Devon found being invisible both eerie and a rush.

Twice now, our foes have ambushed us like the cowards they are, and now we hunt them without mercy, she thought.

She watched her companions in awe as they picked the fae off one by one without hesitation or allowing themselves a moment to rest. At the same time, it brought back bittersweet memories of life at her father's side before she became his prisoner and hated enemy.

She did not fight this battle to please a father who would never see her as his equal. No one manipulated her actions. Starvation did not compel her, nor was she a helpless slave to her nature.

Nor is it just my bond to Lord Darren—and, by extension, Arlene—which urges me to keep pace, she admitted.

Respect, affection, and trust motivated her to do what came naturally to her—defend the people she cared for.

She fought any thought of the past with the same ferocious efficiency that annihilated any foe who had the misfortune to cross her path.

Now is not the time to be distracted by what was, or I may not live to see tomorrow. Her gaze strayed to Lord Darren. The three of us act as a unit and our bonds allow us to work easily in cohesion. We are constantly aware of each other's movements and intentions.

Never did I imagine a closeness like this with others, nor would I have believed tales of such a thing. Even having known the pack bond, what I feel is something entirely different. No words can define how linked I feel yet free to be myself. The connection to my father, however, was an invisible shackle, an extension of his control over me.

Meghan trailed in their wake, dispatching whatever came her way, but often glanced at them with a frown.

Never have I seen the bond function like this, she thought and found it unnerving. I live among my kind and see how bonded supernaturals obey the will of their owners. It is never more than a one-way link between master and servant. What Lord Darren has with his bonded is more than a way for a master to exert his influence. Their connection is much more profound and complex, almost like family.

Born an entire century after her and being the only daughter, Meghan remained home while her brothers went out into the world to create their own covens and lives.

Despite their freedom, they remained beholden to our father in large matters and stayed bonded to him although he rarely exerted any influence over their households. Still, I envied them the ability to have their own lives.

Much water passed under the bridge before Lord Bertram accepted that she would not be the perfect daughter he envisioned for himself.

Now that I know who my mother is, I understand my restless spirit. Despite the impression I gained from Lord Darren that Lady Eleanor is entirely different from Leah although they were the same person, I suspect that Eleanor hid parts of herself from the world. When she became Leah, the warlord, it freed her of the stifling role society assigned her as a woman of royal blood without the means to protect herself from her fellow royals.

King Duncan may have saved Eleanor's family from poverty, but by taking her as his mistress and not his wife, he placed the gentlewoman in a position where polite society did not acknowledge her.She may have still retained the title of Lady, but the gentry would have shunned her.

Meghan never found contentment in charitable works or fulfillment in being the centerpiece of her father's collection.

Was Eleanor like that? Did she, too, feel like a round peg in a square hole? I need more than to grace the halls of Father's house with my beauty, host his parties, and entertain his acquaintances.

Her face hardened, and her expression turned cold. Father ignored my pleas to allow me to master the art of sword fighting at my peril.

Many moons ago, while Lord Bertram secured a contract with a nearby neighbor, the vampire lord left Meghan with his household and a contingent of guards.

As he often did.

She could still remember how it had felt when the guards closed the gates and barred them, yelling and screaming as the archers streamed up onto the battlements. She was standing in her room as she stared out over the hills while hundreds of mounted riders stormed the castle against fifty defenders, and young as she was, it occurred to her that she stared at her death.

Despite her gentle upbringing, she had known there were far too few soldiers inside the sprawling castle to protect its walls. The first blow of the battering ram against the wooden doors shuddered the battlements, and the rhythmic voices of the men on the other side yelled, "Heave!"

The next thundering clap of wood on wood terrified her.

"Come, mistress. Let us hide!" her maid had called—a human woman who had cared for her for years.

"Where shall we hide that they will not find us?" Meghan recalled asking as she glanced briefly at the woman. Even in that split second, she saw all she needed to know on the maid's terrified face.

There would be no hiding from Maxim of Boulogne, a man her father had antagonized over the years and who had bided his time well. She was also under no illusion—he would use her to teach Lord Bertram a lesson in keeping his promises.

The maid did not leave even though she looked scared out of her wits.

"Save yourself. You will not be safe near me," Meghan said, twisting and untwisting her handkerchief as the thick wooden bolt securing the outer doors splintered.

It will not hold much longer, she realized.

"Go with the maid!" her usually silent vampire urged.

"What would be the point? It would buy us only a few more minutes at most."

"Maybe Father will come!" it coaxed, trying to wrestle control from her, but it was too weak.

