Anticipation tightened my body and my nipples stiffened against the unyielding metal of the bikini and slick heat contracting between my legs—but this wasn’t about sex; sex was being held down, beaten and broken, unable to stop them, no matter how much I begged—

I pushed the intrusive thoughts away and growled low in my throat, a satisfying animal sound. Now it was my turn to rip and tear and damage and offer pain, again and again, and my turn to laugh as they pleaded and cried and screamed as I penetrated their weak, fragile bodies. The visceral desire for blood spiralled through my body. I crouched, preparing to leap, spreading my fingers, watching as my nails elongated and sharpened into skin-slicing claws—

The metal collar choked into my throat, jerked me back, keeping me from my prey. I whirled round, screeching with rage to face him.

‘No!’ Malik ordered. ‘You will not do this.’ He yanked the chain up, the links stretched taut between us, then jerked again, pulling me forward until I stumbled and fell to my knees before him. His face expressionless, he held out his hand to me.

I slashed at it, drawing blood, then grabbed at the chain with both hands and tried to wrench it from his hold. He would not stop me, not this time.

His arms and shoulders strained with effort as he held me in place.

I calledto the humans caught with my mind and heard the collective gasp as they moved up at my back. Then his mind tore into mine and severed them from my hold, locking my rage inside his icy stillness.

The pounding music cut out, leaving silence. Then a rustling murmur started as three spotlights picked us out, pinning us within their overlapping circles. Far away, a voice in my mind—his, mine, someone’s—muttered, ‘ Showtime.’

Elizabetta, wearing her youthful face, appeared at Malik’s side, her bronze broadsword resting on her shoulder like a pike-staff. ‘You would not believe me when I said she was feral, Malik al-Khan.’ Her words amplified outwards as if through a megaphone. ‘Now you can witness for yourself that your curse has again manifested in your bloodline.’

‘This is due to your meddling, Elizabetta,’ Malik responded. ‘She is contaminated by a demon—even your carefully nurtured blood would turn feral with such encouragement.’

‘Pah!’ Her dress shifted, the beads clattering triumphantly, and inwardly I shredded the sneering smile from her face. ‘It makes no matter whyshe is like this; she must be dealt with before she causes more disquiet.’ She held out her sword and placed the point at the base of my throat. ‘Shall I dispose of the bitch myself ’—her fangs extended over her bottom lip—‘or would you like to do the honours?’

‘No,’ Malik said quietly, his eyes flaring blue. He reached out and took the sword from her unresisting hand. ‘No, she is mine. It is my responsibility to rescind her Gift.’

I snarled, even though the part of me not wanting to rip his throat out knew he didn’t mean it, knew it was some sort of ruse, knew he wouldn’t kill me—the Rosa me—because then we would both die ... wouldn’t we? Looking up into his face, seeing his implacable expression, I wasn’t quite so certain. But I was still locked by his will; I couldn’t move, couldn’t fight.

Inside me, the imps boiled and burned, impatient, intolerant of their inability to force me to violence.

‘But first, she will bow to my hand.’ He let the chain drop from his grasp and it fell to the floor in a rattle of links.

‘Nooo!’ Elizabetta lifted her foot and lowered it slowly back to the floor, a stamp made slow by his hold on time. ‘I will ... not ... allow ... it.’

‘The choice is not yours, but belongs to Rosa.’ He knelt on one knee before me, blood-tinged sweat beading on his forehead. ‘ Genevieve,’ I heard the gentle command, ‘ you must repeat these words: I offer you my oath, accept only you as my liege and drink of your blood.’

I repeated his words, my voice harsh as if rusty with disuse, my mouth struggling to form the syllables past the scorching pain constricting my throat.

He touched my cheek and ice spread through my veins, freezing the imps into calmness. He held out his wrist. ‘ Now feed, Genevieve.’

I kept my eyes on his, drew my lips back and struck, sinking my fangs into his skin, sucking hard, desperately.

‘ Be ready to run, Genevieve, at my command.’

He stood in one smooth motion, breaking my hold on his flesh as he drew me up with him. Then he looked up, and I saw through his eyes Hannah watching us from the broken window, her face contorted by magic. She lifted her arm and traced a glyph through the air. It glowed brightly before streaking down to slam into my chest, freeing the imps and sending them screaming in triumph through my veins.

Malik turned back to me, eyes dark and shadowed and drew back the sword ...

Disbelief and outrage filled me. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t dare—

... and plunged it into my body.

The blade sliced into me—

—and I stared down at the hilt where it pressed up in my stomach, feeling the sharpness of the blade cutting through my heart, and the hard length that protruded from between my shoulders. ‘ Whatever happened to running?’ I screamed in my mind. Then pain shattered through me, spinning me out in a tornado of golden dust, and I spiralled into the red-dark depths of memory.

My fourteenth birthday.

My wedding day.

I stood, tall and straight as I’d been taught, in the centre of the great hall. The high mullioned windows were open to the faint moonlight and the distant bark of a fox was the only noise other than the soft sound of my breaths. The guests—all vampires, not a human or fae amongst them—surrounded me. A handful I knew, those of my father’s blood, but the rest were strangers, here to see their liege lord take his sidhe bride.

I stood, shock numbing my mind, ignoring them all, pretending to ignore the still-warm blood that drenched the hem of my gold-brocade dress and soaked into the thin fabric of my shoes. Blood that smelt like sweet ripe pears.

Sally’s blood.

Sally had been given to me as a present on my twelfth birthday: my very own lady’s maid and companion. We were supposed to be inseparable, two young girls growing up together, but Sally was three years older than me, and she wasn’t interested in being friends, not with me, anyway. Not that I minded; she was pretty, with her pale blue skin and long blue-white hair, and part fae—her great-grandmother was a Cailleac Bhuer, one of the Blue Hags—so I’d been happy just to follow her around.

My prince—my betrothed—Bastien, the Autarch, the monster—came towards me. He let the sword fall from his hand and it clattered to the ground. His bare feet soaked up the blood, leaving unbloodied footprints on the flagstone floor. The wet ends of his hair dripped down his shoulders. The splatters on his face looked like teenage freckles. Not even his height—he was close on six feet tall—could make him look much older than the fifteen he’d been when he’d accepted the Gift.

The shadows followed behind him, always present, never breached, never mentioned, and never revealed—

Only now I knew what the shadows hid: Malik al-Khan, the Autarch’s ... what? The question rose like an accusation out of my memory then sank slowly back into the darkness.

‘You are looking very beautiful, my sidhe princess.’ The monster’s handsome young face smiled, a joyous, open grin that didn’t hide his fangs, nor the gleam of lust for pain in his eyes.

‘Thank you, my prince,’ I whispered, unable to stop my legs trembling the closer he came.

The monster executed a low, elegant bow and held out his hand to me. Sally’s thin plait of blue-white hair lay limp in his palm. ‘To the victor the spoils, is that not right, my bride?’

I curled my shaking fingers into the heavy material of my dress. I didn’t want to be the victor; I’d never wanted to be the victor—I hadn’t even realised there was a contest until it was waged and lost. I’d always known he would have others as well as me, for my father had educated me well. In my future there had been no winners or losers, just fairy tales of happily ever after with my prince. But Sally hadn’t known the rules; she’d set out to win, unaware her battle was a barely noticed skirmish until she’d staked her victory flag where all could see it.