And of course, she knew it.

She drew the men in, she coaxed with her eyes and teased with her jests. Her body moved with unconscious eroticism, her eyes lit with just the right bit of naiveté, her shoulders, bare, ivory, shadowed by the delicate curves of collarbone and throat. Her movements, graceful and smooth.

The men fawned and praised, their eyes hot and wanting. Strong, broad shoulders strained the broadcloth of their coats, bronzed, elegant throats above white or black shirts. Firm, muscular hands and powerful thighs encased in breeches that outlined every masculine attribute, and heavy, solid boots that slid and held firmly when mounted on a horse. These were men.

And here was Cezar. Pale. Slender. His hands too big, his brows too heavy, his shoulders too narrow. His thighs seemed like sticks when he sat on a horse, and his face…spotted and a bit pasty, even for his Romanian heritage.

His jaw still ached on occasion where it had been broken two years ago by a group of other young men when he was twenty, and it had healed improperly so that he had the added indignity of a faint lisp. From the same event, he’d acquired a slight limp.

He was Cezar: the second son of the most trusted confidant of the voivode, overlooked or scorned by men and women alike—even on the occasion of his brother’s wedding to the eldest daughter of the most powerful ruler in Romania.

But even she, the wealthy, beautiful offspring of the ruler of Moldavia, couldn’t hold a candle to Narcise. Even on the occasion of her wedding, the bride couldn’t maintain the attention that inevitably slipped to her new sister-by-law.

Narcise was incomparable.

And Cezar, as he had since he first set eyes on his younger sister, both loved and loathed her with deep, abiding passion.

He wanted to kill her…and yet, he wanted to be her.

And that was why, as his fangs—still so new and uncomfortable in his mouth—slid free, filling the inside of his lips like a mouthful of potatoes, he settled into the shadows. Unnoticed. Watching. Waiting. Planning.