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My arms and one leg had fallen asleep. I grimaced and shook them out, trying to get the blood moving so I wouldn’t fall flat on my face before stumbling into the bathroom. It was sparse, like something you’d see in a jail cell—a stainless steel toilet with no seat and a sink with one faucet.

I used the john and washed up. The water had one temperature—ice-cold. I splashed some on my face, then stuck my wrists under the tap to clean off the silver. The water stung my burned skin, but I clamped my back teeth together and kept my wrists under the stream for as long as I could stand it. The less poison that entered my system, the better.

No cup, but I stuck my head under the faucet and took a drink. But the blood craving was riding me hard now, and the water only made me more thirsty.

The burger and blood-wine had helped, but my body had burned through a lot of the energy to heal. There was nothing left to fight the silver’s poison.

I needed fresh blood.

The vampire cuffed me to the wall again. I eyed his neck. If I struck fast, I could take a few mouthfuls of blood before he stopped me.

I grimaced and forced myself to look away. A few mouthfuls wouldn’t be worth whatever he did to me in retaliation.

The vampire left and the cell went dark.

I passed the day in a miserable, half-starved state.

7

RIDLEY

Leo de Froulay’s library was like something out of Architectural Digest—a parquet wood floor, cozy reading nooks and aisles upon aisles of leather-bound books.

His butler ushered me inside, announcing me to the primus, and left.

I walked the length of the library beneath a row of crystal chandeliers. Scattered among the bookcases were small tables displaying beautiful objects. A shimmering dark-glass globe, an antique Victrola, a ruby vase filled with ice-white flowers.

De Froulay waited at the back of the library behind an enormous ebony desk. “Good evening.” He closed a sleek silver laptop and stood up.

Tall and broad-shouldered, he was stunning even for a vampire, with a mane of white-blond hair and the sculpted face of a Greek god. He was dressed more casually than Moreau in a midnight-blue dress shirt and black pants, but his clothes had that just-right, handmade fit, even his polished leather shoes.

In another lifetime the Paris primus had been a famous French actor. When he walked the streets of Paris, humans literally ran into lampposts trying to get a better look at him. He didn’t have to lure humans to be his thralls. They lined up, begging to be taken.

“Ridley.” He spoke my real name—the one my mom had given me when I was two years old—with a slight hesitation. I knew he thought it was ugly. The first time we’d met, he’d asked why I had a boy’s name.

He circled his desk and held out his hands. “It’s good to see you.”

“Bon soir.” I put a smile on my lips and took his hands.

His fingers were cool. He kissed me on both cheeks with lips that were even colder. “You look très belle, ma p’tite. I like the dress.”

I shrugged and released his hands. I’d chosen a plain, pale-blue thingy that could’ve doubled as a slip, the most inoffensive dress I found in Moreau’s collection.

“It’s not mine. A loan from Enforcer Moreau.”

“Ah. Philippe has good taste.” He nodded at the red leather couch in a nearby alcove. “Please. Seat yourself.”

I complied, holding the slip-thingy’s tiny skirt against my thighs so I wouldn’t inadvertently flash him.

“Some blood-wine?” He turned to a wine cabinet.

“Yes, please.” I crossed one ankle over the other.

Proving to Primus de Froulay that Ridley Crawford wasn’t completely feral.

And yeah, I hated that he brought out that Ridley in me—the Ridley who eyed other, more girly women, wondering how they achieved those put-together looks without seeming to try.

Me, I’d had trouble walking in the high heels I’d borrowed to go with the dress. I’d never mastered those tiny, hip-swaying, pigeon-toed steps you needed to walk in three-inch heels. Besides, it took too damn long to get anywhere.

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