Mortal enemies...

...bound by a kiss

When his spirit is separated from his body, werewolf Zane Wilder is invisible to everyone—except Vivianne Marchetta. A vampire who has good reason to loathe all lycans, Vivianne is eager to be rid of her shifter shadow. But the spell that should sever the connection between this mismatched pair only deepens their bond. Can they trust each other enough to survive this transformation, or will it destroy them both?

SHANNON CURTIS grew up picnicking in graveyards (long story) and reading by torchlight, and has worked in various roles, such as office admin manager, logistics supervisor and betting agent, to mention a few. Her first love—after reading, and her husband—is writing, and she writes romantic suspense, paranormal and contemporary romance. From faeries to cowboys, military men to business tycoons, she loves crafting stories of thrills, chills, kills and kisses. She divides her time between being an office administrator for the Romance Writers of Australia and creating spellbinding tales of mischief, mayhem and the occasional murder. She lives in Sydney, Australia, with her best-friend husband, three children, a woolly dog and a very disdainful cat. Shannon can be found lurking on Twitter, @2bshannoncurtis, and Facebook, or you can email her at contactme@shannoncurtis.com—she loves hearing from readers. Like...LOVES it. Disturbingly so.

Also by Shannon Curtis

Lycan UnleashedWarrior UntamedVampire UndoneWolf Undaunted

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Wolf Undaunted

Shannon Curtis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08206-8

WOLF UNDAUNTED

© 2018 Shannon Curtis

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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This story is dedicated to Vivianne Sidhom, the friend who first introduced me to the “racier” Mills & Boon novels in the back of the classroom.

You now have a sexy hero of your own.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Vivianne Marchetta forced herself to listen as her Southern district manager gave his report. Her first week back at work, and her days had been full of meetings, reports, brain-draining budgets...

Something dark flitted at the corner of her eye, and she brushed her hair away from her forehead. Damn it, not now, not here. It was important that she came back from her “rest” fully charged and healthy. Strong. She had to be, otherwise it would be a bloodbath for her vampire colony if there was even a hint of weakness in the Nightwing Vampire Prime. She couldn’t afford to weird out her followers.

“Explain to me again why we can’t use the river to transport these goods?” she interrupted in a cool tone. She didn’t miss the fact he’d glossed over that detail.

Mike Falcone halted, lifting his eyes from his laptop to meet hers. He seemed a little hesitant, and Vivianne frowned. Mike was rarely hesitant. It was one of the reasons he was usually so good at his job. Yet he looked reluctant to share some critical information with her. She arched an eyebrow, and he sighed as he leaned back in his chair.

“Things have changed since...” He frowned, trying to find the right word. She couldn’t blame him. What did you call an eight-month coma that was magically induced after what should have been a lethal werewolf bite?

“My break?” she supplied.

A breathy chuckle whispered past her ear, and she turned. Who the hell was that? The area behind her was empty, with just a few yards between her seat and the wall—just the way she liked it in the boardroom, so she could see whoever was coming for her, no sneak attacks...figuratively or literally.

She frowned as she turned back to the table, then quickly composed her features when she realized her six directors were watching her warily. “I’m waiting,” she prodded primly, ignoring her interruption.

Mike nodded. “Your break. Woodland Pack and River Pack formed an alliance—”

“How is that possible? Woodland are fighting with everyone.”

“Not since Rafe Woodland was cast out of the pack and Matthias Marshall became Woodland Alpha Prime.”

Vivianne’s lips tightened at the mention of the former alpha prime’s name. Rafe Woodland was the reason she’d been lying in a coma for eight months. Still, apparently there had been quite a shift since that late afternoon when the black mutt had bounded out of the shadows and attacked her. Her eyebrows rose. “Marshall is now Woodland?”

Mike nodded.

She leaned back in her chair. Rafe Woodland had been wild and erratic. Matthias Marshall would be a steadying influence in controlling the Woodland Pack and its territory. Damn it. It was so much nicer when things were a little chaotic. She’d managed to creep their border forward when Woodland was distracted with its petty squabbles with River Pack.

“Why did River Pack shut down our access to the river?” She’d asked a direct question, she’d better get a direct answer. Forcing their goods to be delivered overland was costing them a small fortune. “And please, let’s not make this a breadcrumb trail. Tell me everything.”

Mike sighed. “When you were attacked by Rafe Woodland, your brother found your body. He then attacked Woodland—”

“Of course,” she responded, dipping her head. It was the obvious course of action.

“He killed some dog, and they teamed up with River against us.”

“Well, you know my view—the only good werewolf is a dead one. My brother did the right thing. But are you telling me we’ve lost river access to Irondell, all because my brother killed some mangy mutt?” Vivianne shook her head. And in all this time, none of her guardians had successfully rectified the problem. What had they all been doing while she was in her coma? Watching the lycans ride rough-pad over the Nightwing empire?

“This was an across-kind crime. We can bring this to Reform Court and demand retribution.” She jotted a reminder to speak with her legal counsel, but paused as Mike shook his head.

“The original crime occurred in Nightwing territory, but Rafe Woodland had already been banished from his pack and was technically a stray, with no affiliation to any pack at the time of his attack on you. Your brother trespassed on Woodland territory and killed a lycan. If we requested a transfer to Reform jurisdiction, Nightwing would have been penalized.”

“And all because some measly little mongrel was put down—”

The notepad she’d been jotting notes on flipped up from the table, startling everyone, and Vivianne rose sharply from her seat.

“Stop it,” she ordered, glancing wildly about. As Vampire Prime of the Nightwing colony, she sat at the head of the table, and neither of her closest neighbors were within reach. She bent to check under the table, then whirled as she sensed someone behind her.

Only, nobody was there. She turned back to the table, and something dark shifted in her peripheral vision. She twisted again, only to see her PR director’s puzzled expression as he, too, peered over his shoulder.

“Did you see that?” she demanded.

He shook his head, wary and confused. She glanced down the table. “Did any of you see that?”

They all shook their heads, and Mike rose slowly from his seat. “Are you all right, Vivianne?”

It was the quiet concern that gave her pause, and she glanced at her guardians. They were all looking at her as though she was either having a medical episode or just slightly unhinged.

This was not the impression she needed to make in her first week back at work after surviving a werewolf bite.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, as she stepped back a little from the table, although she glanced vigilantly around the room.

“Do you need a break?” John, the PR director queried, although his lips curved in the smallest of smirks. “Maybe you’ve come back too soon.”

Vivianne forced a smile as she strolled around the sleek curve of the glass and chrome board table. She had her suspicions about John. He was good at what he did. Always on message. Particularly if it was his own message, like a leadership gambit. She also suspected he’d had something to do with tipping off the lycans and allowing them access into Nightwing in order to abduct a murder suspect—one who turned out to be innocent of the charge. Either way, her border had been compromised by the wolves, but only with inside help. Not that she could prove her suspicions. Still, he was challenging her, in a very subtle way, one that she couldn’t let slide if she was to restore control and calm to her colony.

“You know, I think you’re right, John. I think I do need a break,” she sighed as she patted him on the shoulder. Quick as a flash, she grasped his chin and shoulder, then twisted, hearing the satisfying crack of bone. Her momentarily dead PR director slumped over in his chair, his forehead landing with a distinct crack on the glass table, his neck bent at an unnatural angle. When he revived once again, he’d have a hell of a headache.

“Anyone else think I need break?” she inquired calmly and glanced at each district guardian in turn around the table. All of them quietly shook their heads. She nodded with satisfaction. She was older than most of them. Stronger, too. Hopefully that killed any suggestion that she was not fit to work, or to hold the position of Vampire Prime for the Nightwing Colony. “Then let’s stop wasting time. I want that river access reopened by the end of the month. Now, Jimmy, what’s happening over on the west coast?”

She resumed her seat, crossed her legs, and continued to chair the meeting.

* * *

Zane Wilder bared his teeth as the Marchetta prime held court. That little—she’d called him a mangy mutt. A measly little mongrel. He held up his fisted hands. He felt so damn ineffectual. Nobody could see him. Nobody could hear him. He didn’t know what the hell was going on, but he didn’t like it. He certainly didn’t like being attached to the stone-cold heartless head of the Nightwing vampire colony.

Everyone knew of Vivianne Marchetta, heiress to the vast Marchetta Empire. Ruthless, relentless and strategic, the daughter of a Reform senator, Vivianne’s reputation was widely known, and in some cases, feared.

Not by him, of course. No. She was a vamp. She was walking worm food, just like that vicious, feral brother of hers. Zane rubbed his neck. He couldn’t feel any markings, but there was still a shadow of pain from where he’d been bitten by Lucien Marchetta. After that, he had no recollection, not until he awoke, along with the Marchetta prime, in an underground clinic. Since then he drifted around with this stone-hearted corporate crocodile, an invisible, silent shadow. He’d watched her rule over her colony. He’d watched her hunt. He grimaced. She always gave them a fighting chance, no sneak attacks, but every single one of them seemed mesmerized by the little pocket-sized beauty and would succumb without much of a struggle at all. Surprisingly, though, it was always men, no women, no children—no easy prey.

He eyed her as she concluded the meeting. Every now and then, he thought he was getting through...like just before. She’d heard him laugh. He was sure of it. She tried to ignore him, but every now and then she’d crack. Her eyelids would flicker when he spoke, or...she’d peer under the table for him. He chuckled. That had been a good one, he had to admit.

