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never heard of the planet. Or of a barrier that would repel all outside contact. Leaning forward, he opened the wine, filled their glasses, and handed one to Seleena. “To good parents,” he said, lifting his glass and touching it to hers.
    It was an odd toast, coming from him, she thought. Quinn’s mother had died when he was very young. He had never known his father. The man who raised him had been the worst cutthroat and slave trader in Bosquetown, a city known far and wide as the armpit of Brynn Tor. Jagg had raised Quinn to be an assassin. Thankfully, in spite of Jagg and the evil that surrounded him, Quinn remained a decent man.
    Seleena sipped her wine; then, putting her glass aside, she stood and took Quinn’s hand in hers, a come-hither look shining in her eyes.
    Smiling, he set his glass on the table and followed her into their bedroom. In the time he had known her, they had made love often, yet the passion between them had not cooled. It flamed to life when he took her in his arms, his hands skimming up and down her back as he rained kisses on her cheeks, the tip of her nose, before capturing her lips with his.
    She moaned softly as they fell back on the bed, arms and legs entwined, everything else forgotten as they gave themselves over to the desire that sparked between them.
    * * *
    Careful not to jostle Seleena, Quinn slid out of bed and pulled on his shirt and pants. Though he could be awake during the day, the night often called to him, whispering secrets, promising delights mortals never knew.
    Leaving the house, he stood in the moonlight, felt the darkness settle around him like the welcome touch of an old friend. The east wind caressed his face, carrying with it the scent of earth and foliage. Hands shoved in his pockets, he strolled toward the village square. He heard the faint sounds of beating hearts, soft snores, the whimper of a hungry infant, a child’s frightened cry.
    But it was the siren call of warm, fresh blood that drew him toward a narrow dirt path lined with trees that led to a solitary house. It was a place he had visited once before, shortly after meeting Seleena. As he had the first time, he knocked on the woman’s door, mesmerized her with a glance, and compelled her to invite him inside.
    Crossing the threshold, he felt a whisper of power that, without her invitation, would have prevented him from entering her home.
    After closing the door behind him, he placed his hands on the woman’s shoulders, his voice low and compelling as he assured her that he meant her no harm. Her blood was  satisfying, though not as sweet as Seleena’s. He took only a little, just enough to satisfy the need that was ever there, just under the surface. Sometimes he felt like he was cheating on Seleena when he drank from another woman, but it couldn’t be helped. He was what he was.
    Before leaving the house, he ran his tongue over the twin puncture wounds in her neck, then spoke to her mind, telling her she would remember nothing of what had happened. And then he vanished from her sight.
    He made his way back to the village square, the woman’s blood singing in his veins.
    At home again, he went into the nursery to look in on Steffon. The boy slept on his back, one arm flung out to the side, his thumb in his mouth.
    His son remained a miracle in his eyes, a gift he surely didn’t deserve after the life he had led when he lived with Jagg. It had been the slave trader who sold him into slavery to the black witch Serepta. At the time, Quinn had considered it the low point in his life. Oddly enough, it had turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Had he not been Serepta’s slave, he never would have met Seleena. Never have known love. Never known what it was to be a father.
    Brushing a lock of hair from his son’s brow, he returned to his bed.
    And the warmth of his woman’s arms.
     
     

Chapter 6
     
    “You went out late last night.”
    Quinn looked at Seleena across the breakfast table. She always