The door slammed open.

A vamp stood framed in the doorway, his platinum hair hanging loose around his shoulders, his hooded blue eyes cold as they scanned the room. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with a picture of a tongue-lolling Irish wolfhound’s head on it: an outfit that would’ve seemed odd if you didn’t know him.

I did. He was Maxim Fyodor Zakharin a.k.a. Mad Max. My uncle on my sidhe mother’s side; or distant cousin on my vamp father’s side. Neither of the relationships were ones I wanted to acknowledge, even without the icky overtones of incest. Not that the family relationship, or the incest, stopped there; Mad Max had taken both further by having a fling with his niece, my half-sister Brigitta, who I’d never even known existed until I’d learned she’d been killed by the vamps. I say fling, but it was more than that, seeing as they’d had a kid together, Ana.

But even without the close family connections, there was no way I trusted Mad Max. He was the Autarch’s pet vamp. He was a crazy sonofabitch who hardly cared for himself, much less anyone else; I’d seen him cheerfully stake his own father on a whim. And he was the vamp who’d kidnapped Katie last year. As relatives and vamps go, Mad Max was the last one anyone would want to see, even if they weren’t huddled half-naked on the floor, fighting a compulsion to pleasure themselves again.

A compulsion my gut told me was magical.

Somebody – the provider of the underwear?– must’ve sicced me with some sort of sex spell.

But despite that, and the soreness between my legs telling me I’d been more than rough in my desperation, I still throbbed with arousal. I wanted. Needed. But my gut also told me another attempt at release was likely to drive me as crazy as Mad Max, and quite possibly render parts of me raw and bloody. What I wanted, needed,was something more.

Mad Max stopped scanning and his gaze settled on me. For a moment he stared as if I were some strange specimen he’d never seen before, then he sniffed. A grin broke his face, flashing all four of his fangs. ‘Paddling the pink canoe, are you, Cousin? Good for you. But a bit of rumpy pumpy’s much more fun than flying solo. Want some company?’

Not in a million years, and Touch me and I’ll stake youvied as answers in my head, but the Compulsion riding me had other ideas. It wasn’t too impressed with the faint reddish glow emanating from him, but it decided it was better than nothing, so even as part of me recoiled in horrified disbelief, I flung my magic at him. It snaked out, twisting round his limbs like thick golden vines, and my mouth growled, ‘Yes, I want company.’

He barked a laugh, his eyes flashing from white to gold like manic warning lights. ‘It’ll be my pleasure, Cousin!’ And he stepped towards me, his stance familiar in a way I realised way too late to counter, as he shifted his weight, swung his leg in a fast roundhouse kick and his boot connected with my temple.

The world exploded into the proverbial Milky Way of spinning stars—

And I plunged into darkness.

Chapter Ten

The world swam back into head-pounding, dimly lit focus. I still throbbed with arousal. Not as desperately as before, but more like banked embers that would burst into flame at the slightest breath of air. But the Compulsion nagged at me. On autopilot I tried to touch myself, only—

I was tied down. On a bed. Spreadeagled like I was a star in some tacky bondage video.

Panic roared up. I struggled, my screams muffled by the fabric gagging my mouth.

‘Good-oh, Cousin, nice to see you’re awake.’ Mad Max loomed over me, eyes burning white fire, and slapped something wet and warm over my thighs and between my legs.

Enforced calm relaxed my body, muscles going limp as cooked noodles. My panic retreated deep inside, where it clawed and spat like a caged tiger; the pounding in my head diminished and everything around me took on a recognisable shape and form.

I was in a hotel room, going by what I could see out of my oddly swollen eyes and the trickle of light coming from behind the wall of drawn curtains. The light’s sodium hue told me it was still night. As did the red electronic clock on the plasma TV opposite, which also told me I’d been here for a good hour.

On the plasma a large St Bernard was lolloping after a blonde standard poodle. The St Bernard was wearing a bow tie, and streaming from the poodle’s collar was something white and lacy . . . a bridal veil? The sight was so surreal I stared until Mad Max grunted and pointed the remote. The TV flicked off.

In its place, spent magic drifted like dust motes, and the place smelled of herbs, treacle and something vinegary. The same fabric – ripped sheets?– that gagged me was tied around my wrists and ankles, with knots that tightened as I gave an experimental tug. Silver banded my head— silver that stopped me using magic. Not that I had any, other than my Glamour. Which had obviously been so successful – not!– at trapping Mad Max earlier.

I gave myself a quick mental once-over: as well as the silver burning my head, my skin itched from dried sweat, my body felt like a horde of Beater goblins had introduced me to their baseball bats, and the rawness in my throat suggested I’d been practising sword swallowing. The only part of me that didn’t hurt, or throb, was between my legs . . . numbed by whatever the warm wet thing was.

Which would’ve been a whole new worry, if not for the enforced calm.

Mad Max leaned over, poked my cheek. I glared up at him, wanting to knock his hands away.

‘Bleeding hell, love, you’re a hard nut to crack,’ he drawled. ‘I’ve met mountain trolls who break easier than you.’

I was going to kill the sonofabitch.

The white fire in his eyes faded. He settled into the chair next to the bed, crossed his arms over his bare chest, and stretched out long pale legs with an exaggerated sigh. All he was wearing was a pair of red boxers decorated with black coffins.

It hit home that all Iwas wearing was the cream bra. I couldn’t feel the briefs, but I couldn’t tell if that was because I was numb, or they weren’t there.

I lifted my head, straining to look. The wet warm thing moulded to me like a thick second skin was made of nubby towelling. It was pink-tinged, dotted with bits of green leaf and the magic in it glinted like the tiny chunks of glass of a smashed car windscreen. Did our mutual state of undress mean he’d had sex with me? After all, I’d been offering it to him on a plate – or the Sex-compulsion spell had. The panic and rage inside me threw itself against its cage, but the calm kept it contained.

I jerked my chin at him and tried to spit the gag out.

He got the message. ‘Start screaming,’ he warned, ‘and it goes straight back in.’

I nodded, and he pulled it out.

‘Why—’ I coughed, licked my lips, which were split and tasted of my own dried blood, and started again. ‘Why the hell am I tied up?’

‘Just keeping you out of my pants, love. Much as I enjoy a bit of the rough stuff when it comes to foreplay, you’re a tad too forceful for my liking.’ He spread his arms wide. Long bloody furrows ran down his chest and stomach, disappearing into his red boxers, as if some rabid animal had attacked him; only a hazy memory told me the rabid animal had been me. I almost apologised, but he added, ‘Of course, as a bit of slap and tickle was all that was on the cards, I have to confess I did rather let my frustration get the better of me when it came to subduing you. But y’know, Cousin, what goes around, comes around.’

The swollen eyes, split lip and various other pains made sense now.

I’d attacked him once – he’d been hurting my friends – and had beaten his face almost to a pulp almost with a backpack full of bricks. He’d obviously decided to return the favour.