Vivianne glanced about, then rose from the table, effectively dismissing her minions. She collected her bag and notepad—she’d occasionally surprised him with her old-school practices. Most everyone else was using a device, but she used the old-fashioned method of notetaking—pen and paper.

One of the guardians waited for her at the door, stepping aside as the others filed out. Zane couldn’t help noticing that nobody moved the guy with the broken neck. He shook his head. Vampires were nasty. So little regard for life. Still, the guy was annoying, and Vivianne had been quite effective in silencing him. He liked effective. Not that he liked Vivianne. Hell, no.

Zane’s gaze dropped to Vivianne’s hips as she halted at the doorway, and he folded his arms, leaning against the jamb. Much as he’d like to get the hell out of Vamp Central, he’d discovered he couldn’t range far from Vivianne. The voluptuous little vampire was exhausting. Constantly on the go, from one meeting to another, although how she managed to do it in those killer heels all day, he had no idea. He eyed her legs. Her slender, golden-skinned legs...the top of her head barely grazed his shoulder, but she had the figure of a pocket Venus, all curves and hollows and smooth skin, dark chocolate eyes and lips that were full and pouty. He frowned. If you were into that sort of thing.

“Uh, look, I realize you’re probably busy, getting back into the swing of things, and all,” the guardian began. Zane noticed it was the one who told her about his death. Death. But not...quite. He didn’t feel dead. He didn’t know what death was supposed to feel like, though, but he didn’t think it was this. He was...aware. He always thought death was supposed to be peaceful. Being somehow anchored to Vivianne Marchetta was not peaceful. His eyes widened. Maybe he was in hell. Yeah. A werewolf being stuck with a vampire for all of eternity sure sounded like hell to him, especially if that vampire was Vivianne. The woman brought a whole new level to the world “cool”. Arctic, maybe.

“I’m fine, Mike. Really,” she said, her tone confident.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Mike said, lifting his chin to indicate the slumped-over vamp. “I just thought, with everything that’s happened while you were on your ‘break,’” he said meaningfully, “that maybe, if you needed to be quietly brought up to speed, I could help.”

“Oh, puh-leeze,” Zane muttered. He could see the thinly-masked appreciation in the guy’s eyes.

Vivianne stiffened next to him, and he saw her eyes shift, just a little. She tilted her head, and her dark hair slid across her back to brush Zane’s arm. He glanced down. She had dark, wavy curls that he’d learned were all natural. Pretty. He frowned and moved to create a little more distance. He didn’t need no sexy, alluring vamp to rub herself up against him, with her tempting hair and—he inhaled—damn it, not even her scent was soft or comfortably, florally, feminine. No, it was zesty and spicy and sexy all at once and was becoming part of his natural breathing, no matter how hard he fought it...

“What are you suggesting?” Vivianne asked, her voice low and husky.

Zane frowned. “You’re not falling for this, are you?”

Vivianne tilted her head forward, her expression hidden behind that ebony, wavy curtain of hair.

“Perhaps dinner?” Mike suggested. His voice had lowered, and there was a definite glint in the guy’s eyes.

“I think I’m going to puke,” Zane muttered. “Get me out of here.” Watching vamps flirt was about as much fun as being skinned alive, he was sure of it.

“I think dinner could be a good option,” Vivianne agreed evenly. “You can fill me in on anything else I’ve missed.”

“I’d be happy to fill you in,” Mike said, winking. Zane made a gagging noise. The guy was not subtle at all. “I’ll pick you up—seven?”

Vivianne nodded, then watched as Mike left the room, whistling. At least, Zane thought that’s what he was trying to do. It came out like a little wheezy whine.

“This is definitely hell,” Zane said, nodding. Watching these two vamps tap dance around a flirty little power play was beyond tedious.

Vivianne frowned, and Zane’s eyes narrowed. “Can you hear me, darlin’?” he asked, straightening up from the doorjamb to face her, excitement and hope flaring within him.

Vivianne stepped toward the door, her chin lifting as she flicked her hair over her shoulder—and into his face.

Zane flinched as a tendril caught him in the eye, his lips tightening, then he followed the vamp. “Your taste in men sucks. He can’t even whistle properly.”

Vivianne walked away faster. Zane was content to hang back and watch the swing of her curvy hips.

Chapter 2

“How is everything else going, then?”

Vivianne finished applying the cinnamon-red lipstick and smacked her lips before turning back to her phone. She had her sister-in-law, Natalie, on an interactive call, and Natalie was cleaning a—Vivianne frowned.

“What is that?”

“It’s a sword,” Natalie answered. “I dug it up from a Peruvian ruin. How awesome is it?” Her sister-in-law displayed it proudly, balancing it on her palms and holding it up to the camera.

“How dirty is it?” Vivianne responded, grimacing.

Natalie shrugged. “Now, yes, but once I’ve finished with it, she’ll look good as new.”

“Speaking of good as new,” Vivianne said, “Everything is going fine.”

“Uh-huh. Did you visit the doctor?”

Vivianne averted her eyes. “I haven’t had time,” she murmured.

Natalie put the dirt-caked sword off to the side, and leaned closer to the screen. “You have to. You’re just putting it off.”

Vivianne frowned. She wasn’t used to someone speaking so plainly with her. Natalie was the only person, apart from her brother, Lucien, and her father, Vincent, who didn’t seem to cower or simper around her. No, the woman was incredibly genuine and caring, and she could totally see why her brother had fallen so completely, sickeningly in love with her. Still, it was annoying when not everybody swallowed the line you fed them. “I’m fine.”

“Do you still have shadowy vision?”

Vivianne had mentioned her issue with shadows in her peripheral vision to Natalie before her brother and sister-in-law had left Marchetta Manor. Natalie and her father did not get along. She couldn’t blame her. Vincent Marchetta had kidnapped Natalie for her strange blood—the same blood that had proven to be the vampiric cure against a werewolf bite, and what had ultimately saved Vivianne’s own life, neutralizing the lycan toxin that had slowly spread through her body and would have killed her. Vivianne’s father, Vincent, would have consigned Natalie to a lifetime of captivity as a blood donor if Natalie hadn’t busted free and Lucien hadn’t fought his father on it. To say the Marchettas weren’t playing happy family at the moment would be an understatement.

“No,” Vivianne lied. “All good.”

Natalie’s eyes narrowed. “Vivianne...”

“Natalie...” Vivianne responded in the same low, firm tone.

Natalie frowned as she gazed behind her, and Vivianne whirled. “What? Do you see something?”

“I’m not sure... I thought I saw...”

Vivianne turned back to the phone warily. “What do you see?” Natalie had a...gift. She could see ghosts, and Vivianne had been in awe when Natalie had told her some stories about spirits she’d spoken with. It would have been easy to chalk it up to her sister-in-law being a bit of a loon, but she’d seen Natalie morph into a cross-breed; part-vampire, part-werewolf, part-human—something that wasn’t supposed to exist, so she’d decided to have a little faith in her sister-in-law’s ghostly abilities.

Natalie squinted, then shrugged. “I get nothing.”

“A ghost?” Could that explain the sense of being watched, of not being alone...? Could it explain the deep, almost gruff voice she occasionally heard in her head and desperately tried to ignore?

Natalie shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said, then smiled in reassurance. “Don’t mind me, I’m just tired. So, tell me about this date!”

Vivianne pasted a smile on her face to hide her disappointment. If Natalie couldn’t see a ghost, then...it was all in her head. The visions, the voice... She swallowed. Maybe there was some permanent damage from the lycan toxin?

A werewolf’s bite was lethal to a vampire, and she’d been brutally attacked by Rafe Woodland, a stray, angry wolf. She should have died, if it wasn’t for her brother’s efforts to find a miraculous cure and the aid of an unusual witch. A vampire had never survived a lycan’s bite before. Nobody knew if there were any side effects to what she’d experienced. Maybe the toxin was coming back? She remembered the early stages: the agonizing, searing pain, the burning of her blood vessels as the corrosive throbbed its way through her body with every beat of her heart... The terrifying, petrifying hallucinations... Her fingers clenched at the torturous memories. She’d never given voice to that experience, hadn’t told anyone, not even her brother, how scared and alone she’d felt, trapped inside a decaying body. No, because that would be a weakness she could ill-afford as she reestablished herself as the reigning Marchetta Prime. She forced herself to concentrate on the conversation with Natalie.

“Uh, he’s one of the district guardians—”

“Do you like him?”

“Sure, he’s nice enough.”

“Nice enough?” Natalie rolled her eyes. “A shiraz is ‘nice enough.’ You’re talking about a guy. Is he gorgeous?”

Vivianne nodded. “He’s good-looking,” she admitted. Then she smiled. “He surprised me.”

“Why? You’re gorgeous, he’s gorgeous, you already have so much in common.”

She shrugged as she played with her foundation brush. “It’s just—it’s been a while since I’ve been out with a guy.”

“You were in a supernatural coma for eight months, Vivianne. That will put a dent in anyone’s social life.”

Vivianne chuckled. “No, I mean—I’m a Prime, Natalie. Not many guys are willing to ask a Prime out on a date.”

“Ooh, so this is a date. You said it was business meeting when I first called.”

“Well, I’m not sure. Maybe it’s both.”

“Do you want it to be?”

Vivianne hesitated, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she thought about her response. “Dating is...hard. When I was younger, I couldn’t tell if the guys were asking me out for me, or because it gave them access to my father.” She’d learned that, the hard way. She shrugged. “I don’t get...too involved.”

