Since Rogan had joined Caidir Olc, most of his thoughts had been occupied by Diosa—so much so that he had mistaken his fixation for love. He often sought out her company, memorizing the shape her paws made in the mud because she had no scent to track; if she went on patrol, he volunteered to go with her, either to prove his eagerness or simply to be closer. And when the redhead thought she wasn’t looking, his beaming rubies would roam her profile . . . pondering the slope of her muzzle, the plane of her brow, her perked ears, how her own flashing portals spilled red light over her pretty face. I must be infatuated. Rogan had never experienced a pull toward another wolf like this before; he reasoned that Diosa must be a desirable mate, and therefore he worked hard to gain her attention. The poor lad could not know that part of his undeniable attraction to the espresso princess had much to do with her power over him as his Creator . . . that this “bond” he imagined was really the extent of her influence upon him, her will pressing on his mind ever so subtly even when she wanted nothing from Rogan at all.

It wasn’t until Rogan saw Briseis for the first time that he truly knew what “love” was.

Whatever he felt for Diosa—whatever odd fascination that drew him to the dark damsel—was nothing compared to what struck him when his hellish lanterns fell on the pallid dancer. Rogan understood, vaguely, that Briseis was technically Draven’s “toy.” He hardly ever saw her on her own; usually the terrifying midnight brute was pulling her away somewhere, his fangs tugging possessively at that silken ruff, hissing orders into her adorable ears. The sight made the maroon marauder’s blood boil . . . his slow pulse throb harder in his veins, the heat of anger warming his cool flesh. Furious words and warning growls boiled behind his teeth—unspoken out of fear of punishment. Rogan was working so hard to be accepted in Caidir . . . to become a great warrior. Surely snapping at the Vampire King would destroy everything he worked so hard for. And yet, the usually stubborn gladiator occasionally thought punishment might be worth it, if only to see those precious lavender eyes light up.

When Bri pulled Rogan aside, icy lashes fluttering over her faerie lights and calling him across the border, Rogan followed without question. He felt something in his chest stir—a fondness for this lovely fae, underscored by a sweet desire to shed his innocence and become a man with her to guide him. She nuzzled into his cinnamon robes, and he dared nuzzle her back, running his broad muzzle over the back of her neck and breathing deeply of her perfume. Briseis smelled so good. So feminine, so . . . delicious. The sinful words she crooned into his audits shocked him, but Rogan could deny her nothing. The ache of passion forbid him from disobeying her wishes. He kissed her face, the underside of her jaw, fangs elongating in exquisite hunger, a scorching rumble building in his throat.

“Yes . . . if that is what you want, my dear . . .”

The young vampire’s first attempts to mount her were clumsy—heartwarming, really, how earnest his efforts were. Rogan had always been a large, thickly-muscled wolf; he dwarfed Bri’s girlish frame considerably, massive paws and strong limbs wrapping almost completely around her slim flanks. When he finally found his rhythm—and gods, did she feel amazing—he gradually increased his pace to match his lover’s wishes. Teeth in her fur. Bloody kisses and dirty murmurs, claws raking her sides, words of worship tumbling from his lips—

“Bri, are you all r-right?” Rogan’s movements faultered, ears plastered back to protect them from the ivory-painted femme’s wrenching shriek. But then he saw the massive white monster materializing from the shadows like a deadly ghost. Then he saw the frigid glare of hatred piercing from those bottomless black eyes. And in the next instant, that huge czar had tackled him off of Briseis—why did she lie why why what did I do wrong—and serrated daggers were digging into his shoulder and clamping down on his throat and squeezing and Rogan tried to fight back but even with his impressive musculature the older male was more ruthless still. The midnight predator wasn’t even able to sink his fangs into his alabaster attacker. The stranger—this Kershov—assaulted him with a beastly mastery that the callow soldier could not match. His heart cracking, Rogan ripped himself free at the last second—flesh tearing loose in Kershov’s jaws—and sprinted back toward Caidir, blood rivering hotter than humiliation over his canvas.