When he had gone to rescue her, he’d done it without any clothes. Now she knew why—when he changed shape, his clothes fell off him. That meant he had flown out of his house to find her.

There must be a way out of his house. She had to find it.

At the end of the corridor, the door to the servants’ stairs stood open. The narrow steps disappeared into darkness.

She would go up.

The stairs creaked beneath Ophelia’s feet. When she reached the top, a cold draft leaked out of a doorway, brushing her bare arms. Something was open to let the outside night air inside.

Here, grayish moonlight streamed in through a few dirty windows. It gave enough light to reveal there was no winged Ravenhunt above her. Unless he could perch, curled up, the way ordinary bats did, and he could hide in the rafters.

In the dim light, she saw the attic was divided into two spaces. Cold air wafted through one doorway, which must mean a window was open and that was how he’d escaped the house.

It might be a way out for her.

Except she was four stories above the street.

Following nippy air that made her shiver and hug her arms, she made her way into the quiet room. It was a large space, and she saw at once he hadn’t gone out a window. There were only two and both were shut, encrusted with dust. Beds stood in rows in the dim space, obviously intended for servants, but the brass frames were bare of mattresses. No one had used this room for years.

Something cold and slippery hit her cheek and slid down.

Her scream filled the room. She wanted to run but couldn’t see where to go. She forced her legs to stay put. She couldn’t be a coward now.

Another slippery, horrible thing dropped to her lips—

Water. It was water dripping down on her.

There had been a light patter of rain earlier, when they’d been in the bedroom. She had barely noticed it. Flushing, she felt stupid remembering how excited she’d been, how aroused and thrilled and happy.

She really had been an idiot.

No, she wasn’t a fool. She had been trusting, but was that so bad?

Ophelia looked up. The ceiling was slats of board, aged and dark, against a midnight sky. One more drop fell and she stood under it and saw a change in the blackness above her—a place where she glimpsed gray clouds. A slight grinding sound came from the ceiling, and then the small rectangle of cloudy sky was gone, leaving inky, uniform darkness in its place. No more rain fell.

There had been an opening. Now it was gone.

And so was Ravenhunt.


The key.

Ophelia had stood, staring up at the ceiling for minutes before she remembered Ravenhunt’s robe tumbling to the floor when he’d shifted shape. His clothes must be in his bedchamber. His key was either with his robe or his clothes. He couldn’t have taken one with him when he shifted shape.

It was her way out of this house—out of the nightmare of being a vampire’s prisoner. He wasn’t the hero she thought he was. Instead, he was a monster, an undead demon who fed on blood.

It changed everything.

Yes, he had rescued her from those men—though she had only his word for it they were from the Royal Society and wanted to dissect her to study her power. Yes, he had flown away tonight rather than hurt her, but he had wanted to bite her. His fangs had actually cut her flesh.

Fighting his hunger for her blood had been a tremendous struggle for him. How vividly she’d seen it. It was part of his nature and it was something he could not control. That was something she understood. She knew what it was like to have a power you could not stop, no matter how hard you tried. What if he gave in next time?

Ravenhunt would kill her.

The key. She had to find it. Hiking up the trailing ends of the robe, she ran out of the attic room and raced down the stairs.

Panting, she reached his room. His clothes had been just tossed on the bed, and she slid her hands through them to find the key. His shirt and trousers carried his scent—sandalwood, and a spicy smell that was unique to his skin. Smelling it made her throat tighten. So did remembering his beautiful, almost-naked body standing at the foot of the bed. She thought of his dark eyes, bright with desire, as he watched her, admiring the way he’d tied her up.

Tears burned in her eyes. Why? Why should her silly eyes be filling with tears? She hadn’t lost him; she’d never actually had him in the first place. He wasn’t mortal, and he didn’t care about her.

Her fingers brushed cold metal. With a soft cry of triumph, she grabbed the key—

She couldn’t escape anywhere while wearing nothing but a velvet robe. Key in hand, she took two steps toward the door to go to her own room, when inspiration struck. His lush skin-smell was still in her head. His clothes were imbued with it.

His clothes.