“You’re playing it safe,” Natalie commented. This time it was her sister-in-law who shrugged. “That’s smart. I get it. But every now and then, a risk can pay off.”

“I take enough risks in business,” Vivianne said.

“I’m just saying, maybe you can trust this one a little more?”

And let him find out that either the toxin was back, or she was going crazy? Yeah, no. Some of her worry must have shown on her face, because Natalie’s expression grew serious.

“Do you want me to come back, Viv?”

Only Natalie and Lucien called her Viv. Only they had the audacity to do so. She was touched by Natalie’s offer. It would mean returning to the very place she’d been held captive, and facing the man who had orchestrated it...Vivianne’s father. That Natalie was prepared to do that just made her care for her sister-in-law all the more. Not that she’d ever admit that to anyone. She sucked in a breath and shook her head.

“No, thanks so much for the offer, but I’m fine. Really.” She’d figure it out on her own, just like she always did, and she’d sort it out. One way or another. The phone chimed, and Vivianne grimaced. “Dad’s trying to get through.”

Natalie made a face. “That’s my cue to leave. I’d say give him my best, but we both know I don’t mean it.”

Vivianne was still chuckling when her sister-in-law disappeared. She fidgeted with her robe, making sure she was modestly presentable, then accepted the call from her father.

Vincent Marchetta’s face peered back at her. His expression was cool, remote, and she quickly adopted the same.

“Hello, Dad.”

“Vivianne, I need to talk with you.” Vivianne kept her features calm. There was never any greeting from her father.

“I’m about to go out—” she began, but he shook his head.

“No. I won’t do this over the phone. I’ll meet with you tomorrow night, seven o’clock, at home.”

She knew her father expected a quick acquiescence, a display of obedience, but she’d been his daughter for hundreds of years, and disappointment came with the role. “I’ll see if I’m free.” She quickly pressed a few buttons on her phone, and scanned her calendar. Sure enough, she had a meeting scheduled.

“Push it to eight and I can make it.”

His lips pressed together. “I’m fairly busy—”

“So am I, Dad,” she interrupted. It was the family business she was working at, after all. Besides, she’d learned that if you didn’t push back a little with her father, he could be a steamroller, crushing everything in his path.

He sighed noisily, clearly communicating his disappointment, before finally nodding—once. “Fine. Eight.”

“Can you give me any idea what this is about?” She could try to guess, but she’d learned she could never figure out how her father thought.

“A campaign,” her father stated shortly. “I’ll see you then.”

The phone screen went black. Vivianne’s shoulders sagged. “Good talk, Dad. Yeah, love you, too.” She stared at the blank screen for a moment. Just once, she wondered what it would be like to have a genuine conversation that didn’t revolve around business, or what he wanted her to do for him, or what he expected her to do for family.

But that kind of wondering led to wishes, and wishes were a waste of time. She was a centuries-old working woman. She wasn’t some simpering little girl with pointless dreams. She grabbed up the remote to her stereo and switched it on. Rock and roll music from the 1950’s era, before The Troubles. She shimmied her shoulders to the beat, singing out “tequila!” She never got tired of this music, and used it to unwind from the stresses of the day—like talking to her dad.

She rose from her dressing table and danced barefoot across the charcoal-colored plush carpet to the wardrobe. She had about twenty minutes before Mike was due to pick her up. She was so surprised and yes, flattered, that he’d invited her out. She’d seen that glint of desire in his eyes, the attraction...she wasn’t a novice when it came to men. It was just rare that guys acted on that attraction. She was the head of the Nightwing colony, she also ran a multimillion-dollar empire. And she knew she wasn’t the easiest woman to get to know. All that was enough to intimidate most men. But apparently not Mike Falcone. She started to do the twist, swinging her hips with her hands swaying. God, she remembered dancing to this music in the dance halls. But then, she remembered dancing the Charleston, too.

Vivianne flicked through the hangars, head bopping along as Chuck Berry told Beethoven to roll over. Her lips quirked. She’d met Ludwig, once. Weird little guy. She pulled two dresses out: one red, one black. She held the red one up to her body, turning a little. It was a figure-hugging dress with a deep V neckline. Sexy and feminine. She hung it on the hook near the mirror, and held up the black dress. This one was also slim-fitting, but with a bateau neckline. Demure and feminine.

“Go with the black—you don’t want to look desperate.”

She whirled, glancing wildly about her room. “Who’s there? Show yourself!”

The music blared across the room. Her breath hitched as she strode over to the crimson curtains that covered the floor-to-ceiling window of her penthouse apartment that looked out over the city of Irondell, and she twitched the fabric, checking to see if someone was hiding behind it.

Nobody was. She strode over to the dressing table, and switched the music off, listening intently. Nothing.

She dropped to her knees and peered under the king-size bed. Nobody there, either. She covered her face, rocking on her knees for a moment. “I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy,” she whispered to herself, until she could calm her racing heart. She took a deep, shuddering breath. Okay. Get dressed. Go out. Pretend everything is just hunky-dory.

She rose to her feet, and padded over to the mirror where she’d dropped the dress. Black, huh? She reached for the red dress, in an open act of rebellion, and untied the silken belt around her waist. The silk robe parted, and she slipped it off her shoulders, revealing her black, lacy, unlined uplift bra and matching lacy panties.

She heard a low whistle. “Better yet, don’t wear a dress at all.”

Her wide-eyed gaze lifted to the mirror. In its reflection she saw the figure of a man behind her. He was tall—huge, really—and broad-shouldered, his muscled arms and chest revealed by a white singlet. He wore khakis that flattered the long, muscled length of his legs, and his brown hair was scruffy, matching the stubble on his face. A weird light glowed through the dark tendrils of fog or smoke gently swirling around him.

Vivianne screamed.

* * *

Zane winced at the ear-piercing shriek. God, that woman could break glass, if she put in just a little more effort.

She backed away from him, her head slowly shaking in denial, and then it hit him.

“You can see me,” he breathed.

“Get out!” she screamed again, then raced to her dressing table. “Get out, you pervert.” She picked up a container of moisturizer, turned, and hurled it to him. He ducked.

“Hey, if I could get out of here, princess, I would,” he snarled back at her.

“Get. Out. Of my. House!” She picked up another bottle, then another, and threw them in quick succession at him. He dodged the first, but he wasn’t quite fast enough to get out of the way of the second missile. He froze as it sailed through his chest and smashed against the wall behind him. Er. Yeesh. That felt weird. Like fuzzy electrical shocks.

Vivianne’s eyes grew even rounder, if that was possible, and she picked up the vase off the end of the table and hurled it. He shifted, but it still caught him in the shoulder. Or rather, through it. More fuzzy tingling, like he’d cut off the circulation, and the numbness was about to wear off, right before the pins and needles.

She stalked up to him, her eyes glowing red like cigarettes, incisors lengthening, dark hair streaming behind her, silken robe flapping around her, and that curvaceous body quivering with rage. She fisted her hand and punched him—right through the face. He felt a nice little frisson, but that was about it.

He arched his eyebrow. “I can keep this up for hours. You?” He looked around the room. “There’s a crystal lampshade over there that looks handy.”

This time both of her hands clenched into fists. Her chest rose and fell in furious pants, and for a moment he just followed the movement: in, out, in...he blinked. She was...magnificent. He frowned. And she was not happy.

“Who—or what—the hell are you?” she rasped, her eyes bright with anger.

Chapter 3

“You don’t—you don’t know me?” His jaw dropped, and then he raised both hands in exasperation. “Oh, come on. That is so unfair.” He’d been stuck as this vamp’s sidekick for—hell, he didn’t even know how long, but it felt like an eternity. She had become his guide, his anchor... Everything he saw was around her, bound to her.

And she had no idea who he was. Well, that sucked. He pursed his lips. His ego would recover, but he’d need a minute.

Her hand shot out to grasp his throat and passed through him. His lips quirked. So far the only good thing about this was watching her try to hit him and fail. Again, and again. He liked sharing the frustration. He folded his arms, waiting patiently as she tried to move, shove, punch, kick, bite...in scraps of lace that barely covered her.

“This reminds me of a movie I once saw, but I think there was jelly involved.”

She halted, glaring at him through a curtain of dark curls. He waggled his eyebrows and mouthed the word jelly.

“What the hell is going on here?” she snarled as she pulled her robe tight around her, concealing her golden-skinned curves framed in black lingerie. She was such a contradiction. All soft curves and femininity from the neck down. From the neck up—well, she was all sharpness and frost with a hint of homicide. At least her eyes weren’t glowing anymore, but had returned to their normal brown. Well, kind of normal. She had these cool little splinters of dark among the brown, and every now and then there was a fleck of gold. Fascinating. Damn it.

“I’m as confused as you are,” he answered truthfully.

She folded her arms, her lips pursing in a tight, tempting little pout. “Who are you?”

He inclined his head. “Zane Wilder, Alpine Pack Guardian,” he said formally.

She sneered. “A mutt? How dare you come into my home.”

He held up a hand. “Trust me, princess, this is the last place, and you are the last woman, I’d ever want to hang with.” He shuddered. Ugh. Vamps. So full of themselves. They carried the stench of death with them. Usually. Vivianne, though, had quite a pleasing scent. And again, he was not going to focus on that tempting, seductive, sassy little fragrance.

“I find myself...stuck.”

“Stuck?” Vivianne’s eyebrows rose as she grappled with the word.

“On you.”

“On me.”

“Stuck on you,” he clarified.

