Her knees trembled but Narcise kept herself as tall and straight as she could. It never ceased to amuse her that, despite them being armed with the one thing in the world that could weaken her, there needed to be two strong, burly Dracule who escorted her back to her chamber.

That knowledge was the only thing that kept her hopeful as, day after day, she lived an eternity under her brother’s control.

The knowledge that they were all terrified of her.

God and Lucifer help them if she ever got free.

Paris

September 1793

The first time Narcise set eyes on Giordan Cale, she was fighting for her safety.

It was yet another of countless evenings of entertainment for Cezar, and this time, he was seated off to the side on a raised dais with a single companion: a broad-shouldered man with tight, curly hair and handsome, elegant features.

Normally Cezar liked to display his sister’s capabilities to a small crowd of spectators. It was his way of advertising her abilities. But tonight, there were only the two of them watching from the unobtrusive corner as she fenced and fought with some man who’d angered her brother.

Her orders, tonight, had been to fight to the death, and Cezar had warned that she wouldn’t be released from the small arenalike chamber until she either killed her rival, or he bested her—which didn’t mean death for her, but something worse.

The poor fool was no match for Narcise, who’d been taught in swordplay and other acrobatic fighting skills by the best trainers Cezar could find. He wasn’t about to have his favorite amusement killed by an overzealous suitor or an angry enemy.