Diosa moved like a serpent. Liquid grace poured from every sinew, each gesture and stretch continuous and perfectly measured. She leapt down from her impromptu throne and flowed toward him weightlessly, effortlessly, dark fur rippling like shadow over ocean waves. Rogan watched her, transfixed, and continued to gaze upon her perfection as her thoughtful carmine irises studied him. Was she . . . concerned about him? Sometimes the russet warrior thought he could sense an inkling of what Diosa was thinking, what she was feeling, as if those intangible things pressed up against his chest. Her next words, when they came, startled him. He actually took a small step back, brow crinkling in confusion. “That . . .” A short, low growl, resetting what he’d been about to say. Regardless of where they now stood, far away from the judging eyes of their pack, Diosa was still an heiress. He was still her soldier. Decorum must be followed. “Princess, that makes no sense. Is the prey I hunt not living? Has the poison changed me so much?”

The espresso damsel’s curiosity brushed by him like a feather. Rogan shook it off impatiently, feeling his fangs slip and slide in their sheaths—long and short, wanting to bite. “You say ‘mortal’ as if you aren’t one, Miss Diosa. But what else can you be? What else can I be? We speak, and I feel my heart beat in my ribs . . . slowly, but surely. Why do you say ‘vampire’ as if it is not the same as ‘wolf’?” Anger, boiling just under the surface. Simmering in his blood. For a moment, Rogan thought the scarlet light projecting from his eyes burned a little brighter as it glowed across Diosa’s flawless visage. A sudden pang throbbed in his breast. He found himself glancing away, breathing hard . . . as if glaring at the heiress, as if projecting any sort of negative emotion toward her harmed him instead. Rogan gritted his teeth together, claws raking restlessly at the dirt.

“I feel like a pup too stupid to know the secrets of adults. I came to this land because I’m becoming a man . . . and here I am, an ignorant child.”

The rumble in his vocal chords deepened, growing more aggressive as he shook there helplessly. So hungry. So puzzled. So lost. Except, when Diosa murmured a single word, all that frustration vanished. Snuffed out like the meager light of a candle. “Stay.” And Rogan stayed.

He shuddered lightly when the princess pressed to him. Her forelimbs held him close, her chest smoothing down the thump of his heartbeat, her parted lips brushing the curve of his jaw. How could he possibly forget that kiss? That excruciating pain, that horrifying transformation? Yet Rogan had survived, transformed into something stronger . . . and somehow weaker. His fangs instinctively lengthened. And then—as though Diosa had pulled away a curtain obscuring his view—Rogan understood. The poison was in him. He had the power to bestow a vampire’s kiss upon a stranger, and doing so would sate his hunger and save his life . . .

“Is it really so simple?” The mahogany gladiator breathed in relief, allowing himself to sink slightly into Diosa’s perfect embrace. “Is this the birthright of a vampire?”

The brute wanted to ask his maker more questions. He wanted to rest in the safety of her touch, to revel in the silkiness of her pelt meshed with his. But then the wind changed, and brought with it a thread of musk that automatically had his features shifting into a violent snarl—the growl in his throat shredding into a warning roar. Without thinking, Rogan shoved Diosa off him and behind him, russet hackles spiked, daggers bared and gleaming white. Every fiber of his being quivered with rage and the urge to protect as a silhouette shifted in the far darkness, carrying with it the telltale gleam of feline eyes. A mountain lion. And with the danger of its alien scent, came a vicious tug of hunger in Rogan’s mouth . . .