THE RAIN PATTERS THE WINDOW'S GLASS, and the harsh wind shakes the white framing, muted by the heavy plum drapery. The office holds the aroma of cigars and whisky, permeating the dark wooden furniture. There's a faint scent of blood in the air that he attributes to the hours before he came for his meeting.

Gabriel had called him early this morning, claiming he had urgent work that must be discussed promptly, but received a phone call from Darren Sinclair that he stepped out to take in privacy before he could reveal anything of import.

Kiernan could have waited out in the corridor, preferring to.

He has an inkling that Gabriel saw an opportunity to flee the monster he has running amuck and let Kiernan suffer the weight of responsibility that is keeping a small, fragile human alive.

He's been alive for a long time, and he has never had a moist almond violently shoved against his lips.

He turns his face away with a grimace, but the imp is relentless, clambering onto his lap and pulling at his shirt, wrinkling the expensive fabric.

He's been interpreting for the last thirty minutes and has begun to believe that the coos and garbled language are orders for him to consume the moist nuts from a plastic bowl on the edge of the coffee table or get on the floor to play with plastic cars scattered by his feet, which he has reluctantly done many times.

The screeches are for him to retrieve things that have been put out of reach for safety purposes, which he refused. Then the child wailed. He gave him the box that holds cigars because he didn't know how to soothe him. Soft murmurs and gentle pats weren't enough.

He kept vigilance, but the toddler seemed to be content with taking them out and rearranging them in an order he couldn't understand but seemed to be meticulously planned. He tried to follow, but didn't understand the loud coos and constant rearranging.

He will not eat the wet almond, even if startlingly blue eyes stare up at him earnestly.

The chubby hand smears spit over his cheek and rubs the nut over his mouth with increasing harshness.

"No," he whispers sternly.

The toddler cries.

He eats the almond. It's disgusting.

Kiernan holds the toddler, rising to stand on his thighs. He's much heavier than his little body appears. The boy bounces with ear-splitting giggles. The act hurts, but if the toddler isn't crying, he'll suffer the pain.

He once again wonders how he ended up here.

He's brought back to the present by a small hand smacking his face and smearing spittle. The toddler bounces, giggling. He keeps a firm hold of the child's soft woolen jumper.

He blinks at the blue eyes sparkling with mischief and decides he will not have children.

He tries to keep from slipping.

He heard once that memories after so long bleed together and time becomes subjective. To someone, a decade feels as if only a year has passed. He often forgets his past and then has memories brought on by subtle cues-a smell, a phrase, a touch.

He divides his life into three moments in time: when he was human, owned by Mercalli, and now, he's Kiernan Moreno, a vampire, second to the leader of his coven, and apparently, a part-time babysitter.

He's currently sliding between the cracks of all three.

The toddler plops down heavily. He squirms in Kiernan's lap and then picks up his hand with chubby, spit-covered fingers. He allows this.

Unfortunately, the peace cannot last.

The toddler grows restless of toying with his signet ring quickly when he resists attempts to yank it off with his finger still attached.

Then the imp decides to latch onto his forefinger with tiny, blunt teeth.

He yanks his hand away quickly. He looks at his skin, and there's a small trail of blood trailing down his palm to his wrist and disappearing under his shirt cuff.

He realizes what he's just done with widening eyes and uses his shirt sleeve to wipe the smear of blood from the toddler's lips. He whispers hastily, "Open your mouth."

The toddler blinks at him.

Kiernan's ready to pry the child's lips apart, but then he's obeyed.

The boy sways happily, mouth wide open. There are pieces of almond stuck in the tiny teeth and in his mouth, as if the child has chewed and forgotten to swallow. No blood. If he did ingest any, it was a minuscule amount.

He leans forward and takes the cup with a lid from the low oak table. "Drink," he orders. He's pleased when the child listens promptly. He watches water dribble down the toddler's chubby chin and whispers, "You're a strange boy."

The child says, clearly, "Yes."

"You can talk?" He wasn't aware.

"Yes."

Of course.

Kiernan stares at the ticking clock hanging on the wall between the ceiling-height shelves of books. He sees that the decanter of alcohol that's usually on the low table has been placed on a high shelf.

He looks back to the toddler. "Scotch is superior, isn't it?"

"Yes."

He hums approvingly. "Now you're making sense. Tell your father. You'll end a decade-long argument."

Blue eyes blink up at him, and the cup is thrust into his face. "Drink," the child demands clearly, giggling when Kiernan turns his face away from the spittle-covered spout. This boy is irritatingly obsessed with taking care of others.

