“No,” Dimitri said at last, stepping onto the stair. Then he paused and looked at the driver and, making a quick, probably foolish, decision, gave him Rubey’s direction.

He couldn’t take Maia home looking as she was, and himself the same. If anyone saw them in their respective conditions, let alone together, Maia would be ruined. At least they could get a change of clothing and washed up at Rubey’s, and perhaps something that would even hide the mauling marks he’d left on her skin. Damn it all. Damn me.

He snatched the morbid thoughts away and continued on logically. Aside of getting cleaned up, going to Rubey’s would be the easiest way to get word to Giordan and Voss that he and Maia were safe. Despite Voss’s change back to mortality, the establishment remained a central location through which those familiar with the Dracule communicated and socialized. They knew Rubey could be counted on for confidentiality and secrecy even if she and her ladies weren’t providing services.

It was the most expedient, prudent thing to do. Just like intercepting her before she waltzed at the masquerade ball.

With uncustomary care, he climbed into what he now perceived as his own personal hell and settled onto the bench seat across from his own personal tormentor. As the door closed behind him, its latch clicking into place with finality, Dimitri looked across at Maia.

She was not, as one might expect after such a harrowing experience, huddled in the corner, wide-eyed and meek. Not Maia.

He steered his thoughts around. Perhaps it would be best if he went back to thinking of her as Miss Woodmore.

“You could have killed me,” were her first words. Not shouted at the pitch or volume that set his ears to ringing, but in a low, hushed tone.

That was the first sign that something was truly wrong.

“Which time?” he replied, hiding behind a bored tone. Not thinking about how right she was. How close he’d come to doing just that.

He could, of course, see quite clearly in the dark. Everything was tinged bottle-green, and all shades of that hue and black, but he could easily discern the enticing curves of her collarbones, the sagging bodice of the simple dress she was wearing, the fact that her hair hung in a messy knot at the left side of the back of her neck, and that her mouth was a hard, flat line. He was not looking at the tiny marks on her shoulder. Definitely not remembering the taste of her…skin, lifeblood, scent, mouth—

“That’s a very good question,” Miss Woodmore replied, shifting a bit in her seat. Her very movement sent a shimmer of her essence toward him and he had to turn away, trying not to allow the scent to reach him. “Both times, in fact. The time when you threw a stake at me and hit the vampire and the time you jumped out of a window and dragged me with you.”

Dimitri opened his mouth to correct her—after all, he’d thrown the stake at the vampire, not at her—but thought better of it. Perhaps if he simply didn’t talk, he could get through this carriage ride with nothing more than having to listen to her reprimand him.

And that was much preferable to other things that could happen herein.

Things that he simply was not going to allow himself to think about. Or remember.

Like the moment when he really had nearly killed her, when he was so filled with her essence…her lifeblood flooding his mouth, coppery and sweet, her skin beneath his hands as he forgot where he was…who she was…what he was doing. He took, and took, molding her with his hands, tasting, sipping, drawing on her, from her…

He closed his eyes, his fingers trembling, and tried not to smell her. He rested his head against the side of the carriage and pushed it all away.

Had he lost the chance to free himself from Lucifer? Black despair started to build inside him and he squeezed his eyes closed. And yet, he would do it again.

Oh, he would do it again.

Don’t think about it now.

“How are you feeling?” She broke the silence with a voice that was soft, perhaps a bit husky with…worry.

Dimitri opened his eyes. No, that would not be a good direction for the conversation to go. It would be better to fight with her, keep her hackles up and therefore her at a distance.

The cold, hard ball in his gut had begun to grow and swell, despite the fact that he wasn’t going to allow himself to think about what he’d done. What, after decades of control, of sacrifice, he’d given in to. And how good it made him feel. About how she moaned and writhed against him, pleading for something she didn’t understand.

Lucifer’s dark soul, he’d nearly killed her.

It was only a miracle that had brought him out of the maelstrom of need and pleasure. A miracle.

He examined her in the green-gray light. Even now, he could see how drawn her skin was. The ghostly pallor, evident to his sharp eyes.

He should ask her how she was feeling. But he couldn’t speak for fear of what might come out. And so he pulled his cloak of cold, hard emotion around him and looked over at her with deliberately steady eyes. “Other than a rather nasty experience, I couldn’t be better,” he said, deliberately leaving the “experience” unspecified.

