“All right, then,” Thorne said. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

He turned his back to his brothers once more and focused. A few seconds later the apertures down his back wept and his wings began to release. The sensation was pure heaven, but as before, a few gasps and another stream of profanity hit the air.

“What the fuck,” Zach cried. “You’ve got royle wings, just like Parisa. What the goddamn fuck?”

***

At eleven o’clock in the morning, Parisa sat in the garden waiting for Commander Greaves to visit her. He had never done so before. She sat on the teak bench beneath the tamarind tree, her nerves on fire and her heart beating a dull thud. Rith had sent her out here to wait an hour ahead of time, which didn’t help her growing distress. What did he want with her, and why had he waited all this time to see her?

Rith’s dark demeanor hadn’t changed. He still watched her with a cruel light in his eye as though waiting for her to make a mistake so that he’d have an excuse to harm her.

She smoothed her hands over the cream silk dress she wore. For Greaves’s visit, Rith had made sure she was well groomed, and that included her finest dress. Her makeup was flawless: The Burmese women loved to give her cat-eyes with heavy black eyeliner to bring out the amethyst color. Her dark brown hair had been sculpted into several loops down the back of her head. Talk about a gilded cage.

But whatever Rith was, Greaves was so much worse. In her opinion, he personified hypocrisy. He spoke and dressed like an aristocrat, but if even half the stories about him were true, he created death vampires of all those who served him. He might have the manners of a gentleman, but he had the soul of Lucifer and intended nothing but pain and suffering to the two worlds he meant to conquer.

A loud crash sounded from the direction of the house, like china shattering on the planked wooden floor. Parisa turned toward the porch of the large British Colonial. She saw movement just beyond the open doorway but couldn’t make out what was happening. Figures grappled back and forth in the shadows. Grunting followed, and Rith cried out.

She rose from the teak bench as an unfamiliar woman appeared in the doorway. She wore loose light blue flannel pajama bottoms and a navy tank top. Her wavy chestnut hair hung to the sides of a beautiful face. She had large light blue eyes, almost silver in appearance, but wild looking. She was Caucasian, something Parisa had not seen in three months.

Parisa couldn’t breathe. The woman caught sight of her and shifted in her direction. Parisa backed up until her legs hit the teak bench.

The woman raced toward her and knocked her into the bench. She fell on her, grabbing her shoulders. “Help me,” she pleaded in English. “You have to help me. Get me out of here. Please, please.”

When Parisa realized she wasn’t being attacked, she held on to the woman’s shoulders. “You’re being held against your will?” It couldn’t really be a surprise that another woman might be trapped in the same house, but Parisa hadn’t seen or heard anyone else on the premises before. Where had she come from?

A shift of shadow near the porch drew Parisa’s eye. Rith appeared in the doorway. She had never seen him look so angry, his chin low, his lips curved down. He pressed a cloth to his forehead, then looked at it. He tossed the cloth aside and moved swiftly in their direction, hips low, knees bent, hands splayed like claws.

“I—I can’t help you,” Parisa said. “I’m a captive as well.”

“What?” The woman looked at Parisa’s hair, her cream silk gown. “But you look so lovely. I thought this was your home.”

“Oh, God, no.” Parisa looked down at their joined arms. A tremor went through, a soft vibration, a knowing. She knew without understanding why that her future was connected to this woman. She stared into the silver-blue eyes. “I feel as though I know you.”

“What are you doing to me?” The woman looked at their joined arms as well. “What is that vibration?”

Rith was almost on them. “What’s your name?” Parisa asked.

“Fiona. Fiona Gaines. Of Boston from a long time ago. Who are you?”

“Parisa.”

Fiona’s eyes filled with tears. “Today would have been my daughter’s birthday. I … I can’t take being here anymore. Help me, Parisa. Please—”

Rith’s strong pale hands caught Fiona’s arms and pulled her away, a solid, heavy jerk. Because Parisa was unwilling to release the woman, she grabbed for her waist and fell forward onto Fiona, causing all three to tumble onto the lawn.

“Let go of her,” Rith shouted.

Parisa refused. She wanted to help this woman, this fellow captive. Rith jerked and rolled in the direction of the house where the lawn slanted. Fiona rolled with him, which meant that Parisa’s arms were quickly twisted as she got caught in the tumbling. She had no choice. She released Fiona. She cried out at the pain, not just of having her skin stretched and bruised but because of the separation from the unknown woman.