“Stuck on—”

“This conversation is going to be a long one if you’re just going to repeat everything I say,” he muttered.

Her brows drew together, and her eyes flashed. “Forgive me, I’m trying to understand how a dog got stuck on me.”

Zane narrowed his eyes. He was getting tired of her dog and mutt references. “And I’m trying to figure out how I got hitched to a soulless bloodsucker.”

She lifted her chin. “When?”

“When what?”

“When did you get stuck to me?”

He shrugged, frowning. “I don’t know. I woke up inside some hospital room, and then all hell broke loose.”

“And?”

“And what?”

She rubbed her forehead, as though an ache had started behind her eyes. Good. He hoped he made her head ache. His head pounded from trying to piece together the puzzle, particularly when he only had half the pieces.

“And what happened after that?”

He gestured around the room. “This happened. Where you go, I go. I’ve tried to walk away. Hell, I’ve tried to run away, and it’s like a revolving door, I’m running away, the world tilts, and I’m right back where I started.”

“With me.”

He nodded. “With you.”

She crossed her arms, then raised her hand to her face, nibbling on her thumbnail. It was an unconscious gesture, and possibly one of the most vulnerable he’d ever seen her do. She turned, took a couple of steps, hesitated.

“So...you’ve been with me for...a while.”

He nodded.

“Since I woke up?”

He shrugged. “I guess so.”

“The hospital room—what can you remember of it?”

He frowned. His memory was a little fuzzy. He was pretty sure there was a massive hole in it, somewhere. “You were lying in a box, your douche of a brother was there, some cute chick, and a guy in motorcycle leathers.”

She nodded. “Yeah, that’s pretty much when I came out of a coma.”

He frowned. “Why were you in a coma? You’re a vamp.” Vampires, like werewolves and other shifters, had the ability to self-heal. He’d never heard of vamps succumbing to a coma.

She started pacing again. “It wasn’t a normal coma,” she murmured. He rolled his eyes.

“I gathered that. I don’t normally float around coma patients.”

She shot him an annoyed glance. “I was put in a coma by a witch because I was attacked—by one of your kind.” She said the last words with bitter animosity.

Fleetingly, the thought of her being attacked, of being hurt by another, bothered him. But fortunately he was able to tamp that down, squish it into a dark place where nobody would know a werewolf briefly cared about what happened to a bloodsucker.

“Rafe Woodland,” he said quietly, a fragment of memory surfacing among the murk of his brain.

Her eyes narrowed. “How did you know?”

“Your douchebag of a brother brought you to our camp, looking for revenge.”

“I was attacked on Nightwing land,” she said, frowning. “He had every right.”

“He had no right,” Zane corrected her harshly. “Rafe had been cast out of Woodland. Whatever he did, he did on his own. Woodland wasn’t to blame.”

“He practically killed me,” she exclaimed. “He bit me.”

“And your brother bit me,” Zane snarled. “What should his punishment be?”

Vivianne’s eyes widened, and he watched as realization crept in. He nodded. “Yes, I’m that mangy mutt, that measly little mongrel who cost you your river access,” he snapped in disgust.

Her mouth opened, but no words came out as she struggled to process his words. Her doorbell rang downstairs, and she clapped her hand over her mouth. “Uh-oh.”

She whirled and ran over to scoop up the red dress, stepping into it quickly and dragging it up over her body, slipping the robe off her shoulders as she did so. There was a tantalizing glimpse of golden skin, and then she turned, contorting as she pulled the zipper up and slipped into her shoes at the same time.

Zane frowned. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going out,” she muttered, checking her reflection in the mirror, spritzing herself with some fragrance, then plucking up the clutch purse she’d placed on the bed.

“You’re going out?” he repeated, incredulous.

“Yes, I’m going out. I’m going to have dinner with a good-looking man, have some conversation that doesn’t involve—” she waved her hand in his general direction “—weird, freaky stuff, and I’m going to have a nice evening that I’m going to enjoy like a normal woman.”

She hurried over to her bedroom door as the doorbell pealed again from the floor below. She hesitated, then turned back to him.

“Wait a minute, were you stuck with me all of the time?” Her gaze darted toward her en suite bathroom.

His lips quirked. “Yep.”

Her cheeks bloomed with heat, and her mouth parted, then she snapped her lips together. “That wasn’t gentlemanly,” she hissed as she backed out of the room.

He chuckled. “That’s because I’m no gentleman.”

* * *

Vivianne forced her gaze to Mike’s. “So, it sounds like a lot happened when I was...away?” She sat for a moment, digesting the information. Woodland had a new alpha prime, light warriors had been discovered after hundreds of years of folks believing they’d been completely wiped out, and one of the most prominent men in Irondell society, Arthur Armstrong, was now dead.

“It’s great gossip, isn’t it?” Zane chirped, his hands cupping his chin as he leaned on the table between her and Mike.

She glared at him. He’d appeared in the car—God, what an awkward trip that had been, with him chattering away in the back seat. She tried to ignore the lycan—a difficult task seeing as he was six foot three, built and ripped, and mildly gorgeous. For a lycan.

“Who is managing the Armstrong interests?” Arthur Armstrong had been a wily competitor. She’d tangled with him on a few occasions. Sometimes he’d won, sometimes she’d won. She wanted to know who Nightwing were up against now.

Mike grimaced. “Armstrong Enterprises is no more. His sons discarded his name and wiped it out of the family tree. Everything is now Galen Inc.”

“As in, Ryder Galen? Doesn’t his wife work in our legal department?”

Mike shook his head as he chewed on a morsel of steak. “She left when your father stepped in to run the business. She now works as Galen’s legal counsel.”

“Darn,” Vivianne muttered. “She was good.”

“Good for Ryder,” Zane said, nodding.

He knew this Galen? Vivianne didn’t know if that was good or bad. If the lycans were in any way affiliated with Galen, then that was probably bad news for vampires.

Zane twisted in her direction.

“How is the wine?” he inquired, then frowned. “Please tell me that’s wine, and not blood.” He made a gagging sound, and she pursed her lips.

“What’s it going to take to re-open the river channel to market?” she asked, determinedly focusing on the handsome vampire in front of her, and not the annoying werewolf at her side.

Mike shrugged. “Not sure. It’s difficult to get them to the table. They’re very eager to strengthen the relationship with Woodland, and apparently that lycan your brother killed was well liked.”

“Aw, now that’s sweet,” Zane said, sniffing as he dabbed at his eye. “They did that for me? That warms the cockles of my dead little heart.”

Vivianne’s gaze dropped to the fork in her hand. It was so tempting...

“Go on, you know you want to,” Zane said, indicating the fork with a lift of his chin. “I’m sure Wheezy Whistler here would love to see you go batcrap crazy on empty space. They can’t see me, remember?” He blew a kiss at Mike, who smiled, oblivious, at Vivianne. “See?”

Vivianne forced herself to place the fork gently on the plate. “Find out what they want. Then make sure we get it.”

Mike nodded, then glanced down at the fork. “You don’t like your meal?”

“It’s fine.” It was the company she had issues with. Oh, not Mike, he seemed nice enough. She smiled brightly.

He reached over and covered her hand with his. “I’m glad you’re still with us,” he told her softly. She was surprised by the contact and instinctively pulled away. She wasn’t the touchy-feely type.

Zane dropped his forehead to the table. “I really wish I could puke.”

“Me, too,” she said. “Glad I’m still here,” she clarified, when Zane lifted his head to look at her in surprise. No, she didn’t mean she wanted to throw up with him.

“Like, hurl until I get this sick all out of my system. But I can’t,” Zane elaborated, his fist tapping his flat stomach. “Can’t pee, can’t poop. Can’t puke. Must be a dead thing. Hey, you’re dead. Well, undead. But you pee and poop. How does that work?”

She closed her eyes as warmth bloomed in her cheeks. Had he been stuck with her when she did that? And just like that, he’d obliterated any hope for an intimate evening with Mike.

“Is everything okay, Vivianne?” Mike asked, and she opened her eyes to see his concerned expression.

She nodded. “I’m fine. I just remembered I have some work to finish at home before a meeting tomorrow,” she lied. “I’m sorry, can we do this another time?”

“Sure,” Mike said, smiling in understanding. “I figure it’s going to take some time for you to adjust to your normal routine.” He signaled for the waiter, and in moments she was back in his car, her date ending earlier than she’d expected. Earlier than she suspected Mike expected.

* * *

She turned in the foyer that led from the elevator to the front door of her penthouse. Mike stood there, his expression curious, tinged with anticipation.

And right next to him stood a hulk of a werewolf, muscular arms folded as he glared at her.

“Do not invite him in,” Zane warned her. “You and I need to talk.”

She arched an eyebrow and looked at Mike. There was no way in hell she would let a wolf order her about. “Would you like to—”

Zane snarled, and in a flash, her clutch flew out of her grasp.

Mike’s head reared back to avoid the missile, his expression clearly surprised.

Vivianne covered her mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she gasped. She’d nearly smacked her date in the head with her bag. Her eyes narrowed as she glared at Zane. No, he’d nearly smacked her date in the head with her bag.

“Uh, that’s...fine,” Mike said as he bent to retrieve her purse. He handed it to her. “You were about to say?” he prodded her.

This wasn’t going to work. Not tonight. She had a furious, impatient werewolf ghost, or spirit, or phantom, or hallucination, or whatever the hell he was, effectively blocking any attempt she made at communicating with this man. Frankly, the effort to ignore him and pretend everything was normal was exhausting.

