She’d made the mistake of underestimating her rival only once before. No one could ever say she didn’t learn from her errors.

Not until the door closed behind Godya did she lower her blade and turn to look up at Cezar.

“So sorry to have ruined your evening’s entertainment,” she said, taking no care to hide her loathing for the man.

“No sorrier than I, dear sister,” he hissed morosely. “I can’t remember the last time you were bested and gave us a real show.”

Narcise did. It had happened eleven months ago, when she’d tripped over the blade of her saber as it caught on the rug. She’d lost her balance and rhythm, and that was the end of the battle. Cezar’s colleague, whose name she’d never cared to learn, had wasted no time in slamming her onto the table, holding her hands pinned above her head as he used his own blade to cut down through her tunic and tear it away.

In an effort to add to the entertainment for the audience above, he’d fondled her breasts with rough fingers, then, breathing hot and hard, shoved his fangs into her shoulder. He sampled her for a moment, drinking deeply as she fought against the reflexive rush of arousal that always came when her blood was released thus.

Then, with her torso bare and her wrists pulled behind her back, he’d dragged her off to what she thought of as The Chamber for the rest of the night.

She hadn’t lost a battle since and, in fact, had sent three Dracule permanently to hell during three previous engagements.

Now she sneered at Cezar. “What a pity I didn’t provide enough entertainment. I’m certain it would be worth watching if you had a big enough bag between your legs to take me on yourself.”

And then I could skewer you with a stake and I would be free.