Paris, 1780

Edmond Dantès leaned against the wood-panelled wall and watched his guests dance. The air was rich with music and laughter, but Edmond felt like there was a shield between him and the frivolity, and behind that shield, there was just . . . nothing.

After Ysanne and Artus had left Barfleur, Edmond had realised that he didn't want to die, but at the same time he wasn't sure what he was living for. A few years later, he'd gone to war again, and it had been awful, but at least he had a purpose.

Then the war had ended, and he'd felt like he'd been cut adrift, once again struggling not to drown.

Eventually he'd returned to Paris, bought his way into the nobility, invested heavily in the stock exchange, and the return had made him richer than he'd ever been. Maybe he should have been proud of himself, but he just felt hollow, like someone had cracked him open and scraped out everything that mattered.

Once he'd attended elaborate balls and parties with François.

Now he threw his own.

Edmond's eyes roved over the gallery, the largest room in the house. He didn't even know half the people here, but over the years he'd lived in Paris, he'd become renowned for his parties. He didn't much care who turned up, as long as the room was full.

A young woman caught his eye. Her silk gown was cut low, displaying the swell of her breasts, and an inviting smile played on her red-painted lips.

She was beautiful, he couldn't deny it, but he felt nothing.

Still, he beckoned her over, and she eagerly came.

"This is your house, yes? I've heard all about you," she said, her smile deepening.

Edmond was sure she had. It had become known that his parties didn't much concern themselves with rules of propriety and etiquette. Here, wine flowed and there was an ever-present sense of sexual eagerness, a place where people could explore and indulge without fear of damaging their reputations.

"What have you heard?" he said

She giggled a little. "That you've taken half the women of Paris into your bed.

Something of an exaggeration, Edmond thought, although it was true that his bed was rarely empty these days.

"What else?" he said.

She leaned in, lowering her voice to a scandalised whisper. "There are rumours that . . . orgies take place here, and not always between men and women. I've heard that here men can lie with other men, and women with women."

"Do you think that's true?" Edmond asked.

"I don't know."

Edmond lowered his head until his lips brushed her ear, and a little shiver rolled through her. "It is true," he whispered.

He couldn't care less about other people's sexual preferences or proclivities. Anyone who came to his parties could fuck to their hearts' content, as long as everyone involved did so consensually. Sometimes he joined in the orgies. Sometimes he didn't.

"My parents say you're a scoundrel. They told me I should never have come here," the girl confessed, pressing her hand to her chest.

Edmond's eyes dipped down, to the tempting line of her cleavage. Her heartbeat raced.

"Come with me," he said.

She didn't need further persuading.

They weren't far from the gallery when they turned a corner and found two men pressed up against the wall, both their breeches around their ankles, one of them eagerly thrusting his hips against the other.

The girl faltered, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Why are you shocked?" Edmond asked.

"I don't . . . I've never . . ."

"You can go back to the gallery if you wish," Edmond said.

No matter how hollow he felt inside, there was nothing in this whole world that would make him force a woman to do something she didn't want to.

The girl hesitated, watching the two men, who didn't seem to care that they had an audience.

"Is that what it would be like . . . with you?" she said.

"If you want it to be."

The two men were moving faster, stifled groans filling the air, and the girl suddenly grabbed Edmond's hand.

"I would like that. But not here," she said.

"I have a place," Edmond said.

He led her past the couple and into the dining room, where they could be alone. The walls were panelled, a chandelier hung from the frescoed ceiling, and padded dining chairs were arranged around a circular table.

"Your house is very beautiful," the girl said, gazing around.

It was, but Edmond took little joy in its beauty. He'd thought that surrounding himself with luxury would fill the hole in his heart, but it hadn't.

The girl approached the table, running her fingers over its polished surface, and looked over her shoulder at Edmond.

"There are other rumours about you," she said.

"Like what?"

She turned to face him, leaning against the table in a way that thrust out her chest. As if Edmond hadn't already noticed it.

"They say you can give a girl pleasure unlike anything she's ever known."

Edmond didn't bother to ask who 'they' were. "And do you believe them?" he said.

She licked her hips, her heartbeat jumping, her blood racing in a way that called to Edmond's fangs. "I think the only way to be sure is to experience it for myself."

"I think that's a very good idea," Edmond agreed.

She melted against him as he kissed her, a soft sigh hitching in her throat. He kissed her until she was breathless and wanting, then he spun her around, bending her over the table so he could lift her skirts.

Marguerite's face briefly flashed before his eyes, the way she'd looked when they made love, her skin flushed, lips parted, eyes dazed with bliss. He shoved that thought away. Marguerite had been dead for nearly eighty years, and he'd had more women since then that he could remember. He loved none of them. He just wanted to feel.

The girl's skin was pale and smooth as Edmond ran his hands up the backs of her thighs, but he felt like he was just going through the motions. He'd make sure she enjoyed herself because he wasn't a complete bastard, but he didn't think he'd ever be able to lose himself in another person like he had with Marguerite, with Charlotte, with Ysanne.

She cried out as he pushed into her, jolting her against the table. When Marguerite had made a noise like that, he'd felt a spark of pride. Now he felt nothing.

His body felt something. As his hips rocked against the girl he didn't even know, he was aware of every sensation, every jolt of physical pleasure, but he was disconnected from it somehow. It felt good, but empty at the same time. Yet it was still better than feeling nothing.

Edmond pushed the girl closer and closer to orgasm, then, just before she fell over that edge, he sank his fangs into her throat. She stiffened and screamed – but it was a good scream. Edmond pulled her blood into his mouth, savouring the taste of it, and when his own release hit, he rode that wave of physical pleasure because it was the most alive he'd felt since the last time he'd done this, and it wouldn't last long.

The girl collapsed over the table, gasping, and Edmond pulled her skirts back down, rearranging them. She looked over her shoulder, and her blissful smile became a frown.

"What's wrong?" she said.

He thought he'd kept his expression neutral, but apparently he was wrong. "Nothing," he said, forcing a smile. "We should get back to the gallery."

She straightened and turned. "That was the other thing I was warned about with you."

"What was?"

"You warm the beds of so many girls, but you never stay long. You refuse to take a wife."

Edmond smiled thinly. "And that won't change."

If she thought otherwise, she wouldn't be the first.

But she just nodded and smoothed her skirts. "Then I suppose we should get back to the party."

As they left the dining room, Edmond realised that he'd never even asked her name.

That was how it always went.

There was no shortage of girls vying for Edmond's attention, and any time there was a social event, he'd pick one, take her somewhere for sex, and then bite her. He took blood more often than he needed to. He wasted huge sums of money on parties, on the latest fashions, on fencing and falconry, and the best seats at the theatre of opera house. He took what he wanted, when he wanted it, and he all but forgot that he'd ever been a peasant. He tried to block out the memories of the women he'd loved and lost, of François, of the wars that Edmond had fought in. He chased physical gratification because he didn't know what else to do.

But sometimes, when he was lying between the thighs or across the back of another girl whose name he couldn't remember – or hadn't bothered to ask – he wondered what the point of it all was.

Was this his life, forever?

Would there ever be anything more?

Would it even be worth waiting for?

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