied him? Eadgar and Eadric’s blood thirsty soldiers had gone after him. That was five hundred years ago, and old wounds are difficult to heal. They claimed they weren’t a fan of his accent. Averill doubted it was his accent at all, but rather how intimidating he was. Even as a human.

When she had first seen him—broken, beaten, and drained—she wanted him. Something about his spilled blood called to her. She had crouched down and listened to his chest. His heartbeat was faint but still determined to go on. That was the first thing that intrigued her. When his emerald eyes locked on hers, that was the second. But the final thing that sealed his immortal fate were his words, “Kill me. I’m nae afraid.”

No, Averill didn’t kill him. She gave Alasdair so much more than that. He could have ruled beside her, become the final member of the Council. But he denied her. How he broke the sire bond, Averill never knew. He should have wanted nothing more than to be by her side. But he didn’t care for Averill. He didn’t seem to care for any of the things that were offered to him. Money, power, sex . . . it all meant nothing to him.

Alasdair just continued on, following orders, keeping his head down for centuries. Averill half expected Alasdair wasn’t a real man at all. Perhaps he was a eunuch. Having never known the pleasure of seeing him without his trousers, she couldn’t be sure. She did see him in his kilt once at a formal ceremony. Malaric had another tribe of vampires come from the North to negotiate new laws. There was much blathering and threats tossed across Malaric’s table. Needless to say, those Northern vampires never returned home, and Averill never got close enough to look up Alasdair’s kilt. So no one really won that day.

Had he continued in this fashion, Averill might have lost interest… or at least enjoyed the thrill of the hunt. But he didn’t just carry on. He did the unspeakable. Alasdair saved a whore from a vampire feeding frenzy and turned her into an immortal. He gave a woman that slept beside rats the dark gift, as if it were not sacred at all. Then, the couple claimed each other as mates.

There was nothing Averill could do. She was forced to watch for years as a simpleton had the life she was destined for. A life with Alasdair. She begged Malaric to execute them, but he refused, stating Alasdair was not in the wrong. He had registered his newborn and trained her to be obedient of the Council. Averill knew Malaric favored Alasdair. She often wondered if it came down to it, would Malaric choose her or him?

Then, nearly three decades later, Averill found her opportunity. Miranda, Alasdair’s whore, was feeding on a child one day in the poor section of London. Averill could smell the plague on the boy. No doubt she was doing the child a kindness. It was a mercy killing. He would die in Miranda’s arms instead of the dirty London streets on a cold night. Averill knew this was her chance. And she wasted no time.

She had Miranda release the child to her, still alive. Miranda was brought before the High Council, charged with the attempt to transform a human child into a vampire. Miranda was sentenced to death by sunlight. And afraid he would do something rash, Averill had Alasdair shipped off to America.

Had he just remained in his life of solitude, Averill could have let him go. But recently she discovered he had turned another, and for the second time, claimed a mate. Alasdair thought he had committed this crime unseen. But even across the Atlantic, the Council was always watching, their spies whispering back his every movement.

Alasdair had no secrets.

Thinking about seeing him again caused Averill’s blood to boil. Part of her wanted him to suffer as he had made her suffer. The other part just wanted him by her side. And that reality made her sick. She had power, and a mate that worshipped her, but it wasn’t enough. For the truth was never had she loved someone the way she had loved Alasdair. But when love has been poisoned, it turns to a sickness that slowly consumes, but never retreats.

Two familiar arms wound their way around her waist. She raised her head and leaned back into Dante’s chest. “You found me.”

“Your scent is an easy one to track. It’s a smell I’d recognize anywhere.” Dante pulled her long blonde hair to the side and dragged his nose across her neck.

“I forgot. You’re a bloodhound,” Averill said absentmindedly, her thoughts still on the Highlander.

Bloodhound, the pet name she started calling Dante after Sunniva had transformed him into a hybrid. He had the same powers as any vampire, plus the ability to transform at will into a wolf. It made him a lethal weapon. Averill knew having Dante on the Council would make them unstoppable. She had plans for him. Once Dante had mastered his new powers, she had him challenge the Alpha of the Weres that dwelled in London. It was a match to the death, and as Dante approached her in his wolf form and rested the arm of the old Alpha at her feet, she finally felt what she had been missing for centuries—a mate that desired to please her.

The old Alpha was dead, and that meant Dante was now in charge of the wolves. It didn’t matter that the wolves hated the vampires. Their leader accepted the challenge and they had to follow the commands of their new Alpha. The wolves that objected were captured and publicly executed, ripped apart by Eadgar and Eadric’s army and burned in a bonfire for all to see. It was a warning, and it was quickly understood.

Despite Averill’s desire for blood, Dante had won the wolves' favor. He rewarded them generously, kept to their traditions and only enlisted their help when necessary. Still, they knew he was in charge, as Averill was quick to remind them.

“Did you eat yet, love?” Dante asked, still lost in Averill’s scent.

“No. I’m not hungry,” she lied. Her vampire side thirsted for fresh blood, but her mind was so obsessed with Alasdair and his newborn, she pushed the burning pain away.

“Hmm. Not hungry? I was hoping to dine with you this evening. You’ll need your strength to torture your new toys when my wolves return.” Averill spun around and placed her hands against Dante’s firm chest. She gazed into his dark eyes that sparkled as he smiled at her. He looked so sure of himself.

“Are you sure the wolves you sent were the most competent?”

“Averill, my sweet. There is no one I trust more than Jade. If Faolan faltered in his mission, then surely Jade would have seen it through. In a few days you’ll have Bryce in a dungeon for his crime. You can carry out his punishment however you see fit. The same with his newborn.”

“He’s made a joke of me for centuries.”

Dante hooked a finger beneath her chin and tilted her head up toward his. “It all ends soon. I promise.”