Julien laughed at the far end of the dinner table, boasting loudly about his latest hunt. He leaned back in his chair, throwing smoldering looks at the ladies until several nearly swooned. Then he raised his glass toward Benedict at the head of the table.

“To Lord Ainsley,” he declared, “his frivolous parties, and to our youth. May it be long, hot, and sweaty!”

The ladies blushed. The men roared with laughter, crystal chiming against crystal. Benedict smiled on cue and lifted his goblet, though his grip was too tight, fingers numb beneath the glass.

Is that really what you want to be, newly fanged one?

Amanda’s voice slid into his thoughts without warning; uninvited, unwelcome, intimate.

A lust-drunk thing chasing wet thighs? I made you hunger for something else, didn’t I…

His smile did not falter. Years of practice saw to that. He drank, laughed when expected, nodded at Julien like nothing was wrong. But she has always been wrong. And ignoring her had been impossible from the very beginning.

Amanda had been beautiful with her deep brown hair, blue eyes, soft, full lips. Eager. Almost desperate to be in his bed. He had wanted her instantly. And as always, he had mistaken desire for permission.

He hadn’t listened when she said no. He never did.

I didn’t want that, my Lord, she murmured now, silk over steel. But you took me anyway. And now you bear the consequence.

Pain flared through him without warning.

His veins burned, dry and abrasive, as if scraped raw from the inside. His throat ached no matter how much he drank wine, water or brandy. Nothing eased it. He knew why.

Blood.

The craving had greeted him the first morning he woke alone, sheets still warm, dark stains crusting on the linen. He had wanted to lick them clean. When he felt his fangs for the first time, panic had nearly torn a scream from his chest.

Vampires were myths. Stories to frighten children. Convenient excuses to pull trembling ladies closer and—

Sink your teeth into their necks and drink them dry?

No.

The glass slammed down before he realized he’d moved. Silence rippled along the table. Benedict released the cracked stem slowly, nudged it aside, and smoothed the tablecloth with practiced grace.

“My apologies,” he said lightly. “The stem was flawed.”

Laughter resumed, thinner now. He met Julien’s gaze and inclined his head.

Distract them. Make it pass.

He wished Julien could distract the hunger too, but that would require truth. And truth was something he could never afford.

If he had tried to stop me, Amanda mused, I wouldn’t have been so merciful. I wouldn’t have turned him. Not like you. You... were special.

Turned him into what? A monster?

No. He refused.

He endured the sun’s bite. Cleared iron and vervain from his home. He had not drunk a single drop of blood, not from a vein, not from a glass. He found other ways.

Food. Hidden. Measured. Controlled.Enough to pretend. Pretend, Amanda laughed softly. You humans love that word.

The scrape of glass against marble snapped his attention back to the room. A servant stood frozen nearby, staring at their hand. A thin cut bloomed red at the fingertip. A single drop fell to the floor.

Then another.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The scent hit him like a blow.

His world narrowed to distance and velocity. How fast, how hard, how deep. His mouth flooded. His fangs bit into his lip as his jaw locked shut.

Taste him.

He didn’t know whose voice it was anymore.

Not here. Not like this.

Benedicts hands trembled. His vision blurred. Staying would mean surrender.

So he tore himself away. He staggered from the ballroom, breath ragged, heart hammering, the echo of laughter chasing him down the corridor.

There was only one place left to go.

Only one person who was supposed to keep this from happening.

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