I flung the adjoining door open.

I didn't know who I was expecting to find in there, but it wasn't this.

Graysen Crowther.

My fury sparked and I was opening up my mouth to roar at him to get the hells out, when I realized, just what he wasn't wearing.

My mouth fell open.

My anger sputtered out.

All that confusion and embarrassment and desire swept through me with the ferocity of wildfire, threatening to incinerate me from the inside out.

Graysen was standing in the middle of the bedroom, shirtless.

Every angry thought slowly eddied out of my head and I wasn't sure if I even remembered my own name as he paused in the middle of sliding a t-shirt on. One eyebrow quirked at me, and his nostrils flared, just before his mouth curved into a delicious smile. "Didn't take you long to change your mind."

I knew that he was speaking, but for some gods-forsaken reason, I couldn't quite grasp what he was saying.

Holy Skalki!

Graysen Crowther was shirtless!

I'd never seen Graysen shirtless before. Ever. I'd only partially seen the tattoos that webbed across his golden skin, down exposed arms, or winding up his throat. I knew of House Crowther's insignia that branded the flesh above his heart, and I'd felt it for the very first time when I teased him out on the patio and spread my hand over his heart, but I'd never actually seen it. I caught a glimpse of the brand, the writhing serpentine wyrm woven into the coils of ink scoring across his chest, just before he pulled on a tight t-shirt, the name of a band only he knew scrawled across the front.

I swallowed thickly. His entire chest was muscled steel, smooth but for the triangle of dark hair that dipped below his belt line.

My eyes startled wide as I saw the unmistakable ridgeline in his pants growing thicker—Gods, he had a hard-on!

"Get your fill, little bird," he smirked. He adjusted his crotch, gifting me a wink.

My cheeks flushed, and I made a pfffting noise, followed by a muttered, "As if."

I tore my gaze from the hard ridgeline pressing against his pants to dart about the room. Safer, much safer, to look at anything else but him. I wasn't really seeing anything, though. Not the leather and redwood armchair where his saddlebags sat unzipped—a glimpse of neatly folded clothes—and three garment bags hanging from where he'd hooked them over the edge of the bathroom door. I didn't see the large bed, adorned in soft greens, nor even the original Klimt painting I suddenly realized I'd been staring blankly at.

"Wychthorn?"

I slowly blinked, trying to mentally shake the image of that honed chiseled body away. Gods, what would it be like to touch that bare chest, the ripple of abs—

"I...uh...ah..." My tongue darted out to wet my lower lip.

"Wychthorn?"

What was I doing here?

What...was...I...doing...here?

The power deep inside me rumbled, chuckling in amusement.

And so too was Graysen, I realized, as my dazed gaze swiveled back to him. He wasn't actually laughing out loud, but his black eyes were sparkling with amusement as if he could easily read my messy, tangled thoughts.

I cleared my throat, sucking in a cleansing breath—Get it together Nelle, the guy just humiliated you less than five minutes ago—and rallied my scattered pride.

I arched an imperious brow, shifting my weight to one hip, and coldly asked, "What are you doing here?" Then frowned, as I noticed the wounds I'd earlier inflicted across his cheeks and forehead were gone as if they'd never been there. And then I realized he'd changed from his suit into a pair of black pants that hugged muscular legs. The leather material was cut in a way that was reminiscent of fish scales, and there were daggers strapped to the outside of his calf-high boots.

"Isn't it obvious?" he replied, and reached for a jacket, tugging it on and zipping it up. It matched his pants—sheathing him like a second skin. What he wore was akin to motorcycle leather, but it was armor. I could see the glint of adamere threaded through the soft material.

Sage padded to my side. The wraith-wolf gave an aggravated huff of annoyance, fixing his strange silvery eyes on Graysen. I folded my arms across my chest. "What are you doing in the room right next to mine?"

He cocked his head, his large hands were braced on his hips, and there was a defiant line to his body. "I'm staying. That's my right, isn't it? A full weekend of celebrations. The Pelans are here, the Reskas soon enough." He gave a soft, vicious snarl. "Besides there's no way I'll allow Danne-fucking-Pelan near your quarters. If that's what you're intending to do—sneak him in there."

