“Only if you tell me what the hell … I mean, what’s going on?”

“Oh, that’s right. You probably wouldn’t know. Havily’s blood has unique properties: It mimics dying blood. That’s why there was such a dustup about this. Leto will probably emerge much stronger and, um, well, he’ll have certain needs.”

“Oh, my God.”

“You got that right. So this”—she extended a hand toward the couch—“is going to get very interesting in about three minutes, maybe less. And our warriors just aren’t going to handle this at all.”

“I’ll watch the baby.”

Alison left the room, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor. Marguerite felt a rush of cool air from the front door opening and closing.

Parisa approached her, looking worried. “The men will have to head to the Borderlands soon, but once this is finished”—she jerked her head in the direction of the couch—“at the very least Marcus will need to assert himself with Havily, if you know what I mean.”

“But she’s just trying to help, maybe even save his life.”

Parisa shrugged. “They’re bonded. This is a big no-no, especially Havily’s blood.”

“I get that, but…”

Parisa was chewing on her lower lip, and her complexion was flushed. She kept glancing in the direction of the front door.

Finally, Marguerite understood. Parisa’s complexion hadn’t pinked up because she was embarrassed.

Alison came back in and called Fiona over. “We’re going to have to break this up. Kerrick practically attacked me. Antony’s shaking. Marcus is sitting in a chair with his arms tight around his chest and rocking like he’s going crazy. Fiona, I’d suggest you go out to Jean-Pierre and take him home … now. He’s pacing like a madman. It’s as though whatever Marcus is feeling the rest of them are as well, even the ones that aren’t bonded. Thorne sent Zach, Luken, and Santiago off to the Blood and Bite for some R and R.”

Fiona didn’t hesitate. “Got it.” She lifted her arm and folded.

Parisa was next. A couple of seconds later she and Medichi materialized outside their bedroom door, way down the hall, at least thirty yards away. He was kissing her hard as he pushed open the door to what Marguerite supposed was his suite of rooms. He all but dragged her inside then shut the door so hard the walls shook.

Alison moved to the front of the chair. “I’ll take Helena now. Sorry about this. I suppose it’s not exactly a rousing endorsement for the breh-hedden. We’ll catch up later, okay?”

“Sure.” The blond beauty leaned down and lifted her baby oh-so-carefully, cradling her in her arms. “Thank you for holding her. It meant a lot.” Then she was just gone.

Thorne reappeared by her chair so suddenly that she jerked away from him. If she’d been standing, his cherry tobacco scent would have knocked her flat. Sweet Christ the man was shaking.

She rose and slid her arm around his waist.

God, I need you, he sent.

“Do you want to leave?” she asked. “Maybe we should leave.” His obvious need of her, and all that specific male scent meant just for her, was doing a serious number on her body.

“Roses,” he murmured.

He looked down at her. She saw the raw need in his eyes, and his powerful tobacco scent powered over her. His eyes were dilated.

Still, he shook his head. “Not yet. I have to see for myself how Leto’s doing. Then we can go.”

Havily backed up, holding her wrist. Marguerite caught a glimpse and realized Leto had all but savaged her. But as she turned to Thorne, she was smiling and her eyes were wet. “You’ll see in a minute.” She then drew a deep breath and lowered her chin like she knew she was in for it. “Now, for Marcus.”

She lifted her arm and vanished.

Grace stood up. As she moved out of the way, so that Marguerite had a full view of Leto, she gasped. Even Thorne muttered, “Holy shit.”

* * *

Leto sat up. His eyes were closed as he leaned against the back of the couch and touched his stomach. “Free,” he whispered. “I’m free.”

“You’re out of pain?”

He looked up and met Grace’s gaze, her exquisite green-gold eyes and pale lashes. “Yes. For the first time in weeks.” He felt alive, really alive.

Healthy.

Strong.

Ready.

The scent of the earth rolled toward him in beautiful sweet waves. He was fully erect and what he needed was in front of him, the angel who had given her blood twice to save his life, the woman meant for him, his breh, and he would have her.

He looked past her and saw Thorne staring down at Marguerite, his body arched over hers, his hand at her nape. He leaned to her ear and said something. Then they vanished.

A shiver chased down his neck and spine.

Sex was in the air, in the room.

