Catherine didn't find the silence that had settled between them uncomfortable. It was rare for two people to spend time together without conversation, subtext, or the need to scheme.

She took a few sips from the wineskin, acutely aware that the contents cost a man his life. And although it helped, only sleep would benefit her now.

During their long ride, Dillon had taken precautions. She was aware of his actions the entire time and it only increased her respect for him. He crossed several streams to dilute their scent and often changed the angle and direction of their travel. Although they had veered more south than wisdom prescribed, it bought them a head start.

In a secluded patch of woodland, she finally brought her horse to a standstill and dismounted, scanning their surroundings with unease.

"We can rest here," she decided.

Even though he sat with his back straight and shoulders squared, the slight drooping of his posture, the tightness of his muscles, and the glassy look in his eyes betrayed his fatigue.

Guilt nibbled at her conscience, and her brow furrowed as she resisted the unwanted emotion.

"I agree," Dillon said. "Not that it matters much."

He didn't need to explain as he left the horses in her care and stalked off to collect a few sticks.

The vampire kept track of him, seeming curious rather than hostile as Catherine settled their saddles on the ground and loosened the bedding.

When Dillon returned, he made a small, well-hidden fire with the ease of a man used to doing things for himself. This proved he was no spoiled lordling, but she always suspected it.

Although a vampire would smell the smoke, humans might not easily notice it unless they were close enough to convey a message to their master.

Hellenic would need to wait until the halls were silent and the humans had left to ensure no one could lay their deaths at his feet. Even though she suspected he had far worse things in mind.

Catherine had seen him pull the teeth from his victims with pliers, rip off their nails, and skin them alive. Then, he would leave them for the sun to take care of the evidence. Humans usually died before he concluded his torture, and he didn't much bother with them.

She shuddered, her stomach hollow with dread.

Hellenic was capable of tracking but had an excellent tracker at his disposal. Even if this were not the case, his vampire senses and speed would lend him an unfair advantage. She could almost feel him gaining ground on them.

Despite our caution, she admitted, there is a strong possibility we will still be found.

Catherine tended the restless horses, briefly distracting herself from everything else.

She unobtrusively paid attention to how Dillon boiled a few pieces of meat in a small pot instead of roasting it. In the future, it would be her duty to cook for him, and although not unfamiliar with preparing food, her father had disliked her visiting the kitchens.

She cleaned the tack and fed the fire.

"Do you want some food?" he asked.

Although she had more blood than she usually needed in a week, her stomach grumbled.

Wordlessly, he took out a second wooden bowl and offered her piping-hot stew.

She inhaled deeply, and her mouth filled with saliva.

Cutting into the soft meat with her knife, that first bite confirmed her suspicions, setting the bar high for her future attempts.

Sharing a meal with him comforted her.

Dillon kept glancing at the forest, listening and waiting as he emptied his bowl and filled it again.

Finished, she used a rag to wipe hers clean and returned it to him. Their fingers touched as he took it, and their eyes briefly met before she settled back down. A jolt of electricity had passed between them and the dilating of his pupils told her that he experienced it as well.

As she observed him, she remembered that humans like him had once threatened her kind. Centuries passed, her people re-established their dominance, and humans forgot they formed the coalition from a position of strength. They no longer dealt with vampires as equals, and her kin insidiously fed that perception of frailty.

"There's nothing out there, my lord... not yet," she tried to put him at ease, but it was more than his human senses keeping him alert—he was mentally preparing himself for the arrival of their enemies.

Dillon stared at her, deciding whether to take her word at face value.

The moment he pushed the knife against her chest at the stream played through her mind, and she stole the knife from his fingers before he could blink. She turned it and pressed it against her own heart before kneeling at his feet.

His eyes widened, and he sat there, too startled to react.

Fear for him stirred in her chest as Dillon's jaw set into a hard line. They stared at each other, and she placed his hand on the knife's handle without him offering resistance.

This will only work if I convince him of my loyalty, she realized.

"Although I do not want to die, my lord—that urge has passed—if you feel you cannot trust me, it is better to end this now." The challenge stiffened his posture.

Nothing happened as neither relented.

Catherine let go of the knife and his hand, allowing him to choose for them both.

His grip settled more firmly on the weapon—his face an unreadable mask—and her heart stuttered as some odd expression briefly darkened his gaze.

Is he imagining all the horrible things I might do to him at my whim? Or how it would feel to push the knife into my flesh? she wondered.

Dillon resolutely put away the knife, breaking eye contact.

"I will take my rest," he said gruffly, revealing how intimidating he found his proximity to her predator. "We ride before dawn."

"Do you require any other services, my lord?" The words almost strangled her, but even as she said them, she couldn't help hoping he would decline.

But a man was a man.

A frown again wrinkled his brow, but then his quick mind caught on. His expression turned stone cold, and his eyes burned with unreadable emotions.

"Is that what one of your kind would expect of a female servant?" Dillon broke the silence.

His jaw relaxed as he studied her. Despite his curiosity, his reserve did not waver.

She stared fixedly at the orange and red glow of the fire, the crackle of the low-burning flames seeming loud as she considered her answer.

"Servant? No, but a slave girl? Yes," she conceded.

"Thank you, but where I come from, you don't piss where you eat." Dillon made himself as comfortable as he could on the hard ground.

Something in his eyes betrayed that it was much more than the moral values of his people that kept him from taking up her offer.

A week ago, she mused, idly scratching an itchy bit of new skin on her hand, he wouldn't have dared speak so freely.