"Father has traveled days from here. You know that," she reminded in clipped tones.

The bar exploded inward, and slivers of wood impaled many of the men trying to barricade the doors with whatever they could find. It was too late—the invaders had forced the heavy hardwood iron-bound gates open and swept over the defenders as if they were made of straw, hacking them to pieces even as they bravely attacked, knowing they ran toward their end.

Father never did finish the moat, spending his time making the walls higher instead of addressing the greatest soft spot.

She mentally prepared herself for her demise.

Maxim is not a man of mercy, and he came here for me, she faced the facts, wiping her hands on the silk folds of her white-and-gold dress.

"Lady Meghan Bertram, come out here and meet your fate, and I will spare the rest of your people," the large, red-haired man called out.

That distinct reddish-brown mustache and beard set him apart from the swarm of dark-haired and blond raiders he brought with him. He made a striking figure with the polished plates decorating his leather armor and his eyes glowing vampire blue as he sat on his legendary steed. Never had she imagined this man would be the face of her death.

"Do not believe him," the maid beseeched her.

"I thought I told you to save yourself," Meghan murmured, taking a deep breath before she left the familiar things of her room behind.

Even as she passed through the doors, she heard Maxim's men as they pillaged the palace of the fine furnishings and beautiful objects she grew up taking for granted. She expected them to stop her or attack, but they let her go by unhindered.

She curbed the urge to scream at them to leave their property alone and, clinging to her dignity, walked past the mutilated bodies of the soldiers and guards she had known since childhood.

It gave her hope when she noticed that the invaders had the staff along with the fighting men cornered but were not being slain. Nor did the barbarians harm the defenders who surrendered.

If they still live when Father returns, they will wish they were killed. He has even less mercy than Maxim despite his pretense of being a gentleman.

Her insides turned hollow as she hurried through the broken remains of her home. She watched men of no background grab treasures as ancient as the castle and shove them into bags with no respect for their historical value, only seeing their monetary worth.

She flinched when two men fought over a delicate, painted vase that had crossed two oceans and survived for a thousand years. As she slipped through the door, the porcelain shattered on the flagstone floor, and it felt like an omen.

She came to a standstill on the raised terrace leading down the steps into the central courtyard. The delicate gardens were lost under a sea of men, but her eyes were nailed to the one who held her future in his hands. Their eyes met, and when she stared into those glacial orbs, she knew she should attack him and have his soldiers kill her.

As if he could read her thoughts, he smirked.

What harm could a gently raised woman do against armored vampires? she admitted. She made her way to where his horse stood snorting while pawing the ground. Its glossy black coat was mostly hidden by armor.

She kneeled before its master and bowed her head.

Maxim would not have gone through all this trouble just to kill me. Where would the fun be in ending me before he had his fun with me? she realized with shaking hands and nausea damming up in her throat.

"Do you know why I am here?" he demanded.

"Yes, sir. Father took something from you that did not belong to him."

She knew that much although it was a small piece of the story—a mere episode in hundreds of years of rivalry between two men who were once boys together.

"Did he tell you what he took from me?" the man asked.

Even though she did not raise her head, she heard his leather armor creak as he lifted himself from the saddle. The courtyard had grown silent when he spoke to her, and even the raiders had left their spoils to come outside and watch her execution. The sun glinted dully on the riveted plates fastened to his boots, mere inches from her nose.

"No, sir."

For a man who loved boasting about his victories, Father had been very tight-lipped about what exactly he took from the greatest warlord that ever lived.It could be no small matter if it made the man hate him so much, she realized.

"Sweet lady, your mother was to be my bride, but he wanted her. Not because he loved her as I did but because he coveted her fortune. Money, he needed to repair this castle and become the man he has."

That was news to her, and it explained a lot. She did not enlighten him to the truth of her birth. There was no telling how he would react.

"The fact that you could have been my daughter is the only reason I will not kill you outright and be done with it. Although you will wish I had," he promised, grabbing her by her hair and dragging her across the courtyard.

The men parted before him, taking anything that might hinder his progress out of his way.

"Leave nothing here for Bertram to rebuild his little empire," Maxim ordered scornfully, and the men snickered.

The hem of her skirt caught on something, halting his progress. He yanked her so hard that not only did the skirt tear, but he also lost his grip and pulled out a clump of her hair.

The whimper that escaped Meghan made him laugh, and tears of anger and humiliation stung her eyes. She crawled onto her knees and flitted toward the door, able to see the courtyard and the light of day beyond between the gates.