The door to the office clicks open.

Gabriel walks in with a pinched expression, nearing the sitting area. "The call was longer than I thought. Darren can speak on trivial matters for hours." He makes no move to take his son, giving a strained smile to the boy who's softly babbling nonsense. "He didn't give you trouble, I trust."

"No," Kiernan lies. All he was given was trouble by this boy. When the child drops his head into his chest, smearing spit, his heart hastens, not expecting the suddenness. "We spoke at length. He's partial to scotch."

Gabriel feigns a scoff. "I leave for thirty minutes, and you've indoctrinated my son."

From his pocket, Gabriel produces a few glossy photos and walks around the low table to hand them to Kiernan without having him jostle the boy.

The first photo shows a warehouse strewn with dead bodies. Eyes open and limbs contorted from falling. They've been shot. But what churns his stomach is not the captured death. It's their open chest cavities.

He keeps the grisly pictures angled out of the toddler's view.

Gabriel sits on the far end of the sofa and says tiredly, "One of my warehouses in the east."

"When?"

He's surprised the child isn't grabbing the pictures with spit-covered hands, but when he glances down, he sees why. The boy is nestled against his chest, fast asleep.

He carefully picks up the cup that's left a wet spot on his thigh and sets it on a small table beside the sofa's arm.

"Last night," Gabriel says. "The other photos are similar. Three of my businesses over the last two months have been gassed. I didn't tell you because I believed they were targeted attacks perpetuated by the Sinclairs. Now I'm not so certain."

"Gassed?"

"Poison in the air, I've been told. Weakened them, and whoever did this was able to kill them with ease."

"You still suspect the Sinclairs?"

"No. Darren just called me to accuse us of attacking one of his drug dens a few hours ago. All dead."

Kiernan looks at the other photos. They're all eerily similar. Whoever did this knows how to kill vampires. They've just made an enemy of two covens.

Gabriel runs his fingers through his hair with a lengthy sigh. "There's going to be a gala held near the end of this month. Cassius will be present. This must be dealt with by then. Darren will snivel and claim I cannot keep my territory under control." He frowns deeply. "Cassius has not been forgiving of late."

"Is he ever?"

"More so than usual."

"I'll drive to the city tomorrow."

Gabriel nods. "The warehouse is on the pier. There were employees that weren't on shift who may have information. Question them thoroughly." His darkening eyes say, by any means necessary. "In truth, I have no idea who could be perpetuating these attacks. Fools with a death wish."

Kiernan lays the pictures on the middle cushion, beside a few stray almonds. "I'll delegate my responsibilities to Silas." At Gabriel's curious look, he explains, "I'll stay in a hotel. It may be best if I remain close to our businesses. In case of another attack."

"Ah, yes," Gabriel agrees, sighing. "I'll reimburse your expenses."

Kiernan laughs through his nose. They're past reimbursing expenses, as if he's some minion to be placated. "How kind. Thank you."

"Your impudent tone..." Gabriel drawls and narrows his eyes. There's a shiver of instinctual apprehension his hooded gaze causes. Then he laughs softly, breaking the tension that had been rising. "Pay for it all, if it suits you."

The boy stirs but doesn't awaken. He's limp and only kept from falling by Kiernan's palm on his small back. He can hear the child's tiny heart beating calmly.

His expression must show how uncomfortable he is because Gabriel gives him the charming smile the man reserves for swaying others to his whims.

"His mother should be upstairs," Gabriel says, rising. He takes his phone from his pocket; it's vibrating with an incoming call. "Will you bring him to her?"

Kiernan nods.

"Come back afterward."

Kiernan blinks up curiously. He thought that was everything. A killer that he has to find and stop before the gala. What else could there be?

Gabriel's phone begins vibrating immediately after quieting. He looks at the device and scoffs. "It's Darren. The last thing I want to do is talk to him again, but I must." He gives Kiernan a gentle smile. "I think it's about time, don't you? You've been hiding up on that mountain for months. It will benefit you just in case you face trouble."

"Of course," Kiernan rasps, his throat constricting.

"If you don't want..."

Kiernan knows this isn't a question. He answers as he's expected, "No. I do. Thank you."

Gabriel doesn't speak further on the matter, accepting the call. He listens patiently as Darren raves about his stupid, fucking pretty boy face and how he'll beat him ugly, and he keeps on the matter, like he always does.