“Would you like to do this again sometime?” she finished gently.

Mike’s disappointment was quickly replaced with a smile and a nod. “Sure.”

He leaned down to kiss her, and Zane’s nose blocked her view of her date for a moment.

“I swear, if this turns into some sort of twisted voyeur experience, you’re going to need to make me some popcorn. Just saying.”

Vivianne tilted her head away from Zane, and Mike’s lips landed on her cheek. “Uh, thanks for a great evening,” she said, then turned and unlocked her door, stepped inside and gave him a shaky wave. She closed the door, then leaned back against it, shutting her eyes.

That had to be the most embarrassing, weird and frustrating—

“Can we talk now?”

She opened her eyes to glare at the six-foot-three-inch wall of infuriating male. He arched an eyebrow, and with his scruffy brown hair, and a short beard that framed his jaw and—wow, he had really nice lips. The bottom one was slightly fuller, and a mental image of her sinking her teeth into it surprised her. Mainly because it wasn’t an image of her ripping him to shreds like she tried to convince herself she wanted to, but because the image was playful and sexy and all kinds of wrong.

His brown gaze met hers, and for the first time she realized he had hazel flecks, green and gold shards the gradually lightened the longer they stood there, staring at each other.

She frowned. This...man, if she could call him that—was he even real? She reached out, swiping her arm across his body, and he closed his eyes as her arm swept through his body. She felt...nothing. No, maybe there was a slight change in air temperature. Or was she desperately clutching at any detail to justify what was going on?

Was he just a hallucination? But she didn’t really know him... She’d never heard his name before today. Would she hallucinate about a guy she never knew existed?

“We need to talk,” he told her quietly.

She shook her head. “No. You need to go away.”

She moved away from the door and walked right through him, hearing his swift inhalation as she passed. She strode up the stairs.

“I can’t,” he exclaimed as he followed her. Damn, he was so big. Even as some insubstantial existence, he seemed to swallow up her awareness, and she found it was hard to focus on anything else. Just like it had been hard to focus on Mike with this large, attention-consuming presence next to her.

Normally she was repulsed by the werewolves. They were animals, reverting to their inner beast with ease and frequency, their civility only a thin veneer, and their fragrance quite odious. Zane, though, smelled of something different. His scent was earthy, woodsy, with notes of myrtle, cedarwood and almond. How was that even possible? How could find a lycan’s scent be almost attractive? She slammed the door shut on him, hearing him growl in frustration before he floated through the timber.

The fact that she was having these reactions to him was what freaked her out the most. She could see something that wasn’t there. She could hear his deep, smooth voice in her head, but if he really was a lycan, she would never, ever find him attractive. And she did.

Which meant she really was going crazy.

“You’re not here,” she muttered, as she crossed to her bed and picked up the nightgown that one of her staff had placed at the end of the bed before they’d left for the day. Unlike her father, she didn’t like to be surrounded by servants, and wanted them gone by the time she came home. This was her space, the only place she could be by herself. She didn’t want to worry about who was watching her for whom, and as a Prime, that happened.

“Oh, I’m here,” Zane told her.

She wasn’t going to argue with him—because that would make him, or the hallucination that was him, all the more real.

She kicked off her shoes and didn’t bother to put them away. Instead, she marched into her en suite and closed the door. She looked into the mirror over the vanity for a moment. She looked...spooked.

Her shoulders sagged. It was a good thing she hadn’t invited Mike in. She couldn’t afford to let anyone see her like this, or guess at what was going on with her—whatever that turned out to be. Her vision blurred for a moment, and she blinked, tilting her head back. Marchettas didn’t cry. That’s what her father had said, the night he’d turned her.

Marchettas were the strongest of their kind, he’d said. It was why they’d become so successful, so powerful. Tears were a weakness. Feelings were a weakness. If someone in the Nightwing colony guessed that she was losing her mind, that she was mentally deteriorating, it would be a bloodbath within the colony until a new Prime was selected. And that was the internal strife.

If the other vampire colonies scented blood, a scandal or a weakness, they would pounce. If a shifter breed, like the lycans or the bears, suspected the Nightwing colony was weakening, there would be territory wars. Whichever way she looked at it, if she gave in to these hallucinations, if she let herself indulge in an annoying, frustrating, rude companion that nobody else could see, feel or hear, she was leading her people down a path to bloodshed and death. Despite what everyone thought, she really did care for Nightwing, for her colony. They were as close to a family she was ever going to get. She needed to protect them, if only from herself.

Tomorrow, she’d visit Ryder Galen. His family were shadow breed healers, and maybe he could figure out what was wrong with her. She just hoped she could trust him.

She got ready for bed, removing her makeup and brushing her hair. For once, Zane didn’t make an appearance.

Maybe she could control him, after all? Maybe he only appeared when she was tired? Or distracted?

She opened the drawer under the counter to put her brush away and paused when she saw the small bottle rolling around inside. The pills the doctor had prescribed for her recuperation postcoma. She’d had nightmares, horrendous nightmares about the attack, and these pills were supposed to help her sleep. They had worked—sometimes. If they’d blocked her nightmares, they might be able to block these auditory hallucinations...

She shook two out of the bottle and took them with a glass of water, then brushed her teeth. By the time she stepped out of the bathroom, she was already feeling relaxed.

“Now can we talk?” Zane muttered.

She kept her eyes resolutely forward as she crossed to her bed and pulled back the bed covers. Ignore him.

“You can’t ignore me forever, princess,” Zane said as he stood at the end of her bed, frowning. Her eyelids flickered. Could he read her thoughts now?

She climbed into bed, her lips firmly pressed together to prevent any response to him.

“We need to figure out what’s going on here,” he stated.

She brushed her hair off her forehead and lay back. Just ignore him. Her eyelids began to droop, and he stalked around the bed to stand by her hip. He really was a gorgeous man, all beautiful muscles, tanned skin, and she thought the close-cropped beard was growing on her. It gave him a rough, dangerous look that was very attractive.

Her eyes widened, but only briefly. Wow, these tranqs were good. They had to be if she thought Zane Wilder was kind of sexy.

“Speak to me, damn it,” he demanded.

She smiled. He was cute when he was angry. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned down to look closely at her eyes, his gaze shifting from one to the other and back again.

“Damn it, you took a tranq, didn’t you?” His lips tightened, and although it took a great deal of effort, she raised her fingers to his lips to smooth them out again.

“Shh,” she said soothingly.

He swore under his breath, his hands momentarily clenching, and then that smoky, inky fog swirled around him, and he was gone.

Her eyelids drooped shut, and her mouth dipped at the corners, and she could barely retain her last thought.

Don’t go...

Chapter 4

Zane sat in the wingback chair next to Vivianne’s bed, his feet on the covers, and he watched her sleep. He didn’t have anything else to do. Her chest rose rhythmically, her breathing deep and even. She looked like a dark angel, her hair fanned out on the pillow, her features so relaxed, so damn composed.

She’d donned a white nightgown, the satin and lace concoction contrasted against her olive complexion, making her skin look warm and silken in the dim light that filtered through a crack in her curtains. He swallowed. He always gave her privacy when she was in the bathroom, despite the impression he’d given her earlier, but he hadn’t expected her to take sleeping pills to avoid talking with him. That didn’t seem like Vivianne’s normal style. He’d seen her in action. She was direct, decisive, and hadn’t shied away from anything, whether it was chairing a meeting with a bunch of seasoned vampire guardians, or negotiating with a strategic business partner.

If he was going to be honest—and in the middle of the night, in a darkened room, with the only other occupant knocked out by sleeping tablets, he could afford to be honest—the Marchetta Vampire Prime had surprised him. She’d faced every decision she’d had to make with a calm confidence. She had a reputation for being ruthless, especially with her enemies, but he’d also seen her be fair. She was a hard taskmistress, but she never demanded of her staff anything she wasn’t prepared to do herself. And he’d been with her since the moment she’d awoken in that nutty little clinic under her father’s home, and she’d been hurt. She’d been tired, and yet she’d never let anyone see it, not even her brother, and most especially not the senator.

She’d swung into action immediately, taking control of everything in a seamless, effortless maneuver that had been almost genius. In a pack, if the alpha prime became ill, there was usually a leadership challenge. Only the strong could lead, and Vivianne had given that impression immediately—only he knew how much it had cost her.

Those moments she’d hidden behind closed doors, trying to catch her breath, or those long nights where she was plagued by nightmares.

Her hand twitched on the cover, drawing his gaze. There it was again, a flinch. He looked at her face.

Her brows were pulled in a faint V, and her head moved slightly in denial, her lips forming soundless words. He sat up. She was dreaming again. No, not dreaming... She flinched, and this time the movement was sharp, almost violent, and her hand rose as though to ward off something.

Her head rolled from side to side. “No,” she whimpered.

Zane frowned as he leaned forward. “Shh,” he whispered and reached for her hand.

His head spun, and he heard a loud, rushing sound, like a thunderous waterfall. He stumbled, falling to the ground, dizzy. His knees were on concrete, and he felt the burn in his palms, as though he’d skidded along the surface. A driveway. What? Zane shook his head, then looked up when he heard a scream.

Vivianne was struggling against a black wolf beside a dark car and tripped over the body of her dead guardian. The large black wolf stood over her, teeth bared. Her skirt was ripped, and he could see the mangled wound on her thigh, the bloom of dark red on her side.