"Is that another of Humboldt's sayings, master?" she asked to relieve the tension.

He froze, and wariness replaced her lassitude.

Did I overstep again? she wondered.

"No," he finally said when she almost gave up on him answering her. "Humboldt would never have used such language in my presence."

Despite his empathy and honor, there was enough armor around his heart to fend off anyone who dug too deep.

"What would he have said?" she baited.

Catherine violently shut down a brief flash of herself lying naked in his arms, but even as she did, the vampire stirred. This time, it experienced a different kind of hunger. It had never shown any such interest in a human before, and it bothered her.

The quiet stretched between them, but this time, it was jarring.

If not for Dillon's eyes reflected in the firelight, she would have thought he had fallen asleep.

She disliked being at odds with him. He had the power of life and death over her. In fact, he could easily sell her or give her to another—someone who might not have the same moral values as him.

"In the old days, masters took what they wanted. But when common men had enough of the yokes that broke their backs, they rebelled," he told her.

A frown tugged at her brow as she wondered where he was headed with this.

"The rebels won. Masters became slaves, and the former slaves became masters. Unfortunately, wealth gained by people unused to such luxuries, quickly dwindles. Soon enough, the new masters became servants or slaves again. This created a power vacuum for swindlers and men of lesser moral standards to seize control," he said, lost in thought.

She shook her head and used a stick to stir the dying fire.

Father was right—these Highlanders are strange.

"Even though your tutor was wise, master, he was perhaps a little idealistic," she teased, then realized she was being forward.

There was no judgment in his expression.

"As a lad, a household servant—no older than me—refused to give me the flute his father carved," his gaze avoided hers briefly, then returned.

Heat tinged his cheeks, but he bravely continued with his story.

"I broke it and ordered him beaten."

His expression told her that he expected condemnation for his childhood misdeed. Yet, among her kind, such a thing would have gone by unremarked upon.

"Humboldt smashed my violin." His cheeks darkened, and his jaw tightened. "He told me we could administer the punishment only if I took the same beating first..." The faintest smirk unexpectedly touched his lips and transformed his face. "Unless I were a coward, of course."

The slight brogue his voice acquired revealed that Humboldt must have been a Southerner.

"I defiantly pulled off my shirt for the caning." The laughter in his eyes hid sad shadows. "He took me aside before my punishment and told me the boy's father died weeks after carving that flute." His expression sobered. "Then he beat me mercilessly. When he was done, I turned to face him to show him I would not cry, and tears were streaming down his face."

She could picture the two of them so clearly, even though she had no idea what his mentor looked like.

"We stood among the towering bookcases of the library, with the music room just beyond the gilded double doors. He handed the rod to me to administer the beating myself, and I could see the boy waiting for us."—His shoulders hunched, and he sighed deeply.—"I stared at that thin, heartbroken, angry, tough boy for the longest time."

The images of the past affected him deeply and he got lost in his thoughts.

"What did you do, master?" she asked.

It was more than duty that made her prod him from his reverie.

"I broke the cane and sent the boy down to the kitchens to have him fed, bathed, and properly clothed while I fixed the flute." His gaze caught hers, and he was fully back in the present.

Dillon seemed to stare right into her soul.

For a human, this man is handsome, she thought, and much too good a person to die for Hellenic's pleasure.

"But I kept the broken violin mounted in the music room to remind me that servants are people with stories and heartaches. You met Thomas earlier today."

Now, I understand the servant's loyalty and concern for this man. She glanced away, pretending to search the impenetrable darkness beyond the fire. How I wish our paths had never crossed. I am not worth the sacrifice of his life. Although I may be a princess by birth who might have even become a queen, he is a king at heart. This world needs men like him.

"I will stand guard while you sleep, master," she offered the only thing she had to give.

As he turned his back on her and pulled the blanket around him, she stared at his back. No tension remained in his frame.

He trusts me, she realized.

The idea settled a weight on her shoulders that she had never experienced before.

Catherine retrieved the knife he gave her and examined the intricate hunting scene carved into the side panels. She ran her fingers over it until she encountered the letter D nearly hidden in the corner.

Her attention returned briefly to him.

No one had ever needed her. And although, before this day, he had not required protection and fought his own battles, his choice now put him in a kind of danger that changed the stakes.

She stared into the night, and her life felt like a cart teetering down a hill with no driver as she returned the knife to its pouch.

Her thoughts were so occupied that a few hours later, when he stirred from his sleep and sat upright, she couldn't believe how far the moon had traveled across the sky.

He rubbed his face and yawned.

"Your turn," he said, drinking from his watering skin.

Fatigue had threatened to fold over her in a heavy dark cloud for a while, but she had been terrified of falling asleep and causing both their deaths.

"Thank you, master," she said graciously.

Dillon raised a brow, nodding in approval.

She had been through hell and back and needed the rest, but they were running out of time.

As she lay on the hard ground, her mind spiraled into the void the last few days had become, but she fought it, fearing the emotions it would unleash. Her vampire stirred restlessly, still too close to the edge. She didn't have the energy to restrain it, but despite her best efforts, her mind kept running in circles that always brought her back to the moment the sun touched her knee.

She sighed heavily as her inner creature grumbled, its irritation out of proportion to hers. Some soft sound caught her attention, and she listened closely as her body tensed, but it didn't repeat. No scent of human or vampire disturbed the night.

Moments passed like treacle running from a spoon, and she relaxed, slowly drifting off to sleep.

A twig snapped close to her, and her eyes snapped open.