Her grip softened reluctantly. He opened her fingers and took the knife, forcing back memories of them holding hands. She let the second knife fall to the ground and he kicked it away.

The pulse in her carotid artery leapt against his arm. His heart pounded against her back. She was rigid. Seething. But her scent wound through him like honeysuckle vines. He brought the knife in his left hand to her throat.

"Let's review," he said, unable to restrain himself from swiping his nose along the edge of her ear as he spoke. "The rope is binding your arms. You could still struggle, but if you do, I'll snap your neck or cut your throat. And I'll do it, believe me, because I know you'll kill me if you get an opening."

He dragged the knife down her sternum, letting it catch on the first b.u.t.ton of her blouse. "Isn't that true?"

She said nothing. He flicked the knife and sent the b.u.t.ton flying. Still she made no noise, but a faint tremor rolled down the length of her spine. He was holding a storm in his arms. There was no turning back for him, and no quarter for her.

He cut off another b.u.t.ton. Her chin jerked up like a horse fighting the reins, and her weight shifted ominously. He didn't intend to wait to see what she was planning. Instead, he spun her around and slammed her head into the ventilation shaft behind them. The sharp, metallic reverberation thundered down into the building.

It wasn't his n.o.blest moment, but it was completely satisfying.

Face pressed against the dented steel, she said, "Where's the romance gone, Misha?" Her voice was frighteningly even. Mocking. The use of his pet name, insulting. And as she spoke she was trying to hook her leg behind his to throw him off balance.

"You tell me." He slammed her head into the shaft again. Harder.

This time her body softened from the shock. Knowing this was his chance, he swung her around again, slamming her back against the nearest wall and pinning her there with his body and the knife. The bride rope slithered around her arms and torso, securing her more tightly still.

Stunned from the blows, she struggled to focus on him, her head swaying, a livid patch of red blooming on her temple.

At last she straightened her chin, like a prizefighter ready for another punch. His breath hitched. He'd never seen a woman so beautiful. She spat in his face. He let the saliva trickle down as far as the corner of his mouth, then caught it with his tongue. It wasn't her blood, but it was a start.

He pressed his forearm under her chin so he could continue his destruction of her blouse-only this time he'd have the pleasure of seeing what he was doing. He popped off the third b.u.t.ton, then the fourth. She was breathing fast, biting her lip, waiting for him to slip up. With the tip of the blade he spread the blouse wide.

Alya's skin had always been tawny, as if she'd been born gilded. Underneath the blouse she wore a filmy black bra that didn't hide the tautness of her nipples. He cut through the center of it and the cups fell away, revealing her high, round, honey sweet b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He pressed the flat of the blade against the curve of her left breast, just under her heart.

"And thus a knyaz claims his mate." Her voice was low and full of scorn.

"As is his right." Ignoring the hatred pouring off her in waves, Mikhail dragged the blade sideways so that the dull side sc.r.a.ped over her nipple. If only he had a free hand to run over her body, or the time to taste her with his tongue. He shook his head, trying to stay focused.

"I am not your property."

Teasing her lower lip with the point of the knife he said, "What are you, then?"

She took a deep breath and let out a long, shuddering exhale. "Your destruction."

"You've always been that, Alya Adad."

The pupils of her eyes shot wide, liquid black swamping the iris. They both knew he spoke the truth, and for a moment, it was enough to surprise her into stillness. Her brows drew together, and her lips parted with an unasked question. Then and there he lost his battle for control, and lowered his mouth to hers, wondering how many times he'd risen from a long day's dreaming tasting her. Hundreds? Thousands?

Her breath still smelled of cinnamon. He eased his forearm off her throat, drew her close, and kissed her the way he did in his dreams. The stiff resistance in her spine gave way. Her lips parted, accepting him. He groaned, his fist clenching in her thick hair. Together they slid down the wall. She rolled onto her back. He straddled her, his hands coasting greedily over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Magnificent knyaginya.

Alya thought what she had to do next should be easy. They were at war. She was a prisoner. She liked to be in control. Being tied up, straddled and mauled by a determined knyaz did not const.i.tute being in control.

But it wasn't easy. She'd never been kissed by anyone so hungry. His urgency stirred her despite herself. And he was not just anybody-he was a hungry prince. Her body had been trained to respond to them, even though it had been many years since she'd played that way.

More confusingly, he wasn't just a prince, he was Mikhail, and he palmed her through her jeans as they kissed, just as he had when they were teenagers. She'd come for the first time ever rocking against his palm, just as she was now.

What do you think is going to happen? He will take you home, drain you half dry and f.u.c.k you over and over again until you submit to his will. That is their way.

And this one is worse than all the rest, because he thinks he owns you.

She had to take the upper hand and fast, so she writhed, surrept.i.tiously testing his rope. It had loosened. It obeyed his will, and his will had turned to just one thing.

Moaning into his mouth, she strained for the knife she kept at the small of her back, tugging and twisting her right wrist until she tore her skin. It didn't matter. Like a trapped animal, she'd gnaw off her arm to be free. To distract him from the smell of the blood coursing off her wrist, she kissed him hard, mimicking his ferocity.

