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‘A youthful error.’

‘You were eighty. The mark is permanent. Be thankful it’s not fatal.’

‘A warlock is young until at least one hundred and twenty.’

Eira makes a sound that might have been a laugh if the room were less dangerous.

I lean forward. ‘Ask your third thing carefully.’

Vey’s gaze slides to the gold-thread wards shimmering along the walls. ‘A drop of your blood in contract. Not for use. For guarantee.’

Ten vampires go very still.

Eira’s alarm snaps through me. Absolutely fucking not.

My gaze remains on Vey. ‘You wish to hold a drop of my blood?’

‘I wish to survive giving you this route. A contract sealed with your blood protects me from your enemies and yours from me. I will not consume it, sell it, study it, worship it, or write poetry to it.’

‘You are not amusing.’

‘No, Don Moretti. I’m terrified and masking it with professional charm.’

I almost respect him for that.

Eira’s thought touches mine, sharp with worry. Valentin.

I look at her. Her mouth is calm. Her eyes are not.

He wants your blood.

Yes.

People keep doing that lately.

A shadow passes through her face. Guilt. Anger. Fear. I do not like seeing any of them on her.

‘What if it is necessary?’ I ask aloud, softly enough that only she hears.

Her eyes lift to mine.

‘What if you’re precious to me, little hunter?’

The words escape before I decide to permit them.

The room seems to quiet around us as Eira stares at me as if I have placed a weapon in her hands and asked her whether she knows how to use it. Her defences falter, and something warm, stunned and aching moves through the bond.

Then she swallows. ‘That’s almost enough to make me admit I don’t want you to die, vampire.’

‘Almost?’

Her lips part. No snark comes.

We simply look at one another.

Until Luca clears his throat from the shadows and murmurs, ‘I would like to live long enough to see where that sentence was going, so perhaps the blood contract?’

Eira’s face flushes.