Vivianne’s eyes blazed, her fangs lengthening, and she bared them at the beast, hissing as the wolf growled.

The lycan lowered his head, his jaws snapping, and Vivianne dodged those razor-sharp teeth, pushing against the powerful chest. The lycan fell back, and Vivianne managed to regain her feet before the black wolf launched himself at her, and Zane winced as he heard the dull thud of her body hitting the car door behind her, and Vivianne’s cry of pain as those teeth sank into her shoulder.

“No,” Zane yelled, his voice emerging as a deep roar.

The black wolf turned, and Zane glared at him, his head dipped low as he let a low, dangerous rumble emerge from his throat. The black wolf turned tail and ran. Vivianne stared at him, her hand pressed to her shoulder, but even now, Zane could see the crimson blood turning black as the lycan toxin started to act on her vampire blood.

Her face was pale, and he saw the stark realization in her eyes, the awareness of the death sentence she’d just been handed as she slowly slid down the side of the car. He raced toward her, catching her before she hit the ground.

She shook her head, her brown eyes tearing up. “I let him down,” she choked.

“Shh,” he whispered, smoothing her hair off her face.

“I’ve let them all down,” she said, and he could feel her trembling in his arms. He laid her gently down on the driveway and drew his singlet off over his head. He ripped the garment into shreds and pressed the rags to her wounds. She frowned, then gazed down, fingers tugging at the cloth.

“No, leave it—”

“Let me see,” she whispered frantically, surprisingly strong as she struggled against him. She peeled his fingers back, and they both looked down. Zane frowned. Her clothes were torn, but her wounds were closed. Healed.

He sat back on his heels, confused, and he saw the same confusion in Vivianne’s eyes as she sat up. She ripped her blouse open, twisting to look at the wound that had been on her side. Nothing. No marks, no scars, not even a smear of blood. Zane reached out, stunned, and slid his hand over the skin, trying to find the wound he’d seen.

Her skin was flawless, smooth and golden. Warm. She wore a lacy sage-green bra, her breasts swelling above the decorative cups. Her breath hitched, and he raised his gaze to hers. He stroked her again, watching her eyes darken with awareness. She didn’t brush his hand away. She didn’t move away from his touch. She did tremble, though, and this time, it wasn’t from shock, judging by the heat in her eyes, and the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

He leaned forward, tilting his head to the side, his eyes on hers, until he could gently press his lips to the silky smooth skin of her shoulder. She swallowed, a soft gulp drawing his lips up in a smile as he kissed her again, this time closer to her collarbone. She moved her head to the side, her hair sliding back over her shoulder.

Her scent hit him, low in his groin, tugging at him, hardening him. Cinnamon, musk and a zing of ginger. His lycan nose peeled back the layers of her natural fragrance, delighting in the full body and spicy tones, and his body throbbed. He slid one arm around her slender waist, the other sliding up the creamy column of her throat to delve into the dark curls that had tempted him for so long.

He lifted his gaze to her eyes. She was watching him, and she raised a dark eyebrow.

“What are you waiting for?” her voice was low, husky, and his beast inside perked up, a sensation he hadn’t felt since he’d regained awareness in that hospital room.

His lips curved. “Patience, princess.” He lowered his mouth to hers.

* * *

Vivianne closed her eyes as his lips touched hers, giving herself up to the sensation. His tongue slid inside her mouth, and her breath caught in her chest. She could feel her breasts swelling, rising for his attention. His arm tightened around her waist, drawing her closer, and she sighed when her breasts met the muscular wall of his chest.

He growled, his torso vibrating against hers, and she moaned at the exquisite sensation, her arms sliding up over his broad shoulders to twine around his neck. He leaned closer, and her mouth opened further as his tongue and lips played with hers.

Her heart thudded in her chest, her nipples tightening, and she scraped her nails lightly down his neck. He made a deep, low rumble of pleasure, his hand tugging her head back, and she arched her back. Her nipples were hard little nubs beneath the lace of her bra, a delicious friction sensitizing them further as his chest moved against hers. He slanted his mouth at a different angle, and the kiss got even better.

His hands roamed over her back, smoothing, scraping, smoothing, and she writhed to his rhythm, her own hands skimming the defined rope of muscles across his shoulders, delving into his hair. It was long enough for her to curl her fingers in and pull, and she decided she liked scruffy, after all, especially when his head tilted back, and she could trail her lips down his neck, feel his pulse on her tongue, smell that enticing male fragrance that was cedarwood and spice. He dipped his head again, and it became a playful tussle of nip and lick between them.

His hands slid around her ribs to cup her breasts, and Vivianne’s eyelids flew open.

She was flat on her back, the bedcovers twisted, and Zane hovered above her, panting. His eyes mirrored her shock, and she swallowed.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.

Something dark and battered flared in his eyes, and suddenly he was gone, the midnight tendrils of inky fog swirling around her.

She sat up in the bed and stared out into her empty bedroom, blinking rapidly in the gloom. Had she—had she just dreamed that? Or had it actually happened?

* * *

Zane strolled along the line of shelves, scanning the spines of the several hundred books as though he gave a crap.

Whatever, as long as he didn’t have to look directly at Vivianne.

You shouldn’t be here.

Even the memory of the words still stung. No, he shouldn’t be here, watching her sleep, kissing her in her dreams—how the hell had that happened?—or just floating along like a shadow in her life.

She hadn’t acknowledged his presence, and he was secretly relieved. If they didn’t talk about it, they could pretend it didn’t happen, right?

“Tell me, what is this about a campaign?” Vivianne asked quietly. He wasn’t going to look. He wasn’t going to look. Zane glanced over his shoulder. Okay, so he looked. Her expression was remote, cool. He shook his head. She was talking to her father, and they both sat there as though facing off against adversaries. Vampire families were about as warm and cuddly as a porcupine on crack. His gaze drifted over her.

Today she wore her hair in a single braid that twisted from one temple, around the back of her head and over the opposite shoulder. Pretty. She wore a gray silk blouse that billowed and rippled with her movements, and a slim-line skirt that followed the shape of those sexy hips of hers. He frowned. He should be strung up. He should rip his fangs from his jaw and hand them in, skin that pelt of his and burn it, because after what he’d done last night he should resign from the lycan breed before he shamed them any further.

Kissing a damn vampire, even in a dream, was not the done thing.

“Well, it’s more of a bill, and you must keep this confidential,” Vincent Marchetta stated, his expression just as stern as Vivianne’s. Zane wrinkled his nose. The older man wore the stink of death, his dark eyes cold and soulless. A true vampire who made Zane’s skin crawl.

Vivianne sighed. “Dad, of course—”

“Don’t ‘of course’ me,” Vincent snapped. “I don’t take anything for granted anymore, not since your brother’s defection.”

Vivianne frowned. “Lucien didn’t ‘defect.’ You kidnapped his wife—”

“She wasn’t his wife at the time,” her father corrected, his tone harsh. “And don’t you dare defend him—or that woman. We kept you alive, Vivianne. The only reason you’re here is because of the trouble and risk your family went to in order to save your life.”

Zane’s eyebrows rose. Wow, that was harsh, coming from your old man. He could see what the patriarch was doing. He was trying to guilt his daughter into doing what he wanted. He glanced at Vivianne. It was like looking at a mask. No emotion. Strange. He guessed you could only guilt someone into doing something if they had the capacity to feel...guilt. He’d only ever seen her completely shut down her reactions with this man, but right at this moment, he wondered just exactly what Vivianne was capable of feeling. The woman sitting in the chair, her legs crossed, hands folded in her lap, was nothing like the warm, vibrant, voluptuous vixen he’d held in his arms—or dreamed he’d held in his arms. He tilted his head. Had he dreamed it? Or had it happened for real? Like, as real as it could get with a ghost? If it was just a dream, had he dreamed it, or had she? He shook his head from the never-ending round of questions bombarding his mind, and focused on the not-so-subtle power play.

Vivianne didn’t bother to address her father’s remark.

“I’ll ask you again,” she said, and her gaze was direct. “What is this campaign—bill,” she corrected, “and what do you want from me?”

“I want you to purchase that parcel of land on the western border of Summercliffe.”

“Why?”

“I’m your father. I don’t need to explain myself to you. Just do it.”

“And I’m your Prime,” she snapped, and Zane’s eyebrows rose. This was more than your average daddy-daughter issues, he suspected. “You’re a Reform Senator. You don’t control Nightwing anymore, Dad. I do.”

Zane folded his arms and sat on the corner of Vincent’s mahogany desk inside the expansive den of the cold and draughty Marchetta Manor. His gaze darted between the two vampires. Things were getting interesting. Reform senators had to renounce any familial or tribal associations, to avoid conflicts of interest. Vincent Marchetta had once been the Nightwing Vampire Prime, but had had to cede his position in order to run for politics.

Vincent’s gaze lowered, and Zane saw the old man’s fist clench. “I want to purchase that tract of land.”

“Why? It’s virtually bear country.”

“It’s also a thoroughfare for wolves between Woodland and Alpine.”

Zane frowned at the mention of those packs. His packs.

Vivianne sighed. “What do you plan to do? Shut down the thoroughfare to get back at the lycans?”

“Oh, no,” Vincent said, smiling. “In fact, I want the opposite. I want it used. A lot.”

Vivianne straightened in her chair, suspicion bright in her brown gaze. “Why?”

“Because I’m proposing a change to the territorial rights bill,” Vincent told her. “I want to adjust the jurisdiction for trespass.”