He's hardly aware that he's risen, the boy held against his chest. He's dizzy as he crosses the office and steps into the quiet hallway. The rain-splattered glass of the window-flanked corridor with white and beige drapery gives him a glimpse of his passing reflection, but his vision is blurring.

The decor of Gabriel's home has the same oak and silver aesthetic. Silver baubles on high bookshelves, silver vases, silver knobs, and everywhere else-silver, silver, silver. The cream carpeting and marble tiling match it well, however, and it's obvious the designer hired knew what they were doing.

He's feeling faint and holds the sleeping child tighter.

There are many that would claw and kill for the opportunity he's been given. It's normal. It's a way of life for their kind. Gabriel needs the man at his side to be in his prime.

Taking a born vampire's blood is a gift.

He turns down a quiet hallway of cream carpeting. The house is quiet. The security for the evening is at the front of the house, the back, and most likely, lingering in the kitchen.

He slowly ascends the stairs to the upper level.

He can handle taking Gabriel's blood. It's admittedly a high like no other. Spiced addictively with undertones of time and power that a man could lose himself grasping for. It's the sharing that has his stomach in knots.

It's proper. Give blood and take blood. He would offend Gabriel greatly if he voiced his displeasure in that aspect or asked the man to take his fangs to Kiernan's wrist instead of his neck and refrain from touching beyond what was necessary.

Fuck, he's childish.

He somehow makes it to the double doors of the master bedroom without realizing it, drifting.

He feels uncomfortable standing in the dimly lit corridor of Gabriel's private rooms, but he has cargo to deliver.

He has his hand posed to knock when the door opens wide.

"Oh," a woman says softly in surprise. He knows her to be the child's nanny, Beth. She's in a knee-length floral dress with her curly black hair tied back. Her brown eyes hold a gentleness that's always put him at ease.

He can hear Imogen carrying on a one-sided conversation out of sight about the upcoming gala and the stress of completing her auction collection.

"Hi," Beth whispers.

There's a spicy scent that would give away her inner thoughts if her chest-full posture, pink cheeks, and heated smile didn't already adequately tell him she's interested. She's pretty, but she's young—in her early twenties, he'd guess—and doesn't know what she's asking for, hungering for danger.

He can't say he's not tempted, but he's working. So he stares at her until her scent shifts to fear. She swallows nervously and takes the sleeping child from his arms.

The boy stirs with a soft cry against Beth's chest, and Kiernan lays a palm on the toddler's back instinctively.

The boy relaxes.

Beth smiles and mouths, 'Thank you.' She doesn't give him a chance to step away and give her room to leave, slipping past in the small sliver of space left between his body and the jamb.

He's holding his breath when their shoulders brush. He can feel her warmth and smell the vanilla scent that clings to her skin. Then she's gone, and he fills his wanting lungs with a soft inhale.

Beth opens a door across the hall and slips inside, presumably to put the boy to bed.

He's not in a hurry to return to the office, and that's his downfall because Imogen peeks out of what he thinks is a walk-in closet. Her cascading blonde hair is darker than Gabriel's fair, nearly white hair. Her eyes are a startling blue that makes him uncomfortable staring into for too long, or perhaps it's just her that's overwhelming.

Imogen's expression falls. "Where is he?"

"Your nanny..."

"No. My husband. Did he even spend a moment with Reid before handing him off?" Imogen laughs bitterly, moving back inside the closet. "Don't answer that. You'll just lie for the bastard."

Kiernan takes that as his leave, but the moment he turns away, Imogen calls out from the closet, "You're here, so you might as well help me. Come in. Sit down."

When he doesn't move inside the bedroom because, frankly, he'd rather die, Imogen peeks out from the closet and rolls her blue eyes. "You're on my payroll, same as his. Sit. Down. Close the door."

She's gone again.

He reluctantly steps inside and shuts the door. Gabriel's bedroom with it's cream carpeting and luxurious silvery wallpaper, is not a place he wants to linger.

He forgoes the extravagant bed that's closer to the door and sits on a light-blue chaise at the end of the mattress. He awkwardly props his back against the low footboard of smooth silver fabric.

Staring into the closet, he can see racks of clothing hung in three tiers with spacious shelving. There's a corner blocked from his view that must lead deeper inside. He can hear Imogen curse softly, and then a hanger clanks against metal.

From where she rustles in the closet, out of sight, Imogen says, "I expect full honesty."

