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I’d been drugged, beaten, and confined in a cell. I wasn’t even being allowed to sleep. And my wrists burned like someone had taken a torch to them.
Anger was too tame a word for what I felt. Hell, rage was too tame a word.
I wanted to rip Étan’s pretty blond head from his body with my bare hands.
Étan straightened up. Slammed his open hand into my throat.
The back of my head banged against the concrete. A bright light detonated behind my eyes, followed by a searing flash of pain. I barely noticed. I strained at the cuffs, trying to get at him.
Kill.
The blue circles around Étan’s irises seemed to spark and flame. His fangs were fully extended. “You shouldn’t have done that, dhampir.”
My snarl was pure, enraged animal. I jerked my knee up, trying again to jam it into his balls.
But this time, he was ready.
He shoved my knee to one side with his thigh.
Pinned me to the wall with his body.
Smashed my face sideways against the wall, exposing the side of my neck.
And sank his fangs into my jugular vein.
5
RIDLEY
Philippe Moreau’s private quarters were on the level above the ops room. Aubin met me in the hall and escorted me to the enforcer’s office. As before, I knew the way, but the butler was a by-the-book kind of guy.
To get to Moreau’s office, we had to go through first his salon, then his library. Like the public rooms on the ground floor, they were showpieces with silk-covered walls, gilded wood furniture and Persian carpets so old and delicate I was almost afraid to walk on them.
Moreau’s office was concealed in the library behind a sliding bookcase. The door stood open. He was seated behind a large walnut desk, his trim body elegant in a three-piece suit—navy with a chalk stripe—that I’m sure had been made for him by a pricey French designer. His black hair was touched silver at the temples and a narrow mustache adorned his upper lip.
He bestowed a thin smile on me. “Good evening,” he said in the precise English of an upper-class Londoner.
The accent, the clothes, the whole persona were calculated to make you think he was a stylish, classy man; but I’d played too many roles myself to be fooled. Philippe Moreau was a thug in a polished outer shell.
“’Evening.” I pitched my voice just polite enough.
“May I bring you anything, m’sieur?” asked Aubin.
“Nothing, thank you.” Moreau looked at me. “Unless you’d like a blood-wine?”
“No, thanks.”
“Très bien.” Aubin sketched a small bow and left, closing the door behind him.
Moreau nodded at the spindly-legged chair in front of his desk. “Sit, if you please.”
I eyed the silk-covered seat askance. The chair was an antique that probably cost a fortune. I’d grown up in small-town USA, a long way from Paris. I’d never be comfortable in the opulent world of vampires.
Moreau’s dark eyes took in my discomfort. The man noticed everything. But unlike Étan, he didn’t try to rub it in or make me more uncomfortable; he was too clever for that.
I perched on the chair and met his gaze head on. Beneath the stylish clothes and classy manners, Moreau was still a monster.
And monsters didn’t scare me. Not anymore.
