Meghan's unexpected attempt to escape caught everyone off guard, long enough for her to almost get to the bottom of the stairs before something crashed into her, flinging her from her feet and pinning her to the ground.

"So, you do have a little of your mother's courage," Maxim hissed as the silence gave way to the yip of men as they egged him on to kill her. "I will enjoy tearing you down and breaking your spirit," he promised close to her ear.

Meghan never knew her mother, and now she suspected he did not speak of her father's wife.

Not after what Lord Darren told me. Maxim would not have been a man impressed by a woman like Lady Bertram. The Warrior Queen, Leah, would have been more his speed, she thought before her mind returned to the past.

Maxim pulled her arms behind her back and got to his feet, forcing her upright and using his leverage to keep her moving. The gleeful way the invaders watched her and the fear in the eyes of the servants warned her that she should be ready for death long before Maxim decided to end her.

"Which way to your father's private dungeon?" he asked almost casually.

"Father does not possess such a thing," she hissed, and he laughed.

"Dear one, you are either lying to me or you do not know your father well," he taunted, but something in his voice told her he spoke the truth.

"Whoever shows me the way gets to live," he announced.

Two of the servants almost fell over themselves to lead him toward a part of the castle Meghan had never entered. Since childhood, she had been told the east wing was in no fit state to be inhabited.

When the servants unlocked the iron-enforced doors and she entered the austere hallways, her senses revealed the truth. Lord Bertram's scent lingered densely there, and no speck of dust defiled any surface. Something about the place made her uneasy as they passed through the empty gray stone hallway into a darker, danker part of her home that led down into an area below the main building.

This place smells of old blood, she realized. Urine, feces, and something else. Death? Things have been killed here and left to rot.

They passed through another metal door to a large open chamber, and when she saw the tools kept down there, she finally understood his scorn.

It seems he is right—I do not know my father. Never did I peg him as a man who would allow such devices of torture in his castle, nor did I imagine he would condone, use, or enjoy them. And this carefully allocated room is that of a man indulging in his hobby.

"Did you expect this?" Maxim asked.

But for three of the soldiers that accompanied their master, we are alone, she noted. Even the servants had fled.

"No," she admitted.

As it slowly sunk in that this man intended to teach her the horrors her father had visited upon his enemies in this room, her stomach clenched.

Their scents lingered—so many she could not count them.

Meghan could barely raise her swollen eyes when the door opened, and she tensed, expecting Maxim. Instead, she heard her father's voice.

For a moment, happiness filled her, and then she remembered the truths she had learned. But she could not cling to her disillusionment and anger in her state.

"Meghan, can you hear me?" Lord Bertram asked, lifting her head and gently angling her chin to make her look at him.

Swallowing dryly, she flinched.

Am I hallucinating? she wondered, struggling to think past the pounding pain in her chest.

"Don't move. The dagger is so close to your heart," he warned.

"Daddy," she sighed, realizing his hands were real.

Lord Bertram hissed as he pulled the silver-edged weapon from her chest. "Stay with me, my little one. Don't leave me," he beseeched.

Before Maxim came, she had never suffered more than a scuffed knee in her sixteen years.

"Shhh, don't worry, baby. Daddy is here," he soothed.

He picked her up and carried her from that room, where she learned the depths of depravity hiding in the mind of her captor. Even as she did, she could not help wondering if her father was like him. Sometimes, when fever and pain made her hallucinate, it was her father and not Maxim who tortured her to the edge of death.

Father helped me heal, Meghan thought, her mind returning from the meandering routes of the past. When I could stand on my own feet again, he taught me the art of war. He turned me into a warrior capable of defending myself but refused my repeated requests to accompany him on his raids. He didn't leave any doubt in my mind that what he taught me would serve for my defense—nothing more—until he found a suitable husband for me to marry and with whom I would settle down.

It made her wonder whether he was more concerned about what a suitable marriage for her could gain him than about her. However, she could never forget about the room behind that locked iron door, and even the merest mention of it stirred something in his father's eyes that reminded her of Maxim, scaring her.

Even though she was powerful enough to become a master herself, she grew up witnessing the effect of her father's iron hand over his coven. It never elicited the urge in her to create her own bonded or create a coven—not as servants or subjects, and definitely not as a marked lover.

That is something I will never feel comfortable doing, she admitted.

"But you understand the need for it," her vampire reminded her. It was not usually very talkative. "Competitive possessiveness is part of a vampire's nature, and marking prevents disputes, which turn into wars at a whim."

