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And now this.

Standing just inside the vestibule of Dragos’s hotel suite in Boston, his lieutenant fidgeted with his hat, wringing it in front of him like a wet rag. “I don’t know how they managed to find the captives’ location, sire. Perhaps they’d been watching the house for some reason. Perhaps it was pure luck that brought them there and they—”

Dragos’s furious roar silenced the prattle instantly. He vaulted off the silk sofa, his arm sweeping out in front of him to lash out at a crystal vase of orchids that sat on a delicate pedestal nearby. The piece exploded against the wall and shattered, spraying glass and water and bits of flowers in all directions.

His lieutenant gasped in fright and leapt backward, hitting his spine against the closed door. His eyes were nearly popping out of his head, his face stricken with ball-shriveling fear. His expression turned even more dread-filled as Dragos bore down on him, seething with rage.

In those terrified, widening eyes, he saw his lieutenant’s remembrance of a threat Dragos had made in this very hotel room just a week before.

“Sire, please,” he whispered. “The Minion failed you today, not me. I am only responsible for the message, not the mistake.”

Dragos didn’t care about any of that. His anger was too far gone to be reined in now. With an animal war cry meant more for Lucan and his warriors than the insignificant pawn who stood quivering before him now, he reeled his fist back and punched it hard into the vampire’s chest. He smashed through clothing, skin, and bone like a hammer and plucked out the frantically beating organ caged inside.

The dead lieutenant collapsed at his feet. Dragos glanced down at him, his closed fist blood-soaked and raining a scarlet cascade onto the corpse and the white carpet around it.

Dragos tossed the vampire’s heart like so much trash, then tipped his head back and bellowed, his fury vibrating the air around him like a roll of thunder.

“Dispose of this rubbish,” he snarled to the pair of assassins who looked on in silence from the other side of the hotel suite.

He stalked into the bathroom to scrub the offending gore from his hands, calming himself with the knowledge that although the Order had managed to deliver yet another strike against him today, he still had the upper hand. A pity they didn’t realize it yet.

Very soon, they would.

He had the Order squarely in his sights now.

And he was more than ready to pull the trigger.

CHAPTER

Thirty-four

When Jenna woke up, she was staring at the ceiling of the compound infirmary. She blinked slowly, waiting to feel the searing pain of the knife wound in her side. Instead, she felt a warm touch skating tenderly along her arm.

“Hey” came the deep, velvet voice that she’d been hearing in her sleep. “I’ve been waiting for you to open those pretty eyes.”

Brock.

She turned her head on the pillow and was struck to see him seated next to her by the bed. He looked so handsome, so caring and strong. His dark brown gaze drank her in, his sensual mouth curving with just the barest traces of a smile.

“They called me in Newport and told me about your injury,” he said, then exhaled a soft curse. “I saw the blood on you outside the Minion’s house, but I didn’t know it was yours, Jenna. I couldn’t get back here fast enough to make sure you were okay.”

She smiled up at him, her heart soaring to be near him again, even while she was afraid to be happy, uncertain whether or not he’d returned only to help her heal.

“How are you feeling, Jenna?”

“Okay,” she replied, and realized just then that she actually felt very good physically. She sat up a bit and moved aside the sheet and blanket that covered her. The ugly gash that should have been below her rib cage was nothing more than a small scab, the wound that had been bleeding so profusely now all but gone. “How long have I been out?”

“A few hours.” Brock’s expression softened as he looked at her. “You’ve surprised us all, particularly