I wasn't. But he didn't need to know that. And besides, why was he so uppity about Danne? Was it because he was a Pelan or was it because Graysen had some stupid idea in his head he could dictate who I was and was not allowed to see? My gaze narrowed—he was an arrogant prick who thought he could mess with me.

Godsdammit, he's really good at messing with me.

He flicked his head, his unruly locks swept across his forehead. His eyes sharpened as his gaze drifted downward, and his mouth curled into a wicked smile. I felt his heated interest like a tangible caress that feathered down the length of my spine.

Why is he looking at me like that?

Glancing down, I found the front of my robe gaped wide and revealed the low-scooped neckline of my nightie clinging to my breasts. I pulled the robe's material together, retying the belt tighter while cursing myself under my breath—Fuckity fuck, fuck, fuck!

"Pretty," he grinned, then turned away and strode to the mahogany table set up beneath the outside window. It was my turn to sweep my hungry gaze all over his body. Gods, his armor hugged that ass just right. Despite the fact I didn't like him, I liked the look of his ass, a lot. And now I'd discovered that lean muscled chest...

The memory of us both tangled together on my bed had me gnawing on my bottom lip, trying to stifle the warmth rushing through my chest, winding lower.

Godsdammit!

This is not a good idea, Nelle. At. All.

I blew out a breath, steeling my resolve. There was a reason why I called him the Lord of Darkness. The guy was a fucking asshole.

He fished around in the worn and battered leather weapons bag sitting on the table and pulled a sheathed sword from its depth. He strapped it to his back, twisting around to face me.

A cold feeling swept through me, dousing all the heat he'd inspired. I blinked. "You're going hunting?"

"We need a tithe for the Horned Gods," he said, belting a bandoleer, fitted with deadly knives, across his chest. His fingers deftly buckled and tightened the straps.

"What are you hunting?" What would need all those weapons to bring it down?

This weekend wasn't just a party announcing the engagement between Evvie and Corné.

The Houses would come together for the Horned Gods' blessing. It had been our way, since the beginning of our servitude, that at every announced betrothal, the Horned Gods would bestow their blessing upon the union. And in exchange, every single House would offer a tithe—either a mortal or something else.

As Graysen moved toward the middle of the room, the various blades buckled to his body caught the golden glow dripping down from a brass chandelier hanging above. Reflected light skittered against my skin and struck the pale green walls in a shifting pattern like the turning of a kaleidoscope. He shrugged, muscles rippling beneath the leather scales of his armor. "A bit of an overkill. But it's better to be prepared." He winked at me. "Who knows? Something might hunt me." He grinned then, wide and full of mirth, and his eyes gleamed as if laughing at his own private joke.

My nose scrunched, not understanding whatever he was amused about.

I hadn't even noticed I'd drifted closer until his body heat licked against mine and his scent of cedar and hints of leather and smoke washed over me. The sword strapped to his back, the hilt peeking over one shoulder, was impressive, and I was curious. I reached around him, intrigued by the sword's hilt. A wyrm decorated the pommel, and the off-white material was unusual, not steel or adamere, but something else. Bone, I realized, as my fingers spread to touch the pommel. And just as I hesitated, feeling how wrong the sword was, his large hand snapped out, wrapping around my wrist, stopping me.

"Don't. It's cursed."

My eyes snapped to his. Cursed how? House Simonis specialized in all manner of curses. But this sword felt ancient. Older, much older, than when our ancestors started experimenting with magic and weaponry. "What is it made from?"

"Wyrmbone."

My eyebrows flicked up in surprise. I knew that his ancestors had tamed wyrms, but those wild and savage beasts had died out a long, long time ago.

I wanted to ask more about his sword, but his rough thumb pad, stroking my inner wrist back and forth, distracted me. It wasn't a casual touch. It had purpose. He was massaging a spot that made my breath catch in my throat and my blood thrum.

Gods, what is he doing to me?

You like it—rasped the creature deep inside.

Like hells I do!

