Page 3 of Ruthless Ends

Or maybe it’s because a different word is playing on a loop in my head.

Fiancée. Fiancée. Fiancée.

I blink, coming back to the car, but the rest of the back seat is empty. I don’t know either of the Marionettes in the front.

And Reid isn’t here.

They probably had different protocols to get the vampires out of the sun, which is rapidly rising in the distance.

Right. That must be it.

But that doesn’t even begin to address the question of whothe fuckis Anya?

Did he bring her here? Was that part of his plan? Or was she with the brothers who were trying to kidnap me tonight? And why has he never so much as mentioned her name?

I’m yours, Valerie. Completely. And I’m hoping that you want to be mine.

I’ll never want that with anyone else.

I’ve definitely never loved anyone the way I love you.

My eyes burn, and I clench my teeth, fighting the stupid impulse to cry. Because this doesn’t make any sense.

I couldn’t have been that wrong about him. Not him.

Once we’re back at the estate, there’s still no sign of him. Not as I follow the Marionettes out of the car, and not as the corridors fill with people, all heading to the same place, but then they disappear into a room, pointedly not letting me follow.

The clang of the door closing echoes in the empty hall.

I stumble back a step, then another, unsure of where to go, what to do. What is the appropriate reaction to nearly being kidnapped by psychos trying to raise their brother from the dead and then getting accosted by the fiancée of your boyfriend?

“Hey, princess.”

My spine stiffens, my heart skittering in my chest.

Am I dreaming? Is that why nothing makes sense?

He looks the same as the last time I saw him, when he dropped me and Reid off at a motel. Though now there’s a gash from his cheek to his forehead, deep enough that it probably needs stitches. Blood saturates his blond hair, darkening it several shades, and there’s a bite mark on the side of his throat, the puncture wounds jagged and wide.

The momentary spark of relief turns to ice as I meet Cam’s eyes. “What the hell are you doing here? If they see you…”

“You worried about me?” The light, teasing tone of his voice is a direct contrast to the intensity in his expression.

We stare at each other, and a million emotions I don’t want to acknowledge war in my chest. Because, well, yes. One of them is definitely worry, made only worse by how beaten up he looks.

Finally, he adds, “Nothing to worry about, princess. I’ve had an agreement with the Auclair estate for years. They know I’m here.”

The words shouldn’t be a surprise—plenty of the other estates are more welcoming toward weres than the Carrington—but I can’t imagine Cam cooperating with the royal vampires in any capacity, especially given his blood deal with James Westcott.

“Do they—”

“They know about the deal,” he says lowly, then wraps his fingers above my elbow, urging me to follow him. The heat of his skin sinks into me, and I pull away.

“What are you doing here?”

He lets out a short breath through his nose and mutters something I don’t catch. “Are you going to walk with me or not?”

For some reason, I do.

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