He doesn't know what to expect when she emerges in a swish of midnight-blue silken fabric. But not this. He's speechless. He doesn't forget that he's staring at Gabriel's wife in a tight evening gown, and his preference he has for being alive and not fed to dogs gives him the willpower to resist gawking.

Imogen spins slowly with the smug smile of a woman who knows she's beautiful, and in that dress that hugs her curves, she's a sin walking. "Take a good, long look." Oh, he's looking. "I'm going to show you a few, and you'll tell me which one you prefer."

She doesn't give him a chance to reply, returning to the closet with a sashay of her curvy hips. He prays that Gabriel doesn't have cameras in his bedroom because he will have footage of Kiernan's lecherous gaze on his wife.

He's not a pervert. He's met many, and sex rarely passes through his thoughts, but Imogen has always been difficult for him to ignore.

She's extremely beautiful, ambitious, and sharp-witted. He rarely disagrees with Gabriel, but his disregard for his wife has always left Kiernan dumbfounded. She's headstrong, yes, and can be quite cutting, but she has the intelligence of a confidant and the slyness of an equal. He'd do well to utilize her beyond giving her the theatre and auction house to keep her busy.

She returns in a red gown that is more revealing than the others. She places her hands on her hips and gives him a stern look. "So?"

"What?"

"Out of these two, which one looks better?"

Oh. He doesn't need to contemplate. "The blue."

"Why?"

Because it doesn't give a glimpse of her collarbone or dip in the front to emphasize the curves of her breasts. He is vigilant in keeping his gaze on her face and nowhere else, no matter how tempting. "It looks...better."

Imogen looks down at her form and smooths her palms over the shiny red fabric. She raises her gaze with a soft sigh. "One more."

Once she disappears into the closet, he leans his elbows on his knees and hangs his head. He has to escape this house before he's forced to remain here to suffer under Gabriel's and his wife's whims.

She returns with a faint rustle of fabric in the wake of her soft footfalls. He doesn't raise his gaze, and she clears her throat. And when he looks up tiredly, he forgets all his precautions to maintain his vigilance.

The rose-coloured, silken fabric clings to her form as if it were made especially for her curves. There's a slit up the side that gives a delicious glimpse of her thigh. She smiles and makes a slow turn. It's backless, and she has light freckling over her shoulder blades. It's not a dress to wear to a gala for vampires. She looks more than enticing. She looks irresistible.

Because he's not thinking with his head, Kiernan rasps, "That one."

Imogen smiles, her cheeks pinking. "Really?"

"Yes. Don't waste your time on others. That's the one."

Blue eyes narrow at him, and Imogen walks closer, smiling in a crooked way that sets his instincts on edge and makes his blood heat hotter than Gabriel's wrathful flame that he's earned for his traitorous thoughts.

He straightens and swallows. Their knees nearly bump, but she stops just short. He's both relieved and, despite himself, disappointed.

She bends closer, leveling their gazes. He doesn't know what he'll do if she tries to touch him because his body and mind have two different wants, and he's not sure what will win if put to the test.

He's gripping the edge of the chaise tight enough to feel the fabric give slightly under the pressure.

Staring into his wild eyes for a few tense beats, Imogen frowns deeply. "Are you alright?"

No. "Yes."

"Do you want me to tell him I needed you?"

Kiernan blinks rapidly. He's sweating. Needed him?

Imogen clarifies, "I can say that I sent you on an urgent errand and you had to leave abruptly."

"No." Kiernan rises from the chaise, and Imogen takes a few steps back with a strained smile. "I'm...quite fine. I simply don't want to be killed by your husband, so I'll take my leave."

He doesn't see whatever expression she makes in reply and walks to the door.

He can hear her curse softly as he turns the knob with a soft click. He focuses his mind on thoughts of finishing here, then returning home, and preparing himself to drive to the city tomorrow morning.

"Wait," Imogen blurts, sounding a tad breathless.

He does, looking over his shoulder. She's gripping her elbows and says in a hushed voice, "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Kiernan."

He doesn't like the way his name falling from her mouth hastens his heart. He smiles and makes sure it holds just enough wickedness to smear whatever misplaced empathy she's suffering to make her frown at him so deeply.

"Sweetheart," he says in a cruel tone. "You have a son to coddle. Don't you? Focus your efforts on him. If I say I'm fine, then I am."

Imogen scoffs.

Kiernan turns away to hide his shaky exhale and steps into the hallway. He shuts the door, and through the deadwood, he hears Imogen whisper softly, "Liar."