Abruptly he broke off the kiss and hauled her to her feet by her collar. "Not here," he said, his voice rough.

The change in position allowed her to pop her hand free. Her elbows were still bound to her sides, but she had some mobility in her wrist and forearm. She stretched her wet, sticky fingers toward the small of her back, straining until she grasped the knife hilt.

Making a noise that she hoped sounded like resignation, she slumped against his chest. He tangled his hands in her hair and kissed her again. She had all of five inches of play against the rope, and she used it to stab him in the thigh. The groin would have been better, but she couldn't reach that far. Her slender, wicked blade sliced upward, splitting muscle and nicking bone.

He let go, looking down, as if he couldn't quite imagine what had just happened. As if someone else might have stabbed him.

She pivoted and kicked him under the chin, sending him reeling backward. She bounded after him and kicked him in the head, this time knocking him unconscious. The rope slackened and dropped from her arms.

When the rope fell, so did all traces of that sentimental, erotic fog that had almost overwhelmed her.

He'd tied her up. Cut off her shirt and bra. Smashed her head.

She knotted the remains of her blouse under her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, cursing to herself.

"That's-for-my-head!" She punctuated each word with a kick to his body, rolling him across the roof like a rag doll.

Chapter Four.

Her last kick left Mikhail in an awkward sprawl. Yet his saint's face was serene. The roof could have been his bed, the tar paper and gravel a pillow for his brilliant hair.

She straddled his chest and drew her knife. It shook in her hand, crazy lights glinting off the polished blade. Her hand never shook. Never. The knife was her friend, and her hands were trained well.

As a child her father had made her balance an egg on a spoon for five minutes, ten minutes, thirty minutes. If she dropped it, the time doubled. If she dropped it again, he beat her.

She steadied her wrist with her opposite hand and forced the knife to be still.

It wasn't fear that made her shake. It wasn't pain, either. The torn skin around her wrist was a superficial wound. Desire? She had to admit she felt it, whether she liked it or not, but desire didn't make her tremble either. Her lovers needed her hand to be rock steady.

This was something else, something more like an illness. It was disconcerting to be near him after all these years. More than she would have ever expected.

"Why did you bother trying?" she whispered.

He had to be insane to try to capture her. If he wanted a bride, vamp families all over the world would fight to offer their daughters to him. Vampire society didn't consider her bridal material anymore, that was for sure.

It was hard to believe something as insubstantial as a dream could induce him to walk into enemy territory, or stranger still, convince him that he should marry her. If she'd been in his place, she would have said, "f.u.c.k the prophecy, I'm not going."

Something else brought him there. Some plan of his. A plan that had failed.

Well, game over. She pressed the blade beneath his left earlobe, wondering if she should exsanguinate him. It was within her rights-more or less. It hadn't been formal combat, but she doubted any other prince would pa.s.s up the opportunity to acquire Faustin's strength.

But if she really were his destined mate, would drinking his blood bind her to him? Could she be bound to a dead man? Best not to find out.

No exing, then. Just one swift cut from ear to ear.

But at the thought her hand began to shake even harder and her teeth chattered in sympathy. She clamped her jaw shut.

f.u.c.king h.e.l.l, what is this? Palsy?

It came to her that the only other time she could remember being this unsteady, she'd also been with Mikhail. The first time they had s.e.x she'd trembled violently before, during and for a long time after. Mikhail had tried to hold her tight to stop the shivering, but it didn't do much good, because he was shivering too.

Until that night she'd expected that s.e.x would be...well, s.e.xy, like in the movies, Instead, it had been strange and intense and blindingly intimate. They'd both cried. She remembered looking up at the willow branches overhead while he pressed inside her-they were in Central Park-and the leaves were shimmering silver and shaking in the night breeze. It seemed like the whole world trembled with them.

It was only like that the first time, fortunately, or they'd probably both have ended up celibate for life. And she never trembled again after that. Not in bed and not during fights.

She tucked her hands under her arms and fought to control herself, but long forgotten memories kept rolling through her. That night under the willows Mikhail had kissed her a thousand times. He'd adored her as she'd never been adored, before or since, and she'd loved him foolishly, wildly, as only a hormone addled sixteen-year-old could love.

This is no time to go soft, Alya.

She was pondering teenage love while sitting on one of the most dangerous vamps in the world. This cold, ruthless Mikhail wasn't that Mikhail. The Mikhail of the willows would never have cut the b.u.t.tons from her blouse, or slammed her head against the wall. He was a prince intent on claiming his mate. They both knew she had two choices: submit to his will, or kill him.

The practical side of her nature shoved forward and suggested she strangle him. That way she wouldn't risk getting arterial spray in her mouth or eyes.

But strangling was a death for thieves. It was no way for a prince to die. Contrary to public opinion, she had a few standards. Honor meant something to her; she didn't want to execute him like a criminal. He was n.o.bility, and once, long ago, they'd been friends.