I snatched my hand from Graysen and scowled, whirling around and stomping away from the temptation he inspired in my own body. I felt hot and cold all at once. With every heavy step, I reminded myself why Graysen Crowther was not a good idea. The guy was mean. An asshole. An arrogant prick. He liked to push my buttons and basically was a brooding and sullen jerkass.

I got as far as the adjoining door when I felt his approach, the heat of his body caressed mine. I spun around, finding him right in my space. I had to crane my neck to glare up at him. "Don't you dare think you can enter my bedroom. You keep your mean ass out." But behind my back I was rubbing my wrist, trying to remove the scorching sensation on my skin. He rested a forearm against the doorframe beside my head. He stared at me with a piercing gaze and a smug smile that rounded those high cheekbones a fraction and made my heart pulse faster.

His smile only grew wider, as if he knew exactly what I was doing behind my back, and why I was doing it. "Oh I'll be coming inside," and he placed emphasis on the word 'coming' in a way that had my mouth falling open and my eyes flaring wide, "and what's more, you'll invite me to."

Wait...huh?

Before I could even spit out a curse at him, he pushed off and strode away with that lazy arrogant swagger, only to pause at the door to the guest room and turn back. His tone was colder than mine had been, laced with menace, softened by a smile. "Be seeing you, little bird. Don't do anything while I'm away that will...Fuck. Me. Off."

I stared at the door he'd left open, hearing his heavy footfall down the hallway fade away, wondering how I was going to get through this weekend with him sleeping in the room right beside mine.

***

I raked a hand through my hair, tugging hard—What the fuck was I thinking? What had I done? Shit, all I'd wanted to do was get into that stubborn head of Wychthorn's that Danne Pelan was off-limits. Her new friend? That twisted motherfucker? When I'd discovered he was the one she was hoping to see this weekend, I'd lost it, completely. Which was fucking easy to do with that hellion roaring at me and fighting me at every turn. That fire she burned with, that damned fight she had in her—was the biggest fucking aphrodisiac of all.

I hadn't intended what-so-ever to dry-fuck her.

But hells it was fun.

Better than fun.

I want to sink into her.

The feel of Wychthorn pressing against my cock, the surprise and shock flaring in those pretty gray eyes before they melted into desire, filled my mind. She could deny it as much as she wanted, but she'd been running hot for me and one breath away from coming. Her arousal, that scent of hers, had driven me insane with longing.

She wasn't supposed to feel as good as she did beneath me. Every single inch of me hummed...I felt alive...as if I'd been shaken awake from a deep slumber. Fuck, what the hells is this bewitchment?

All that thrummed through my head, my blood, was her.

Her exquisite taste.

Her tantalizing scent.

The feel of her soft, silky skin.

Her lips. Hells, I wanted to kiss her. I wanted more of that sunshine. Bask in it. Steal it. Heal my black heart.

I passed a few sentries as I strode toward Byron's garage where my bike was parked. Thankfully their eyes lingered on my armor and sword rather than the godsdamned erection straining against my pants. My cock throbbed, punching at the armor, desperate to impale itself into the nearest willing woman. I had this awful feeling it wouldn't be satisfied with any pretty pussy until it had tasted Little Miss Fire and Brimstone.

This isn't supposed to happen.

I'm not allowed to crave her.

But that thing, whatever it was between us, it had pulled and tugged and momentarily blinded me to who she was—a Wychthorn. Which wasn't fucking hard to understand—this evening with Sirro's unexpected appearance had more twists in it than a damned helix. I'd kept my distance from her over the past year, with dark looks and surly behavior, acting like a blunt fucking asshole—my usual self—and in a mere few hours, she'd torn rents into the wall of ice I'd built to keep her out.

Fuck, I was on the other side trying to batter my way through.

Make it stop.

Make her go away.

My pace faltered, and I took a moment to link my fingers behind the nape of my neck and hiss out a long pent-up breath and shake the memory of her soft body against mine. I rolled my neck, cracking it.

Get your godsdamned head back in the game, Crowther!

Wychthorn was nothing to me. Nothing.

She was a means to an end.

I was a Crowther, and she was the reason the heart of my family had been ripped apart.

I grabbed hold of that cold, dark feeling beginning to fill my veins with ice and held tight—Wychthorn meant nothing.

