Rogan had not anticipated Diosa’s sudden bite. One moment she’d been flirting closer, brushing him with contact he would otherwise have never allowed. Only the thought that this must be part of the ritual to enter Caidir Olc, this must be necessary kept the lad’s mouth shut and his muscles held firmly still. He maintained eye contact with the Vampire Queen, giving no notice to the espresso princess as she ran her muzzle along the side of his neck, determined to portray his unbreakable resolve . . . but then she’d given him the smallest kiss. Then she’d parted those sweet lips and speared his flesh with a needle bite, latching on and not letting go even when Rogan registered the pain and gave a grunt of displeasure.

“M’lady . . . the poison . . . ?” He tried very hard not to appear disturbed or shocked—forcing his ears to remain erect rather than flatten, his face not to wince—except the longer Diosa held onto him the worse the pain became. Surely he was not meant to fight the heiress off of him? The onyx Alphess had to be testing him in some way, her cunning ruby eyes never wavering from his expression. Observing the way he took punishment, prepared to fall upon him with violence should he commit the unforgivable sin of harming her precious daughter. He narrowed stern green-glass windows. Steeled his shoulders. And Diosa actually lapped at the wound she’d created, drinking his blood, and a mere few heartbeats passed by before the odd ache spilling into Rogan’s body erupted into a full explosion of agony that struck him blind and ripped a ragged bellow from his chest. The poison had coated Diosa’s fangs all along! What clever trickery! The russet warrior attempted to bite back his cries of anguish in vain, screams shredding through his tightly clenched daggers, tears burning in his eyes and transforming the world into a blur of color and pulsing red light, and then his eyes were dissolving in his skull—squeezing out between his eyelids like the slimy guts of worms—and that’s when Rogan tossed his skull back and uttered an animal shriek that seemed to crack the sky.

The rest of the change followed too quickly for the shattered soldier to understand. Too rapid to keep track of. Simply a timeless expanse in which he twitched and thrashed and convulsed upon the earth, blood pouring from each orifice, a hideous metamorphosis. At some point, after his new irises had bulged into their sockets and his scorched muscles quieted their tireless contractions, Rogan feel preternaturally still . . . a corpse except for the slow, nearly inaudible throb of his heart. Had he somehow dragged himself over the border after this? Or had the Vampire Queen taken him in? The next moment Rogan awoke—finally coherent—he discovered himself folded into a den dug out from the raised roots of an ancient tree. Night draped itself velvet soft and blue-dark over the humid forest, lit only by the yellow flicker of fireflies. Something told the red gladiator that sunrise still hovered far in the distance . . . yet he could not name the instinct that told him this. He did not dwell on the realization for long. All at once a crippling thirst seized hold of him, and he could not swallow a pitiful pained whine before it leaked from his vocal cords.

He must have fallen horribly ill . . . but with what? Was this all the result of the poison Diosa had injected him with? Well, he’d survived—and he assumed he now rested within the heart of the territory, welcomed into the pack. Rogan was now a true member of Caidir Olc. Whatever that meant . . .

His cotton webbed thoughts drifted back to the midnight empress and her mysterious daughter . . . and then fixated entirely upon Diosa. Rogan had stretched out of his makeshift bed and begun marching forward without truly understanding what sensation tugged him into action. All he knew was that he needed to see Diosa. To speak to her. To ask if he’d impressed her mother, and earned points in her favor toward becoming someone great in this new kingdom. Without scent to track her by, Rogan stunned himself by stumbling upon a meeting less than half an hour into his travel; the only wolves he actually detected by scent was a tall fox-colored freak with a sleazy grin upon his sooty mug, and a young lavender-eyed lass quietly weeping next to the Vampire Queen. The rest of the varg present all possessed the same bizarre hellfire pools as Lucyne—impossible scarlet lanterns that cast their light about the clearing as if a flame had been built where Lucyne stood. Rogan gave efficient, level glances toward each member of the council. Then he took his seat next to Diosa as if he’d been ordered to be there, spine straight and mask carefully bland so as not to betray the confusion and hunger stirring in his guts.