“Why?” she asked, frowning.

“Because I want the crime reclassified as a Class 1A crime.”

Vivianne’s frown deepened, and Zane saw her confusion creep through her mask.

“Why, Dad?”

Yeah, why? Currently trespassing was a Class 2 crime. When a trespasser was caught, there were two options. If it was interbreed, say, a werewolf trespassing on another pack’s land, there was the escort to the boundary. If it was cross-breed, say, a vampire trespassing on a pack’s land, then either hostage and negotiation for release, usually resulting in a boon for those being trespassed against, or an outright kill. Upgrading to a Class 1A crime meant the prime owner of the land could kill or imprison the trespasser indefinitely.

“Because I want to set up a new clinic on that parcel of land, and send any lycan trespassers over for testing.”

Zane gaped. That sounded...wrong. Like, weird wrong.

“Testing? Don’t you meant torturing?”

Vincent shrugged. “Semantics.”

Zane’s head whipped around to face Vivianne. “You can’t be serious,” he roared.

Chapter 5

He’d overheard some of what that underground clinic had been used for, and it turned his stomach.

Vivianne flinched slightly, but masked the move by skimming her hands over her skirt, as though straightening the fabric over her curves. Yeah, she’d heard him. She could try to ignore him all she liked, but he was going to make sure she heard him, on this topic at least.

“I know you want to resume your project—” she began, but halted when her father leaned forward in his chair.

“My project?” he repeated in a low voice. “Don’t you mean our project?” Zane’s eyes widened, and he glared in accusation at Vivianne. She’d been part of it? Had she condoned what her father had done at that clinic? He’d heard the whispers, the stories of those who’d been abused, but who’d escaped just before the clinic was destroyed. He’d also heard the cries of pain, the moans and screams of the other “patients,” just before her brother, Lucien, had unleashed on his father. He folded his arms as he glared down at the senator. The man was a monster.

Vivianne’s father tapped the top of his desk with his forefinger. “Those experiments are designed to create weapons we can use against the werewolves.” Vincent Marchetta shook his head. “We were so close, with that Segova woman—”

“You mean Natalie, your daughter-in-law,” Vivianne interrupted. “She’s family now, Dad. And there was no ‘we’—neither Lucien nor I knew anything about this clinic of yours.”

Her eyes met Zane’s briefly, and he relaxed a little at her pointed message. She hadn’t been involved in that madness, and she wanted him to know that.

Vincent nodded. “And that was my mistake. That’s why I want you involved, from the ground up, this time, Vivianne. After what they’ve done to our family—what they did to you—I think you’d jump at the chance to eradicate the wolves.”

Zane watched as Vivianne’s eyes rounded, just a little. “You—you want us to work together?” She was blinking, as though trying to hide her shock, her...was that hope he saw flare in her eyes? His brows drew into a deeper V. Did she want to hurt the wolves? Him?

“Think about it, Vivianne. The only advantage lycans have over vampires is that their bite is lethal. Otherwise, strength, speed, agility, etc.—we’re evenly matched.” Vincent’s eyes sparked with anticipation. “If we could create some sort of inoculation, some defense that would render a lycan’s bite harmless—imagine what that would mean for us?”

“It would definitely give us an advantage,” Vivianne admitted, and Zane’s heart sank at her words. He could almost see the wheels turning in her head. He’d learned she was quick to assess the benefits and pitfalls of a project, to think several jumps ahead of those around her, and in this situation, she didn’t disappoint. “It would also position us as the strongest colony among the vampires. Maybe open up some trade potential.”

“You’re talking about conducting mad science experiments on werewolves,” Zane hissed at her. Her eyes glinted with steely determination before she looked at the man sitting on the other side of the desk.

“It’s not legal,” she told her father gently.

“It’s not ethical! It’s not right!” Zane exclaimed.

“We can get around it,” Vincent told her, “once this bill is passed. But I want that tract of land for when it does.”

“I’ll think about it,” Vivianne said, then rose from her seat and gathered her handbag.

“Tell him no,” Zane said forcefully.

“You do that.” Vincent watched as his daughter prepared to leave.

Zane glared between the two, then shook his fist in the senator’s face. “If you come anywhere near my pack, old man, I will rip you limb from limb.” The old man didn’t even blink. Zane twisted to face Vivianne, not trying to hide his anger as he clenched both hands into tight fists. He wanted to yell, he wanted to punch—he wanted to stop Vincent’s plan, but most of all, he wanted Vivianne to stop it, and he was so damn useless. The fact that she seemed to entertain the idea infuriated him, disappointed him...hurt him. He growled, and the fog whirled up around him, blocking her from his view.

Vivianne hesitated briefly as Zane disappeared in a virulent mist, then adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder and left the room.

* * *

Vivianne looked out of her car window, her gaze resolutely fixed forward as her driver turned onto the ramp leading to an underground car park. Rock music was thumping through the earbuds in her ears. She’d had to resort to that tactic to drown out the six-foot-three werewolf who had argued with her ever since her father had dropped his little bomb back at the family home that evening. Even now, with the moon rising, she could see him out of the corner of her eye, sitting next to her on the back seat, hands gesticulating wildly, his expression dark and fierce as he protested her family’s plans.

As if he thought she could stop Vincent Marchetta.

Vivianne looked up at the building to the left of her. It was an architectural masterpiece, with glass corridors leading off to the left and the right, allowing plenty of moonlight into the interior of the building. There were two wings leading off the central block, with an abundance of balconies that suggested access to the outside, but also privacy from each other. Each window, though, and each balcony door, held the same darker glass she had at her own home and office building, as well as her vehicle. Tempered glass. It allowed in light, but blocked UV rays, so that vampires could function in daylight hours without burning to a crisp.

All except for one end of the building that was completely constructed of glass—but this glass was designed to let in the sunlight. Probably to feed the light warriors who had now revealed their existence to the world. She shook her head, not bothering to hide her amazement. She’d had no idea Arthur Armstrong and his sons were light warriors. Everyone thought they’d died out during the time of The Troubles. Her eyes narrowed. They’d managed to hide their existence for centuries. That showed a shrewd calculation and patience that she’d do well to remember when dealing with the Galen brothers.

The Galen brothers, who were apparently doing very well, going by the new state-of-the-art clinic they’d set up.

She leaned back into her seat as the car entered the dim car park. The Galens seemed to think of everything, providing not only a discrete entrance for those who didn’t want to be seen visiting them, but also a UV-free access for vampires.

Her car pulled up at the portico and a tall man with dark hair emerged from the doorway, his arms folded.

Ryder Galen.

Vivianne’s driver hurried around to open her door, and she gave him an intent look. Harris had been her driver for several years, and she trusted him implicitly. She hoped nothing had changed during her coma. She didn’t want word of this visit to get back to anyone in her colony, and especially not her father.

Harris winked, and she gave him a small smile. She hoped some things never changed, namely his ability to keep her secrets. “I’ll wait in the car,” he said quietly.

“Thanks, Harris.” She saw Zane also emerge from the car, and sighed. He looked furious, but the curiosity at their location was winning over as he glanced around, and his features relaxed when he saw Ryder.

She strode up to the doorway, and met Ryder’s gaze directly. The man eyed her, his bright blue eyes keen with interest.

“Do you personally greet all of the patients for this clinic?” she asked, slowly removing her earbuds.

He raised an eyebrow at the rock music that could still be heard blaring from the earbuds, and she switched the music off on her phone app.

“Only the interesting ones,” he responded, his brow dipping slightly in curiosity. “I was surprised to see your name pop up on my schedule.” He gestured to the doorway, and she preceded him into the clinic.

“Thank you for seeing me so quickly.”

“You didn’t really give me much choice,” he told her dryly as he guided her toward the lifts. She gazed around with interest. Instead of the linoleum she’d come to expect in hospitals, the hallway was lined with timber floors. Clean, crisp, but with a warmer, softer tone than she’d expected. The walls were tastefully painted in a soft gray that was both calming and restful, and not in the least depressing.

Zane let out a low whistle as they stepped into the elevator. “Things are looking good for the Galens.”

“You’ve made quite a few changes since your father died,” Vivianne said, looking over at Ryder. “Do you miss him?” She knew there’d been a rift between them, but she couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose someone who was such a key part of your life for so long...

Ryder dipped his head for a moment. “Like a migraine. We can choose our friends, but we can’t choose our family, can we? How is your father?” He looked at her just as closely.

“Oh, he’s peachy,” Zane muttered. “Happily plotting the extermination of the werewolf breed at this very moment.”

“He’s fine,” Vivianne said, keeping her gaze on Ryder. “How is Vassi?” Her voice softened unintentionally, and she cleared her throat. She would never admit it, but she’d come to admire and respect his wife, Vassiliki Verity. As a lawyer, she was exceptional at her work. As a person, she’d be challenged to find someone with a stronger code of personal ethics, and a love for truth and honor. They’d had several arguments about the direction of the Marchetta businesses, and certain decisions that Vivianne considered “gray,” whereas Vassi deemed them “downright dodgy.” Vivianne had enjoyed their heated debates. She would have to see what she could do to tempt the lady lawyer back. First, she’d have to find out why Vassi had left in the first place. What had occurred between Vassi and her father to make her leave the company?

“Vassi is good,” Ryder said, his face softening into a smile, and there was no hiding the warm pride in his eyes. “We’re setting up a second clinic location, and she’s working on the permits and negotiating access.”