There were things to do. Things to hunt. And I needed to be on point.

I was intercepted before leaving the mansion, as I knew I would be. One of the guards caught up to me and requested I speak with Byron in his office.

***

Byron sat behind his large desk with his jacket off, his tie loosened and askew, while nursing a rose-crystal tumbler filled to the top with cognac. His salted hair was ruffled, his eyes a little bloodshot, and he rubbed at them as if they were gritty. He looked worn down and defeated—my favorite look on him.

He took in my outfit and the various blades. "Leaving it a bit late to collect a tithe?"

House Wychthorn obviously had its tithe. Someone else dirtied their hands on his behalf. But we were Crowthers and we came from a long line of ancestors who hunted. We found our own tithes, rather than ordering someone else to do it on our behalf.

Where is the fun in that?

I shrugged nonchalantly, shifting my weight from foot to foot. "We're after something unique."

Nostrils flaring, he drew in a deep breath, placing the tumbler down on the glass-topped desk, his fingers shaking just a touch. A different desk, I noted, than the one I'd signed my name in blood on, five years ago. I could taste his anger like mildew permeating a rotting forest floor. His lips curled into a distasteful line. "You're not staying in the room assigned to you."

No, I wasn't. I had no doubt my movements were closely monitored, and that Byron had been notified the moment I'd tossed my shit into that bedroom next to Wychthorn's.

"I found an empty one next to your daughter's." Even now, I found it hard to utter her name. She was always Wychthorn or little bird—never Nelle. It was just another way I used to keep her away, to keep up the wall of ice, to keep her distant.

"You're not going to stay in that room."

"I think I prefer to—"

"It's not right—"

I bristled that he dared interfere. But, at the same time, loved it—loved putting him in his place. "No, it's not right. But it is my right. My right to do whatever I want, because it's my name signed in blood on the Alvarac. She's nineteen and the terms you agreed to..." I could do anything to her on those days stated in the Alverac. And I meant anything. The last day of every month, and every family occasion we were together, she was mine—until I owned her completely when she turned twenty.

Byron squeezed his eyes shut briefly, deepening the tired grooves around his eyes and mouth. No doubt he was trying to shove away the images, the thought of what someone like me would do with his beloved daughter.

He swallowed a messy mouthful of cognac, wiping his mouth with a hand, the sleeve cuff already stained with the toffee-colored liquid. His shoulders slumped, and his hands curled on either side of his glass. He could barely look at me. "Free her of the Alverac," he said simply.

Always the same, every time we met—Free her of the Alverac. Let her go.

I fought the shit-eating grin tickling my mouth.

This great man, who ruled over us, was swaying on the tip of begging.

I shoved my hands into the pockets of my jacket, shrugging lightly. "It's not my fault she thinks she's going to marry me." No, that was all on Byron and his wife. "Why not tell her the truth of what she signed?" I'd love to see the terror in her pretty gray eyes every time we met. A bit of fucking respect wouldn't go amiss.

He glanced up, a bit of the old Byron flaring up with the fierce hate that glowed in his drunken blue eyes. "She's fearless. I mean to keep her that way for as long as I can."

And I meant to break her of that. She was fearless. I'd never been able to intimidate her, not even when we first spoke in the aviary. And it fucked me right off. It also impressed the hells out of me. I still didn't know if I wanted to choke the life out of her with her pretty, pale braid or fuck her. Well, actually I did. I wanted to fuck her first.

"What do you want? What will it cost for her freedom? Name it, Graysen, and it's yours."

He meant raising us to an Upper House.

Any one of the Lower Houses would have taken up his offer the first time he voiced it. To advance from Lower to Upper House, perhaps usurp the place of another family, meant we'd lord over all those Lower Houses. The rise in status would give us more power and domination.

But power and domination wasn't our ultimate goal.

Our goal was Wychthorn.

My goal was Wychthorn.

I wanted his daughter sinking to her knees, bowing at my feet, broken, bloodied, begging. I wanted Byron Wychthorn to see her breaking apart and in doing so, I'd break him too.

He deserved it.

And even then, afterward, I'd never gift her freedom.

Without waiting for dismissal, I bowed and left the room.