He took Grace’s hand and pulled her toward him, between his legs. She shook her head.

“Yes,” he responded.

* * *

Grace stood over Leto, willing.

Yet not willing.

Oh-so-ready.

Yet frightened.

All that she desired was in front of her. She was damp between her legs, and little shivers chased up and down her inner thighs until she was trembling.

Her lips were parted.

She couldn’t breathe.

Her efforts at poetry had been one thing, but this banquet before her, this decadent feast, was quite another. He was a rich roast beef, smothered in wine sauce, when all she’d eaten for a century was sticks of celery and chunks of hard cheese.

“You’re afraid of me.”

“I’m afraid of this path.”

“Do you want to go back to the Convent?”

She realized she hadn’t thought of the Convent once since leaving with him, since her obsidian flame power had emerged in the form of the earth, rising up through her body, and guiding her to Moscow Two so that she could save him.

No, the Convent had not been in her thoughts. Yet the reason for going there in the first place was. In her most essential being, Grace was old and very spiritual. Not religious, but she held spirituality as one of the highest forms of human existence, touching the heavens, the purest form of thought, the potential of the vampire nature.

The Convent had meant decades of serious study, of all the religions of Mortal Earth, and most certainly the unifying doctrines of the Creator’s Church of Second Earth.

But the study of how man, whether ascended or not, always turned a form of spiritual enlightenment into the timber and plaster framework of communal worship was still not what drew her to service and devotion. What drew her was a love of the divine.

And yet …

And yet, the whole time she had been locked away, studying, seeking her own enlightenment through prayer on her knees for hours at a time, she had written her erotic verses. The dichotomy she understood very well: She was human, she was vampire, and she could not escape the call of passion and of joining, flesh-to-flesh. Even seeing baby Helena asleep on Marguerite’s shoulder had brought an entirely new stream of sensations flowing through her body.

Now here was Leto, shedding his fragrant forest scent all over again, the one that had engulfed her in the infirmary at the Mortal Earth colony.

“You brought me,” she whispered. “When you took my blood.”

“You brought me as well,” he said, nodding. “And you’ve saved me twice.”

“Did Havily’s blood heal you permanently? Are you well now? Can you move forward in your life and survive?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want to live?”

His gaze drifted away from her, his expression as stricken as if she had put a cup over his flame.

When he met her gaze again, he said, “I don’t know, Grace. I know that I want you as I haven’t wanted a woman before. I know this is the breh-hedden. I ache for you. I crave to take possession of you and I would take you now, if you would allow it. As for living, I’m not sure a future is what I deserve.”

She turned away from him and the chasing shivers suddenly left her body. Her life had never been simple, and now this wasn’t going to be simple, either.

She wanted to give herself to him. Part of her wanted to open her arms and take him to her breast, hold him fast, keep him forever. She had always admired the Warriors of the Blood because she shared with them the quality of commitment. Whatever their manly parts, their size and strength, their ability to wield a sword and slay the enemy, to battle and to kill, they were above all devoted and loyal.

Which led her back to Leto’s traitorous activities of the past centuries. She felt the depth of his guilt and how his guilt now undermined his will to live. She felt it in each breath he took.

As for herself, the sudden presence of Leto in her life still only addressed one half of it.

The other half belonged to her most essential self, that part of her that was devoted not just to the Creator, or to service, but to true spirituality and growth.

She couldn’t deny that this was who she was in her deepest self. And though she had certainly enjoyed sexual pleasure while lying in his arms at the Mortal Earth infirmary, while clothed and with a sheet between them, a surrender at this point would have significantly more meaning. To give herself to Leto now was a commitment.

She understood the breh-hedden perhaps better than he did because Thorne had given many reports of it, how it had afflicted Kerrick and Alison, and the other warriors and their women. She saw how it affected him now. It always brought change and—perhaps more important—a complete shifting of purpose and drive.

She had her purpose and she couldn’t imagine that changing. Still, she smelled Leto and his primal scent worked in her body, reminding her of every poetic couplet she’d created over the past hundred years.

“I am unworthy of you,” he said.

She turned back to him, horrified. “Is that what you think I’m pondering right now?”

“It would be natural.” He held his palms out and stared at them. “I have so much innocent blood on my hands and even more in the future.”