Zane tilted his head. “I don’t think I’ve met Vassi,” he said. “She worked for you, right?”

Vivianne stared at Ryder for a moment, trying to ignore Zane’s presence. Ryder’s respect and delight in his partner was almost tangible. When had anyone spoken about her like that? Certainly not her father. She and her brother were working on their relationship, but they argued, just like any normal siblings. She smiled briefly, dropping her gaze. She was a Vampire Prime, she reminded herself. She didn’t need anyone to be proud of her. She didn’t need those other softer emotions. She needed to ensure her colony were safe and thriving. Period.

The doors opened, and she followed Ryder out into a hallway. This one had carpet, with tasteful art lining the warmer-colored cream walls. Wall sconces with—wow, with real candles—were sporadically placed, creating a soft ambience as Ryder led her to a door with his name on it.

He stepped inside, then halted. “Dude, that’s my desk!”

Vivianne peered around him. A man with dark hair and dark eyes peered with annoyance over his shoulder. The stunning redhead in his arms hastily rearranged her top into a more presentable appearance, and she slid off the desk.

“I was just saying hi to my wife,” the man said, then grinned. “Besides, you know that saying, never let a good desk go to waste,” the man said, as he reluctantly let the redhead step away from him.

“That’s not a saying,” the woman said, trying to hide her smile. She faltered when she saw Vivianne.

“A vamp?” Her nose wrinkled with distaste, and her fingers curled. Sparks of lightning arced between her fingertips.

Vivianne’s eyes narrowed as Zane chuckled next to her. “A witch?” Her tone was just as frosty.

“A vamp, a witch and a light warrior walked into a bar,” the man at the desk quipped, then placed his hands over the redhead’s fists. “Easy, Mel. Remember, we’re being more accepting...” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

The red-haired witch curled her fingers into a fist, extinguishing the arcs of power. “Acceptance sucks,” she muttered, then pasted a bright smile on her face as she strode toward the door. “Besides, I have a client to see.” She paused next to Vivianne, her green eyes brittle. “Something about a silver glove,” she said nonchalantly. She looked over her shoulder at the man with the dark hair. “See you tonight.”

Vivianne’s lips pursed as the witch left the room. Silver. She hated silver. Every vamp hated silver. Lycans, silver, witches, were all at the top of her “things to despise” list. Zane shuddered next to her. Silver was just as toxic to werewolves as it was to vampires.

“Feisty,” he muttered.

Ryder sighed as he turned to Vivianne. “I’m not sure if you’ve had the pleasure, yet, but this is my brother, Hunter. Hunter, this is Vivianne Marchetta.”

Hunter strolled forward, his brown gaze touring over her. “So, you’re the vampire prime that gave my father so much trouble.” He frowned. “You’re shorter than I thought you’d be.”

“Don’t be deceived,” Zane muttered. “She might be short, but she can be vicious.”

Vivianne’s gaze slid briefly to glare at the werewolf by her side, then she smiled at Hunter. “I prefer to avoid making assumptions,” she told him sweetly.

Ryder closed the office door, then gestured to a comfortable-looking wingback chair. “Please take a seat. As you can see, we’ve delivered on your special requests.”

“Demands,” interjected Hunter as he leaned against the bookcase lining one wall.

“I’m sure you can appreciate my need for discretion,” she said quietly as she sank into the chair.

“Why are we here?” Zane asked, and leaned an arm along the ridge of the wingback above her head. She glanced up briefly. He was close, leaning his hip against the side of her chair as his brown enquiring gaze found hers.

She turned back to the Galen brothers, both of whom were watching her closely. “You’ve probably heard of my recent...break.”

Ryder’s eyebrow rose. “Break? I was there, Vivianne, when Lucien brought you into Woodland. I saw your injuries with my own eyes.” He shook his head. “The fact that you’re sitting here, talking, it’s nothing short of miraculous.”

Hunter snorted. “I don’t believe in miracles. But, if it was so miraculous, Ms. Marchetta wouldn’t be here visiting us. So, what gives?”

“Anything I say here is treated as confidential, correct?”

“Of course,” Ryder responded. “All our patients’ records are confidential.”

“I want your word,” she insisted. She’d known Ryder long enough to know that he was an honorable man, and this was too important to not get his personal guarantee.

He nodded. “You have it.” She turned her gaze at Hunter.

Hunter sighed, rolling his eyes as he held up his little finger. “Pinkie swear.”

She pursed her lips. She guessed that was about as good as she’d get from this brother.

“I need your help. Since I woke up, I’ve been...seeing things.” She rubbed her forehead. “Not just seeing things, but hearing things, too.”

“You left out the part about the dreams,” Zane pointed out, his lips quirking. She ignored him. Again. But she couldn’t stop the warm bloom of color that swept across her cheeks.

“What kind of things?” Ryder asked. At least he wasn’t looking at her as though she was going mad. Yet.

“Well, one thing, really,” she said, glancing quickly up at Zane, who raised an eyebrow.

“What thing?” Hunter asked, and she was surprised by the patience in his tone.

“Uh, a—” She swallowed. Putting it into actual words was a lot harder than she thought it would be. “A, uh, werewolf.”

Ryder leaned back in his chair. “Well, I guess that’s not surprising,” he commented. “You were attacked by a werewolf.”

“It could be a form of PTSD,” Hunter suggested, and straightened away from the bookcase. “Having visions or memories of the wolf who attacked you...do you have nightmares?”

Her cheeks heated. “Uh, at first, yes, but that seems to be lessening.”

Ryder nodded. “Over time, the nightmares become less frequent as your mind starts to heal from the trauma. It’s PTSD if the nightmares keep recurring after a significant period, along with a few other symptoms.”

“No, it’s not like that,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m not talking about Rafe Woodland—although I have had nightmares about him, about the attack. The werewolf I see is—” She hesitated. God, how did she explain this without sounding like an absolute nutter?

“Gorgeous?” Zane suggested. “Sexy? A downright fox?”

“Annoying,” Vivianne stated, frowning.

Hunter’s eyebrows rose. “Annoying?”

“Yes, annoying. At first he was just a shadow out of the corner of my eye, and every now and then I heard him laugh, or mutter—”

“I don’t mutter,” Zane muttered.

“Yes, you do,” she snapped at him. She turned back to the Galens. “But now—” She swallowed again. “Now I can see him. Hear him.”

“And he’s...annoying?” Hunter said, walking slowly toward her, his head tilted as he watched her keenly.

“Yes. Distracting.”

“You left out sexy,” Zane reminded her.

“Shut up,” she hissed, then bit her lip when Hunter halted directly in front of her.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean you, I meant...” She trailed off, gesturing toward Zane.

“You can see him now?” Hunter narrowed his eyes as he followed the direction she indicated.

“Yes,” she said, her lips turning down. “And you can’t.” She wanted to cover her face, hide from the reality of admitting her condition, her mind’s weakness. “I think either the lycan poison is coming back, or I’m going mad,” she said in a whisper.

“You think I’m a figment of your imagination?” Zane said, his tone incredulous.

Hunter sank to his heels in front of her so that their gazes were level. “Those would be obvious possibilities,” he conceded softly, and her heart sank at his words, and she saw sympathy spark in his eyes.

“I need to figure out what is wrong with me,” she said, trying to hide her fear.

“I’m not something ‘wrong,’” Zane said as he walked around the chair to face her, his expression troubled. “This is why we’re here? You think I’m driving you crazy?” Surprisingly, there was hurt in his tone, but there was also something else...she’d almost think it was concern. “I hate to break it to you, vamp, but I’m not some latent memory of yours. We never met before—” the muscle in his jaw twitched “—before I died. And I’m not a damn poison.”

“I need to fix this,” she said, her voice stronger. She was looking at Hunter, but her words were intended for Zane. “I can’t lead Nightwing if I’m losing my mind.”

“And it’s all about position and power with you, isn’t it, Vivianne?” Zane said, his deep voice rumbling in a snarl.

“You’re worried about your colony?” Ryder asked, and she looked beyond Hunter’s shoulder to meet his gaze.

She nodded. “A prime can’t hold their position if they’re non compos mentis. Only the strong can lead, and mental deficit is a weakness. There will be a leadership stoush, which would weaken Nightwing among our neighbors, and our enemies. Fighting from within, fighting from without—it will be a bloodbath for my people.”

“What about Lucien? Can’t he take the prime position?” Ryder asked.

Zane’s lips curled back at the mention of Vivianne’s brother’s name.

Vivianne shook her head. “No. He’s taken a leave of absence from Nightwing, and so has surrendered any claim to the Nightwing Prime position. He would have to fight for it, just like anyone else, and after what my father did to his wife, I don’t see him wanting to be Prime.”

“I can’t believe your brother and I have something in common,” muttered Zane. “We both hate your old man.”

She frowned. She was already divulging more information than she was comfortable with. “Can you help me?” she asked Hunter.

He gazed at her for a moment, assessing her. He shrugged. “We can run some tests, and find out what we’re dealing with,” he told her. She settled back into the chair, relief lessening the strain in her shoulders. She would have preferred a “yes, we can fix you” response, but she appreciated he wasn’t prepared to make false promises. She could respect that.

“Okay.”

“You agree to the tests?” Hunter asked.

She nodded. “I do. When do you want to schedule them?”

He smiled. “No time like the present,” he said, touching her forehead lightly.

Darkness descended across her mind, and the last thing she saw was Zane’s concerned face as she slid into unconsciousness.

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