seeing him for the first time. "Why are you here?"
"Rayven asked me to come. He didn't want you to be alone."
"He sent you to me? You saw him?" Hope flared in her eyes. "When? Where? Where is he now?"
"He's gone, Rhianna. He wouldn't tell me where or why, only that he was going."
It hurt to watch the hope die in her eyes, to see the hopelessness settle over her once more. It hurt to know that she loved another.
"Rhianna, what can I do?"
"Do?" She stared at him blankly.
She shuddered in his arms as a fresh wave of tears filled her eyes. Helpless, he watched her cry, watched the silent tears flood her eyes and cascade down her cheeks.
After a while, she collapsed against him, and he held her tight, his hand stroking her hair, her back, wondering if she would ever smile again.
Standing outside in the shadows, Rayven peered in the window, watching. A pain as sharp as a stake pierced his heart as he listened to her tears and knew he was the cause.
"I love you, my sweet Rhianna," he murmured.
And it was that love that made him turn away, that sent him running through the night, away from the only woman he had ever loved.
Days passed, but Rhianna was hardly aware of them. She spent her mornings wandering through the gardens, remembering the nights she had spent walking in the moonlight with Rayven. She ate at Bevins's insistence, though she had no appetite for food. She took long naps and retired early to her bed because it was only there, in her dreams, that her husband came to her.
Montroy came to visit her each day, his concern evident in the look in his eyes, in his voice, the gentle touch of his hand. He didn't intrude on her grief, didn't tell her not to cry, not to grieve. He bowed to her wishes when she wanted to be alone, held her when she asked for comfort, dried her tears when she wept. And hoped that, one day, she would accept his love, prayed that one day she would grow to love him as deeply as she loved the dark lord of Castle Rayven.
And sometimes when she cried, when the pain in her eyes made his heart ache, he knew he would gladly see her reunited with Rayven if it would make her smile again.
Chapter Twenty-four
He hunted in the shadows of the night, venting his rage and his grief in the mindless shedding of blood.
He stalked his prey relentlessly, feeding on their fear, letting his quarry see what he was, letting them see the bloodlust in his eyes, smiling as he bared his fangs. He was hurting, hurting as he had not hurt in four centuries, and he wanted to strike out in retaliation, hoping that by inflicting pain on others, he might ease his own.
He hunted prey as he had not hunted since he was first made Vampyre, hunted until the scent of blood and fear clung to his skin, his clothing, infiltrated every pore.
He had forgotten how intoxicating it was, to drink and drink and drink, until he was filled with the blood of life, until his heart beat in time with that of the unfortunate soul in his embrace, until his body swelled with the vitality of another's life force. Ah, to drink his fill, to drink in someone's life, their hopes and dreams and memories, their very essence.
He refused to consider the morality of it. What need had he of morals? He was not human, but Vampyre, a race apart. The laws of men meant nothing to him. Men preyed on helpless beasts for nourishment. Vampyres preyed on men. No one preyed on the Vampyre.
For too long he had denied what he was, denied the need that burned within him, denied the exquisite pleasure that could only be found in taking the blood of mortals. How close he felt to those he preyed upon as he cradled them in his dark embrace. How grateful he was for the swift surge of energy that flowed from their veins, filling him with vitality, making him feel like a young vampyre again, newly made.
And yet, for all that he drank his fill, he never drained his victims to the point of death. Strong as the desire was, he could not do it. Rhianna was to blame for that. She might understand his need for blood; she would never condone the taking of a life. And though he would