Burning Up

drank, he cursed himself. Her scent flooded his head, far more intoxicating than the mead. Ambergris, woman, magic—and blood. His fangs ached savagely.
    Damn her to the six hells. If he could but drink from her—not much more than a goblet’s worth—the magic of her blood would strengthen him enough to shatter the enchantment that held him. He could take care of the guards in the hall and be gone before his foes knew what he was about.
    Which was why she’d never allow him to taste that long white throat.
    Unless . . .
    Raniero considered her through narrowed eyes as he drank in her scent. There was more than a little desire wafting from that long, elegant body. And other emotions too: fear, rage . . . And was that despair?
    No, surely not. Why would she fear him, when he was so thoroughly bound and drained by his chains?
    Unless it was someone else she feared . . .

FOUR
    T he idea of her fear was enraging. Even knowing Amaris was a traitor to her own people, Raniero could feel the tugging need to protect her. That compulsion was part of a Blood Rose’s seductive magic, and he could no more fight it than he could refuse to breathe.
    To most vampires, the hand of a Rose was a much desired prize, since her blood would strengthen both one’s magic and one’s might. Many were the drunken dreams he’d heard vampire courtiers spew of “A Rose and a fief.”
    Raniero wanted only the fief. He’d get his sons on mortals, thank you. Lusty peasant wenches spun far simpler schemes.
    His stepmother had been one of those scheming Roses. She’d wanted her own son to inherit, so she’d told his father Raniero had tried to force himself on her. Raniero, who’d been all of sixteen, protested his innocence, but Fulk had believed Eiriene. He’d beaten his son near to death and left him outside the castle walls. Luckily, Raniero had been able to find shelter with the neighboring lord who’d fostered him when he’d been a boy. Landless, homeless, he’d fought to earn a place at King Ferran’s court.
    But he’d never forgotten the way a Rose could twist a man’s mind.
    That this Rose was scheming, he did not doubt. But what, and why?
    In any case, it appeared Ferran’s suspicions about Korban were confirmed. Why else would Raniero’s party be attacked the moment they crossed onto Korban’s land? And by a vampire and two Varil raiders, yet.
    Why had his captors allowed Raniero to live, while slaying his men? Korban apparently thought he could buy Raniero’s cooperation. And he thought he could do it with the bribe of a Blood Rose.
    Whatever spies Korban obviously had at Ferran’s palace—and he had at least one, if he’d known Raniero was coming—they weren’t as good as he thought. Raniero’s wariness of Roses was well-known.
    But if Korban and his Rose knew it not, perhaps Raniero could pretend to yield to her wiles. Discover the wizard’s plans, and find a way to foil them. It was certain outright struggle would do him no good, not in these chains.
    “More?” the Rose asked, candlelight painting dancing gold highlights over the tattoo blooming on her cheek.
    “Actually, there’s something else I crave,” he said, deliberately staring at the plump and tempting curve of her lips. “A taste of you.”
    Green eyes widened, and that luscious mouth parted. “Oh.” A pretty blush brightened her high cheeks.
    Red God’s Balls, she did flustered innocence better than any sheltered virgin he’d ever met.
    Slowly, almost unwillingly, she leaned down. He watched the hesitant movement. Ridiculously, his heart began to hammer. The scent of mingled fear and desire strengthened.
    Why does she fear me?
    The Rose’s lips touched his, only the merest brush at first, warm breath tasting of honey mead and a hint of lemon. She kept her eyes open, almost as though she didn’t trust him enough to close them. He forced relaxation into every hungry muscle and let her lead the way, keeping his mouth soft beneath hers.
    She brushed her lips across his, once, then again. Hesitated like something small and wild eating from his hand. At last she deepened the kiss, slipping her tongue into his mouth, a shy, soft stroke. When she drew in a breath, he felt the tips of her breasts touch his chest. She sighed, and slowly, oh so slowly, her eyes closed as she leaned deeper into the kiss.
    It took him a moment to realize he’d closed his own as well, the better to concentrate on the delicate sensations of her swirling tongue,