Above, the low-slung sky winked with helicopters and airplanes instead of stars. It offered her no signs or omens. Below, the traffic on the boulevard roared like a river. Between her legs, Mikhail's chest rose and fell in a steady, sleeping rhythm.

Using the point of her knife, she plucked off the b.u.t.tons of his shirt and spread it open. His once smooth torso was riddled with scars. Pinched bullet holes. Gashes. Teeth marks. Scars she could read all too well. Like her, he was a warrior.

She sighed and said aloud, "This is such a mistake." He'd come after her again. And after she'd shamed him like this, his next attack wouldn't be nearly as gentlemanly.

But she could indulge herself a little. Her hand turned steady. Smiling, she carved a large letter A, one with a fancy, curling tail, into his sternum, so he'd know she'd held his life in her hand and showed him mercy.

It was possible that he'd not wake up before dawn. But if that was so, it was the will of G.o.d. She gathered up his rope and leapt off the roof.

The noise hurt his ears. It started and stopped, started and stopped, tearing his head apart. After what seemed hours of torture, he recognized the sound as his phone. He pulled it out of his coat pocket and silenced it. His eyes were crusted shut. His head hurt. Where was he?

Outside.

He jumped to his feet. The sudden motion brought with it a wave of pain that blurred his vision. He shook his head to clear it, preparing for her next blow, and then he realized she was gone.

He dropped to his knees, thankful to be alive. Wincing, he explored the lump on the back of his head, and dragged his hand over his swollen jaw. Just lifting his arm made his ribs hurt. They had to be cracked. His shirt flapped in the wind. He looked down and discovered a huge letter A carved into his chest. It was as big as his hand. Astounded, he traced the outline with his finger, trying to figure out what it meant. It itched, but didn't hurt. Compared to the rest of the damage she'd done, it was a tender kiss.

Why hadn't she killed him?

His phone rang again. This time he checked it. Gregor.

"You alive?"

He didn't think his head would hurt so much if he were dead.

"You didn't check in. Did you get her?"

He'd promised his brothers he'd check in with Gregor at dawn every day. Mikhail glanced at the sky. What time was it? Los Angeles was never truly dark, especially when it was overcast. Low, murky clouds reflected the streetlights, but he could read the signs well enough to know that dawn was closing on him. "No. I have to go. I'm out."

"What? Why the f.u.c.k didn't you let us come with you? Where are you? Are you-"

Mikhail hung up. Cradling his ribs, he walked to the roof's edge and looked down, wincing at the thought of dropping to the ground. Instead, he chose the somewhat less painful option of leaping over to the next rooftop. That one had a doorway, which meant a stairwell down. He broke the lock and slipped into rea.s.suring blackness.

Inside he leaned against the cold, cinderblock wall and rested. The pain, the close darkness, and the brush with the dawn reminded him of that morning after Alya left him and Courtableu beat him senseless-a morning he'd forbidden himself to think about for many years.

After the fight with Courtableu-though calling it a fight was giving himself too much credit-he rode his bike to the beach, numbed by pain, humiliation, and most of all the profound, bleak nothingness he felt in her absence. In the faint, predawn light he'd walked knee deep into the water, ready to greet the rising sun. The sea would have washed away his ashes.

His father found him moments before the sun crested the horizon. Mikhail fought him, and his father beat him for it, pounding him in the roiling surf until he couldn't fight back anymore, then dragged him to the family van before they were both incinerated.

They had to hide in the back of the van until sunset. Hunched in the darkness, salt and sand festering in his wounds, Mikhail tried to be strong. But somewhere during that endless day, he broke under the weight of his anger and shame and wept like a girl, shaming himself yet more.

His father didn't say much, but what he did say stuck. Looking back, Mikhail wondered if his father hadn't put a subtle compulsion on him. But for whatever reason, Mikhail emerged from the van reborn. He'd sworn to his father that he'd live, if not for love, then for duty. And he never cried again.

At the time neither he nor his father understood he was fighting against a blood bond. And that was for the best. If he'd known the truth, he'd probably have gone back the next day and finished the job.

Admittedly his standards were low, but he thought this was a better dawn. A much better one. His hand drifted up to touch the letter A on his chest and his lips twisted into a smile.

Chapter Five.

Alya woke cold and damp, kicking against her tangled sheets.

"Oh," she said, opening her eyes to find her cat, Lulu, on the pillow next to hers, staring at her in alarm. "Oh, thank goodness."

In her dream she'd been fighting her brothers. They'd pinned her down. They were going to roll her in a carpet and toss her into the sea. It was just the sort of thing they would do.

Shaken and depressed, she reached for Lulu. The cat hissed at being moved, but Alya needed to hold something, so she ignored the warning and drew the cat's warm, fluffy body to her chest. Lulu yowled and chomped down on her hand.

Alya let go and the cat stalked away, her black tail high and twitching. "You are such a b.i.t.c.h," she called after her. "You are a b.i.t.c.h's b.i.t.c.h."

Falling on her back, she hugged the cat's pillow instead. It was warm, at least. A terrible loneliness fell on her, which she interpreted as a dangerous form of self-pity.