She bit her lower lip and lifted her chin in a gesture that he’d come to recognize as one of stubbornness.

Just then, the carriage stopped and it was all Dimitri could do to keep from leaping out with alacrity.

Instead he lifted one eyebrow and said, “We’ve arrived at Rubey’s. It’s not a place frequented by ladies of your esteem, and I’ll preempt your complaints and criticism by offering my apologies now. I suspect we’ll find not only Dewhurst but Cale here, as well, and perhaps even your brother. As well, Rubey will allow you to put yourself to rights before returning to Blackmont Hall.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but, right on cue, the carriage door opened. Dimitri fairly lunged out, drawing in the refuse and smoke-scented air of London.

It was infinitely better than the essence inside the carriage.

Rubey, Maia learned, was the proprietress, or more accurately, the brothel owner. The moment it became clear to Maia that Corvindale had brought her to a brothel, she turned to glare at him and found him watching her with that condescending look as if to remind her that he’d already apologized.

She looked away and instead allowed herself to be brought into a luxuriously decorated residence that smelled faintly of floral and tobacco. Although she had no idea what a house of ill repute looked like, it certainly wasn’t this tastefully and elegantly appointed place.

The woman named Rubey, who looked comfortably like her name—for she had strawberry-blond hair and intelligent blue eyes, and spoke with a bit of an Irish lilt—took one look at Maia, then at the bare-chested earl, and immediately clamped her lips closed.

Corvindale, of course, was lavish with commands and directions, and Rubey was efficient and yet less than obeisant in her response. But her eyes were wide and shocked, if not speculative, and she said nothing as she rang for a maid. Apparently, despite Corvindale’s certainty, neither Dewhurst nor Mr. Cale were currently present.

Not long after, Maia found herself in the deepest, warmest, most fragrant bath she could ever recall having. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes as she rested back against its edge, as pleasure washed over her, followed by confusion and anger and a variety of other emotions.

She’d sent the maid away as soon as she slid into the bath, telling her to return only when she rang for her. Maia needed time alone.

She could scarcely account for everything that had happened since yesterday afternoon—for the sun was just rising and it was a new day. Come to think of it, she could scarcely comprehend everything that had happened, and that she’d experienced, since Corvindale became her reluctant guardian. Everything from the existence of vampires, to being attacked, fed upon and kidnapped by them…along with her sister becoming engaged to one of them, who had become mortal once again.

In her exhausted and confused state, she could no longer ignore the loneliness that she often forced herself to disregard, that sense of having no one with whom she could truly talk and share the things that worried her. She let it all pour out in tears, silent and furious recriminations punctuated by violent splashes, and even a rash of prayerful words directed to Above.

Maia was grateful for the steamy water, for she used it to wash away the tears of frustration and anger and confusion, and when she was finished, she rang for the maid.

Determined to be as strong and resilient as she always was—for if she weren’t, no one else would be—Maia allowed the maid to wash her hair and to thoroughly bathe her before helping her out of the tub.

Her dress, shift and corset were replaced by ones from Rubey, and despite Maia’s suspicion that they’d be scandalous, she was pleased to find the garments tasteful and stylish.

Shortly after, her damp hair pinned in a loose braid over one side of her neck, strategically placed to hide the marks there, Maia found herself in a parlorlike chamber, waiting for she wasn’t certain what.

Rubey came in, looking fresh and elegant in a light green dress of muslin. She was carrying a tray and that was when Maia realized how hungry she was.

“I’ve met your sister,” Rubey said, offering Maia a short glass filled with amber liquid. “Here, a bit of the Irish gold for you, as my papa called it,” she explained when Maia hesitated. “After what you’ve been through, you should have twice as much.”

Maia took it and sipped the burning liquid as her hostess arranged cheese and bread on a small plate and offered it to her.

“You’ve met Angelica?” Maia asked, sipping more of what she presumed was whiskey. Rubey was right, it made her feel better. Warmer and a bit looser.

“She was here some time ago with Voss,” Rubey explained as Maia nibbled on the cheese. “The night of the masquerade ball where the vampires attacked. By the by, Dimitri has sent word to her that you’re found and safe.”

“I appreciate knowing that. Thank you. You seem more than a bit familiar with the Dracule,” Maia said, and noticed for the first time that Rubey had bite marks on her neck, just below the ear. The sight reminded her of her own experience, and her stomach did a little flutter. “Are you one of them?”