Burning Up

carried a silver pitcher filled with honey mead.
    Squaring her shoulders and drawing a deep breath, she nodded at the guards. “Unbolt the door.”
    The oldest of the four, a grizzled warrior with his long beard in braids, curled a scarred lip at her and made no move to obey. She met his gaze and lifted an icy brow, letting power leap in her eyes like a flame. Realizing how close he was to suffering a painful magical jolt for his contempt, he hurried to unbolt the door and give her a carefully respectful bow. Satisfied, she sailed past.
    If she could make the guards fear her, they might hesitate at a crucial moment. She could construct an escape from such small strategies.
    “I wondered when they’d send you.” The vampire spoke from the firelit dimness, his voice rumbling and deep, almost touchable, a velvet seduction that seemed to stroke her skin.
    The door swung closed behind Amaris with a bang. The iron bolt scraped home as the guard locked it. She managed not to jump at the harsh sound and lifted her chin. “Perhaps I come of my own accord.”
    “Do you?”
    “Oh, aye.” Forcing a smile, Amaris moved toward him, giving her hips the gentle sway she’d been taught. The pressure of her slippers sent a rich, green scent into the air. She’d ordered fresh herbs scattered among the rushes.
    As Lady Taria said, You must seduce a man’s senses before you touch his body.
    Moving with deliberate grace, Amaris picked up the golden goblet on the wooden bedside table and filled it with honey mead. “Do you thirst?”
    Dark eyes dropped to her throat. “Oh, aye.” His purr made it clear he craved something other than the contents of her pitcher.
    Not likely, vampire. Drinking her magical blood would strengthen him, perhaps enough to break his enchanted chains.
    She took a slow and deliberate sip from the goblet, by way of demonstrating the drink had not been poisoned. As she swallowed the mead with its rich traces of lemon and berry, she let her gaze rest on his face.
    Studying him through lowered lids, she had to admit Korban was right. The vampire was a handsome man. The firelight played over sculpted features: cheekbones carved high enough to leave hollows beneath, a stubbornly jutting warrior’s chin, a straight and arrogant nose. His upper lip curved over a plump lower lip that seemed to invite a woman’s bite. He wore no beard, though a night’s growth shadowed the planes of his cheeks. His hair was dark, shoulder-length, as gleaming and thick as a woman’s.
    Half unwilling, she let her gaze drift down his body. He wore nothing but breeches so tight, he might as well have been naked. Muscle lay across his broad, bare torso in thick swordsman’s slabs, rippling and bunching as he pulled at his chains. His legs were long and brawny, as befit a man who sat a horse so well. She could see his sex bulking heavy beneath the breeches.
    It stirred under her gaze.
    Fighting the urge to jerk her eyes away, she raised her chin and met his stare. He lifted a thick black brow, his eyes hot and narrow. And deeply cynical. He was no fool, this agent of the wizard king. An ally, then?
    His lips parted, and she glimpsed the white gleam of a fang.
    No, she’d trust no vampire. If it were only her own life, she might take the risk, but not with Marin’s soul at hazard.
    Amaris dropped her lashes and met his gaze under their thick fringe. “Would you have mead?”
    His lips quirked. “Only if that’s all you offer.”
    “It is.” She let her own mouth curl. “For the moment.”
    There it was again, that cynical curve of the lip. “Mead it is, then.”
    Amaris stepped closer and bent over him. He lifted his head and let her press the goblet to his lips. She tipped it, and he swallowed with obvious thirst. The strong cords of his throat rippled up and down. His lids lowered, and for a moment sensual pleasure lay stark on his face. She watched, half bespelled, as he drained the cup.
    “You were thirsty.” Her voice sounded so hoarse, she silently cursed the desire it revealed.
    He lay back, rolling brawny shoulders on his pillow. “A prisoner never knows when his needs will be met. Best to take advantage of any”—his lids dropped again—“opportunities.”
    “Far be it for me to leave you wanting.” Despite the sophisticated quip, she could feel heat blooming across her face.
    Blood Roses do not blush like virgins, curse it.
    Raniero again drained the goblet the Blood Rose held to his lips. Even as he