She sat up and watched the struggle. She rose to her feet ready to do battle as well but Rith caught her movement and lifted a hand in her direction. The gesture was way too familiar. Parisa had made use of her own palms earlier in her captivity and had been punished for it. There was nothing she could do, though. The next moment the hand-blast caught her in the chest. She flew backward into the bench once more and struck her head. Hard.

She slid to the ground on her side. Stars danced over her eyes. She blinked. More stars.

From the odd angle, she could still watch the struggle play out as Rith slapped Fiona several times until the woman fell limp into his arms. Vampires had a lot of physical power, even average-looking vampires like Rith.

He tossed her over his shoulder and carted her back into the house. Once she disappeared inside, Parisa had the strangest sensation that her life had just changed forever.

She sat up slowly to lean against the teak bench. Her head throbbed. Who was the woman? Why was Rith holding her captive—and were there other women hidden away somewhere inside the house?

She felt a vibration in the air and rose to her feet, an abrupt movement that caused her head to swim.

Greaves materialized in front of her. His brows rose as he looked her up and down. A frown appeared between his thick arched black brows.

She reached up and felt through her hair. Some of the elegant loops had come loose and now hung in an awkward mass down her back. She glanced at her gown and saw the grass stains where her knees must have slid over the ground. There was blood on the fabric as well, but she had no idea whether it was from her or Rith or Fiona.

Rith came running from the house. “My most humble apologies, master. We had an unfortunate accident just a moment ago. I will make the woman ready for you.”

Greaves turned slightly toward him and inclined his head. “Yes, please do.”

Rith swept to Parisa’s side, hooked her beneath her arm, and dragged her on running feet from the garden. “How dare you involve yourself in that way?” he hissed, over and over.

A few minutes later, with her coiffure restored by two trembling Burmese servants, Parisa returned to the garden as ordered. She wore a new gown, a light green silk dress, tight at the waist and long at mid-calf, very conservative.

Reentering the garden, she saw Greaves from behind. He sat in a large teak chair, elbows planted on the wide arms. From her vantage, since the teacup was missing from the saucer, she presumed he was drinking his tea.

His bald head reflected the dancing shadows of the lacy tamarind leaves overhead. She rounded the table upon which the tea service sat and took up her place again on the teak bench.

He wore a charcoal-gray suit that bore a faint and oh-so-elegant pinstripe. His tie was lavender silk; a black onyx ring graced his right pinkie. He was handsome, though completely bald, and had the most innocent expression in his large, round brown eyes, a look akin to child-like wonder.

Whatever else this monster was, his appearance was tailored, crisp, clean. Yes, a very tidy monster. His sole imperfection was his left hand, which he held curled inward as though slightly crippled.

The elegant monster smiled, showing even white teeth.

Parisa sat with her hands held in a loose clasp over the fine green silk. Her fingers trembled but then why wouldn’t they since her mind kept flashing on images of Fiona. Where was Rith keeping the woman?

She kept her expression calm, however, and measured her blinks. Only her elevated heart rate would give away the state of her emotions. Somehow she knew Greaves could detect each beat, track the rise in tempo, and even now smiled at her fear.

He had never paid her a visit before, so she couldn’t imagine his reason for coming today. This couldn’t be good.

He sipped the traditional local black tea enhanced with condensed milk. Parisa didn’t care for the tea or much of the food. Her appetite still lagged despite the luxury of her captivity. She knew now why zoo animals often seemed so lethargic: Without her freedom, her spirit had shriveled.

“There is no need to fear me, Parisa.” The monster’s voice had a soothing quality, a gentle bubbling stream, a delight.

“I suppose not. I’ve been here three months and I’ve received excellent care.”

“I have no doubt of that. Rith is one of my best servants. He always follows my orders to the letter—and where you are concerned, your care is of the upmost importance.”

“But why have you brought me here, to Burma, Commander Greaves? I hope you’ve come to tell me your purpose. Better yet, to release me.” Where was this boldness coming from?

He smiled. “I must say you smell of heaven.”

She repressed a sigh. Was that the only answer he would give her? You smell of heaven? “I am bathed daily in fragrant oils.” She knew enough to give a good report. Rith would hurt her otherwise. Given her misdemeanor earlier, she thought it likely a punishment already waited for her. Great.

Greaves nodded.

He settled the white teacup on its companion saucer, rising from his chair. Her heart rate took another step up, a quick fluttering that descended into heavy bass thumps. She lowered her gaze to the grass at her feet. She began counting blades.