Female clothes were hopeless—long, tangling skirts, heavy fabric, corsets. No one could escape anywhere dressed like that.

She would wear his clothes. It meant drenching herself in his smell, and she wanted so much to forget him, but she had no choice.


Cool air swirled around Ophelia as she stepped out onto the front step. It was madness, but she couldn’t just run away and leave his door unlocked. She turned the key in the massive iron lock, hearing it engage with a clank.

For a moment, she stood there, taking deep breaths. Ravenhunt’s house was on the outskirts of Mayfair. The entire world seemed to be in the street. Carriages were packed in the street and could barely move. Many people filled the sidewalk after disembarking from their carriages. There was a party going on just two houses from Ravenhunt’s, which meant many people were alighting from their vehicles.

Surely she was safe. Surely no one from the Royal Society would attack in front of all these people.

She had weapons, too. In a drawer in his bedchamber she’d found a box containing two pistols, along with shot and powder. Two loaded pistols weighed down the pockets of the great coat she had found, swinging and hitting her legs as she moved.

Though she prayed she didn’t have to use them. She didn’t want to have to hurt anyone, even villains who wanted to hurt her. She’d done enough killing and hurting through her life.

She was not just escaping Ravenhunt; she was going to escape from her life. She would go away, somewhere far away, where she could hide from other people.

It would mean she would be a prisoner, but at least she would be her own prisoner, instead of being kept hidden and locked up by someone else.

She was going to take charge of her own life. Finally.

Ophelia began to walk down the steps, then stopped. How could she blend into this crowd of people? She would have to walk along the sidewalk with them. She would bump against them, be jostled by them, perhaps she would have to grasp someone to steady herself.

She couldn’t risk hurting anyone, but she had to get away. There was no way now to get to the mews without going back through the house.

At the bottom of the steps, Ophelia held her breath, made her body as slender as possible, and tried to slip between people. But from behind, something struck her and she jerked around in blind panic. A desperate apology sat on her lips—but how could she say sorry for killing someone, not now, but hours or days from now? Whoever had hit her would sicken and die—

It was a walking stick. A gentleman’s stick had hit the back of her leg. Something utterly safe, but it meant the gentleman, who walked with his wife, arms linked, was nearing her.

She stumbled back, clearing the path, as the elderly couple passed her. Then she jumped to the side as a group of foxed young men staggered together toward the party.

“Out of the way,” one of them shouted at her, a short, portly buck. His gaze went over her, taking in her borrowed breeches, shirt, and oversized great coat. “You are no lad. That’s a plump derriere squeezed into those breeches.” His leering and sneering tone made all the others laugh.

Another of the group, skinny with spotty pimples on his cheeks, barked, “She’s a useless, grubby urchin, that’s what she is. She’s blocking the sidewalk.”

She sensed something move beside her. It was the first gentleman, and he’d lifted his hand to grab her.

“Don’t,” she gasped. “Dear God, I could kill you.” She took a quick step to the street, and tripped in Ravenhunt’s too large boots. She fell toward the third of the young, drunk men.

His hand struck her shoulder, but only for a brief second, because he gave her a hard shove out of the way. She fell to her knees, wincing as they struck the ground. “Here,” the man shouted. “Mind your manners with your betters. You don’t walk into gentlemen, you little piece of rubbish.” His hand lifted, as if preparing to deliver a slap.

“Do not touch me,” she cried. She scrambled to her feet and rushed toward the busy street, stumbling off the sidewalk. Horses whinnied, a coachman shouted vile curses at her, and she turned to see hooves clawing at the air above her head. The metal shoes flashed, the horses seemed to be screaming in her ears, her legs felt caught in treacle.

She forced her numb limbs to work and jumped out of the way.

Hard cobblestones struck her hip and her shoulder. She landed on her side, and seemed to bounce off the cold, hard street. Pain screamed through her body, but dazedly, Ophelia got to her feet.

Then she ran like a rabbit, weaving around horses and carriages. Men shouted at her, a riding whip struck her shoulder, which made her cry out. At least the thick fabric of Ravenhunt’s coat absorbed the crack of the lash.