Burning Up

Marin’s wool kirtle and chemise and slipping a clean white smock over her head. Exhausted by fear and tears, Marin was asleep almost before she finished. Amaris tucked her limp little body into bed, then covered her with the thin blanket she’d been allowed.
    Finished, Amaris sat still a moment, brooding as she studied Marin’s pale, delicate features in the candlelight. She looks so much like Mother. Tears welled at the thought, and she quickly swiped her hand across her eyes, lest the nurse see her crying.
    I will get her out of here, Mama. Somehow. I will not let that monster use her soul to feed that cursed Orb.
    Which meant doing what she’d been doing all along: pretend to cooperate with their captors and watch for an opportunity to take her sister and escape. Pray gods the chance presented itself soon. She was running out of time.
    And now she had to romance a vampire.
    Something popped, and Amaris looked up, alert. But it was only the fire. Her eyes met the suspicious gaze of Marin’s warden, who sat with a half-darned sock in her wide lap. Amaris pointedly turned her gaze toward the fire and made no move to leave, despite the woman’s evident desire to see the back of her.
    Gazing into the leaping flames, Amaris began to plan. She had to buy time, and there was only one way to do it.
    She was going to have to make love to the vampire.

THREE
    A maris’s stomach coiled into a sick ball at the thought of taking Raniero into her bed. She glowered at the fire, impatient with herself. I’m a Blood Rose, curse it. Making love to them is what we were created to do.
    When it became obvious the Varil were a threat to the kingdom, the first great wizard king had transformed human champions into a race of vampire knights. To ensure the knights did not likewise become a threat, the king had then transformed his most talented female sorcerers into Blood Roses with the magical power to seduce and tame them.
    Though vampires could sire vampire sons with mortal women, Blood Roses were born only to Blood Rose mothers. By law, the king alone could grant a Blood Rose’s hand in marriage, and he granted that boon only to those he considered most deserving. Since drinking a Rose’s blood made a vampire stronger, his allies had the advantage over any would-be vampire rebels.
    Like other Roses, Amaris was well-versed in the Arts of the Rose. Her mother had sent her to one of the best Gardens in the kingdom to learn the traditional skills: how to charm, how to flirt, how to use her mouth and hands to bring her vampire lover pleasure.
    Unfortunately, vampires could not be trusted. Her father was proof of that.
    And Orel, of course.
    For a while she’d actually believed all the silly songs the troubadours sang in the Garden. Songs of gallant vampire warriors romancing their lady Roses, sweeping them away to lives of love and passion.
    She should have known it was all utter rot.
    As a child, Amaris had watched her father torment her mother until Sava finally had enough and petitioned the king for a divorce. Ferran had been so scandalized that any vampire would beat a Blood Rose, he’d granted it on the spot. The king had even issued a royal order that Tannaz keep his distance on pain of death. The vampire hadn’t dared break it.
    At least until he’d fallen in with Korban and grown bold. Bold enough to murder both his former wife and her lover, Marin’s father.
    And then there was Orel, handsome, seductive—and insanely jealous. Amaris had met him while she was still at the Garden, and had promptly believed herself in love.
    Until the day he’d seen her smile at another vampire.
    Once back at the house they’d shared, Orel had ranted at Amaris like a madman before knocking her senseless. She’d awakened with him on top of her, beginning a rape. Terrified, enraged, she’d fired a blast of magic into his face. He’d fled, burned and screaming.
    That experience had left her determined to never be so vulnerable again. She’d begun combat training with Basir, who was both her mother’s lover and a skilled swordsman and sorcerer. After two years of hard work, Basir had pronounced her capable of defending herself.
    But Orel’s attack had taught her something else as well: vampires could not be trusted. No matter how loving they might act, they were predators, no different from the Varil. Any Rose who let down her guard with one would rue it.
    Now Amaris had to lull her captors into believing her cowed and