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aroused as hell with nowhere to go. Naturally, he’d complained of not feeling well and had retired to his suite of rooms at the south end of the villa.
    The tangerines had acted as an aphrodisiac. He hadn’t wanted to pleasure himself but that was the curse of his situation: Because of the breh-hedden, the scent of tangerines meant Parisa, and Parisa meant pure hot-blooded sex.
    Damn the breh-hedden. He’d been struck down the moment he’d smelled Parisa’s lovely pheromone-riddled tangerine scent.
    The breh-hedden was a terrible mate-bonding ritual that occurred only between preternaturally powerful women and Warriors of the Blood. Before Warrior Kerrick had found his breh in Alison Wells, all the warriors had thought the ritual a myth. Then Marcus had bonded with Havily in exactly the same way. No more myth. Just hard agonizing reality.
    So, yeah, the breh-hedden was alive and well among the Warriors of the Blood.
    God, how he loved the smell of tangerines.
    So it was that Medichi had pleasured himself. And for whatever reasons, at that same moment Parisa had found him with her voyeur’s window. But only when he’d released, his fist pumping hard, had he heard her beautiful voice in his head, a soft, melodic Antony. Several times before the abduction, he thought he’d heard her voice in his head, the emergence of her telepathic ability. So when he heard the sound again, he knew he had not been mistaken: He had heard her voice, and she was alive.
    He’d rejoiced. He’d cried out. He’d wept because that’s when he’d felt her presence, very faint but very real and he knew she was still alive. He’d spoken to her for an hour afterward, even though she still couldn’t communicate mind-to-mind with him. He’d talked and talked about all that they were doing to try to find her, he encouraged her to stay alive, he promised her he’d never stop looking for her. He’d only stopped talking when he felt her drift away and finally end the communication.
    From that moment until now, he’d repeated the ritual with her every morning after hunting down rogue death vampires. He would return to the villa, shower, and ready himself to meet his woman.
    Right now, with the towel looped over his lap, only one question was in his mind: Would he hear her voice, feel her presence today? Was his woman still alive?
    Jesus, his fingers trembled around the small silver bowl he held in his hands. In it, nine small Satsuma tangerines were piled one atop another, tempting him with the forbidden as though he stared at the apple from the Garden of Eden.
    Time to get on with his morning ritual. He’d never been one to limit himself to the use of his fist. If he needed a fuck, he went out and got one. He’d worn out a lot of velvet in the booths at the Blood and Bite getting the release he needed. Mortal women flocked to the vampire club every night and kept the warriors of Second Earth satisfied—both the Militia Warriors and the Warriors of the Blood. The club had been designed just for that purpose and even sanctioned by Madame Endelle, the Supreme High Administrator of all Second Earth. But from the moment he’d met Parisa, the club had lost all appeal.
    He set the bowl on his nightstand. Holding one tangerine in his hand, he plunged his thumb hard into the center, breaking the loose skin apart. He pulled the skin back. Juice flowed. He kept peeling until the wedges were exposed. He thrust his thumb into the middle once more, breaking up the wedges. More juice.
    He shuddered. The smell penetrated his brain, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Yes, he was hard. What else would he be? From the moment he had first caught Parisa’s scent, the one thing he could count on was a fierce demanding erection when she was near.
    The hairs on the nape of his neck rose and relief poured through him.
    Now he felt her. Yes. He closed his eyes. He could tell she was near, just a strange rippling vibration along his back, now across his