"I've never experienced it," Meghan said. She ignored a fleeting mental image of Lord Calder, her superior officer and the man they had to save.

Watching Lord Darren with his bonded elf and marked lover unleashed an unsettling pang of loneliness that elicited a yearning to fill the hollow in her chest.

Where does this singular feeling of incompletion come from, as if I am missing some part of my soul? Do Lord Darren and his bonded even realize how deep their connections run or the uniqueness of their union? she wondered.

The group stopped dead in their tracks when the slight oppression in the air unexpectedly lifted.

Meghan glanced at Arlene. The elf can no longer sustain the magic and keep fighting, she realized, feeling exposed.

Like the other three, she wordlessly blended into the forest, now having to depend on their various skill sets to finish the job. She found it more challenging to stay with them this time, but fear kept her going. She had no way to determine how many of their enemies were still in the woods or what magic they wielded.

Her worry over Calder consumed her thoughts, but she dared not allow it. His life may depend on me staying focused and alive, she realized.

Something scurried from the undergrowth, startling her before she picked up on the tiny rushing heart and the scent of a rabbit. Embarrassed by her jumpiness, she looked at her companions and straight into Devon's mocking gaze.

Arlene watched Devon blend into the woods. The wolf, in her natural element, reminded her of King Wolfgang—Devon's father and the man who slaughtered Arlene's entire family.

Unease slithered down her spine. Although her elven nature made her as at home in the woods as the pup, the wolf surpassed her.

She unstrapped and strung the elegant, powerful elven longbow from her back. It once belonged to Queen Sonja, her mother. She watched as Lord Darren pulled the hidden dagger from his boot, and Devon retrieved her small hunting knife from her belt and then strapped it around her lower left arm to conceal the weapon beneath her sleeve.

Somewhere during their headlong flight, the wolf acquired an ugly but well-balanced, razor-sharp fae blade.

Arlene watched Lord Darren meld into his surroundings.

His senses are less attuned than mine and not as sensitive as the wolf's, but the fae will find him a formidable enemy, she thought. Although Meghan is a skilled soldier, she isn't a hunter. The woods do not appeal to her, and despite her best efforts, she has no training or aptitude in this area. I suspect she realizes she's slowing us down.

Devon's low whistle froze her in her tracks. The lycan drew their attention to the forest floor to their left with a motion of her hand.

The muddied tracks and scrapes are signs of a struggle, Arlene realized.

Their guide lowered herself to her haunches. After briefly studying the footprints, she held up seven fingers. The tracks clearly led away from the clearing and closer to the road.

Lord Darren nodded, and they followed Devon in single file while constantly surveying their surroundings.

Why are there no lookouts? Arlene wondered as they followed the footprints to a larger clearing. Are they that arrogantly sure of our defeat?

Devon pointed to herself and made a circle with her finger, offering to scout ahead. Lord Darren denied her request with a firm shake of his head. He indicated all four of them and pointed forward, refusing to have them split up.

That is a wise choice, Arlene agreed. We cannot afford to be separated now.

The werewolf glanced at him, not convinced of the wisdom of approaching this unknown situation in a group. Lord Darren insisted, repeating the motion. With a shrug, the lycan complied.

Although Arlene understood Devon's reasoning, she sided with their master. This is no place for us to be caught alone.

A shudder ran down her spine at the thought.

The four of them continued forward, careful not to make a sound. Meghan kept glancing behind her, the hair on the back of her neck visibly standing on end. Devon was wary but unperturbed.

Spreading out behind some bushes, they had a clear view of the camp.

Arlene's grip on her knife tightened as she took in the scene before her. I can understand that the fae want to capture Lord Darren—his life will give them leverage with King Duncan—but why do I suspect that he is not their only target? Her brow furrowed as her gaze drifted to the former werewolf princess.

Devon is the last carrier of the Creed bloodline apart from Wolfgang, as I am the last Amboise apart from Verne. Yet the witch does not seem concerned about them. Is she trying to ensure that our legacy ends with us? Verne has fathered no children, and despite a slew of lovers, Wolfgang only sired one child. Devon's cousin, Maria, died with her offspring, and Wolfgang banished the other cousin, removing her bloodline from the family tree as he did with Devon.

A twig snapped to her left, and Arlene tensed as her heart thundered in her chest and her body prepared itself to fight to the death.