Brody Jericho’s parties were infamous among certain crowds, standing leagues above anything of its kind. Some called them debauchery. Others referred to the gatherings as orgies.

I called them fun—most of the time.

Pulling the edges of my onyx robe together, my gaze raked over the luscious, soothing gardens backed by the frame of Grouse Mountain. Around me, the party fell away as I breathed in the sweet scent of night. Riddled with unvarnished purity, unpolluted from the dense subdivisions of downtown Vancouver I now called home.

As a “country girl,” by birth, a young wild thing of Hundred Mile, British Columbia once upon a time, this area calmed me in a way the hustle and bustle never could. And my mind required a shut off valve every now and then. I could reminisce better, simpler times in my life.

A soft smile pulled at my black cherry lipsticked mouth, outlined in the richest black liner I owned. Yeah, so what? I’m Goth. We all have our issues. The smile didn’t last. Malevolence, a black floodlight on my peace, infected my thoughts mere moments before his body heat trailed over me, his very nature oil slick and filled with darkness I couldn’t comprehend.

The tip of his nose ran up my jugular. His hand grazed my ass. No spark of lust. No instant, please do it again. Isn’t that how it should be in a relationship?

I stiffened. He noticed.

“Gene,” I murmured offhandedly. Half-focused, my gaze searched his shadowy features with an Italian twist to his bone structure and thick hair, save those blue-black eyes that sometimes glinted cobalt in the sun. His scent was rich, spicy, fragrance similar to my own. Should be. I converted him. My lover, my child. Whatever.

He twirled a red and onyx lock around his finger, tugging at my scalp. “I’m hungry.” Had I hurt his feelings? Better yet, did he have any? Did I?

We were vampires of the worst sort.

Gene stared at my jugular with a greedy gaze. Good for you, I’m not.

“Go find something to feed on.” I turned back to the gardens, not to dismiss him, but the low light made him appear monstrous, controlling. I could deal with neither quality at the moment.

“I want your blood.” His callused hand palmed the back of my neck, forcing me to look at him. Red flickers leapt in his irises. Would he resort to violence, his Curse, our nature? “It is my right.”

No, actually it wasn’t. Our laws didn’t quite work that way. He knew that better than most. But a Maker’s blood compared to expensive, one-of-a-kind liquor to their “children.”

I released an irritated breath. “Where have you been?”

He reared back, towering over me. “Around.”

“That’s informative.”

He flashed pearly whites in a snarl. “Don’t be a bitch.”

“Then don’t take off on me for over an hour, and show up demanding to suck me dry. Doesn’t make me feel too charitable.”

“Is that what I am, Sara? Your charity case?” He gripped my shoulders and shoved me against the open doorframe of the French doors on which I leaned. His muscles flexed as he curved his spine, blocking out the world. “Is that how you really think of me?” His soft words thinly veiled a threat.