“Yes, thank you.”
His eyes swept over Edel as she passed him her cloak, but he quickly looked away. He was a timid male, very unusual in one so seasoned, Bronwyn observed. Unless . . . She paused. Was it possible? Did the Romans have Impures working for them?
She and Edel followed him from the sleek foyer through several living areas furnished in a modern design that fused beautifully with the ancient moldings and fixtures, then past a sweeping limestone staircase. She understood the wrecked exterior now. It wasn’t just to keep their existence a secret; it was also to deter intruders of the sticky-fingered variety.
When the servant stopped before a large arched door, the nerves Bronwyn had wrestled with earlier bloomed into a full-blown anxiety. For a second, she thought about bolting, but her sister’s face appeared before her and she stood up taller and prepared herself for whatever she was to encounter within the Roman household.
“He lied to us!” The male growl shot through the thick door, just as the old servant’s knuckles lifted to strike. He hesitated. “The foolish bastard went to them without us,” the paven behind the door yelled. “Without backup!”
“He didn’t want us to have to go before them,” came another male voice, a more controlled one, though still hypermasculine.
“That’s bullshit and you know it! We protect each other. Blood stands with blood—it is the way it has always been.”
“You look to the past far too much.”
“And you still live there.”
The old servant glanced back at Bronwyn and Edel and said, “One moment, please.”
After a quick knock, he disappeared into the room and left Bronwyn to wonder what she had gotten herself into. Descendants of the Breeding Male were rumored to be more aggressive than ordinary Pureblood paven.
And she was actually begging entrance to their lair.
“Miss Kettler is here.” The servant’s voice was barely audible through the door, unlike the one that followed.
“What?” came the annoyed bark of the first paven.
“Is she alone?” came the calm query of the second.
“No, sir,” the servant said, his tone a loud whisper now. “An older veana accompanies her.”
“Oh, Christ,” shouted the first. “She brought her tegga with her. It’s like the fucking Old Country.”
Bronwyn glanced at the veana beside her and gave her a tedious smile. “He thinks you’re my governess, Edel.”
The veana’s mischievous brown eyes flashed. “If I may say, I hope that one is not your true mate.”
“Indeed.”
“Bring her,” Nicholas commanded. “And you, Little Brother, had better watch yourself.”
The door opened and the servant reappeared, his expression beleaguered. He gestured for them to enter. Bronwyn went first, her chin lifted to mask the fear that pulsed in her belly. She heard a curse, then a dark grumble. “First humans, then the Order, now simpering veanas from the credenti all descending on us like typhus-carrying rats.”
No, Bronwyn thought as she entered the extraordinary two-story library, she was not the rat here.
“Miss Kettler. I’m Nicholas Roman.”
The paven who stepped forward to greet her was very tall, very broad, and had eyes the color of the night sky. He was menacingly dark in both features and humor, and the moment she stood in his path she felt the true weight of his presence. Forcing her nerves to remain beneath the surface of her calm exterior, she waited for his gaze to move over every inch of her, before she spoke.
“Please, call me Bronwyn,” she said. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“Of course,” he said, inclining his head, though his eyes went once more to the cloths covering her neck and wrists.
She tried not to be intimidated by him, but it wasn’t easy. He was nothing like the pavens in her credenti, who were similar to her height and gentle in both action and tone. No, this paven was large and rough and no doubt breathed blood and sex, just as his sire had.
“You have brought a handfast?” he asked, his black eyes cool, though respectful.
“Yes.”
“For my brother Alexander.”
“Yes.”
“Thank Christ!” came an irritated male voice from above.
It was the first voice she’d heard through the library door and Bronwyn’s eyes drifted upward, to the second floor of the library. She saw no face there, only dark blue jeans that housed long, thickly muscled legs and a pair of scuffed-up black hunting boots that were propped up on the wood banister. “Nice tegga,” the paven muttered down to her. “Do you still suckle at her tits?”
Beside Bronwyn, Edel sucked in air.
“Shut it, Lucian!” Nicholas snarled. “For fuck’s sake.” He turned back to Bronwyn and lifted his hands in the air, in a silent show of frustration. “I apologize for my brother.”
Bronwyn’s gaze lifted once again. So that was Lucian. The devil brother.
“Please ignore him,” Nicholas said.
“I imagine that would be impossible,” Bronwyn quipped.
Humor lit the paven’s black eyes. “Indeed.” Then he sobered. “Bronwyn, I respect your call for a handfast, but why do you believe Alexander is your true mate?”
She hesitated before answering. Though she openly studied true mates, their histories, bloodlines, and the location of their marks on the skin, in the past year she had dipped into a strain of vampire lineage for a private client, lineage that was controversial and confidential. It was there that she had found her true mate, a son of the Breeding Male who, thankfully, carried no Breeding gene.
She looked up at Nicholas, who was watching her intently. She needed to give the paven something. It was only fair. “I study vampire genealogy. It’s my life’s work, my passion. I don’t know how much you know about the subject, but when a paven or veana is born, they have three copies of each gene, one from their mother, one from their father, and one from their true mate. With either blood or skin samples, I can find any and all of these matches.”
“And you believe that you and Alexander are a match?”
“I do.”
“How did you come upon a sample of Alexander’s blood?”
She hesitated, choosing her words very carefully. “The Order takes samples from every Pureblood at birth. The Order supports my work—they believe it could be vital in bringing mates together early to procreate if there was a devastation in the Eternal Breed.”
“Do you have something to show me?” Nicholas asked. “A certificate? Concrete proof?”
She did, but the document also revealed information she couldn’t share with anyone. “The law requires no such proof for a handfasting,” she said quickly, “only a willingness—”
“There’s no fucking willingness here, princess,” Lucian called down, sarcasm dripping like lethal honey from his tone.
Nicholas sighed. “You are correct, Miss Kettler. You have your three weeks.”
“Thank you,” she said, relieved yet wary. “Where should I put my things?”
“How about back on the sidewalk?” Lucian suggested. “I’ll give you a hand.”
Without thinking, Bronwyn’s gaze shot to the second floor and she said fiercely, “What is your problem, paven?”
But this time, there were no jean-clad legs, no boots resting lazily on the banister. This time, the devil himself stood there. Like Nicholas, Lucian Roman was tall, and alarmingly broad in the shoulders, but that’s where the similarities ended. The youngest of the Romans was stunningly, terrifyingly good-looking, his jaw-length hair as white as an angel’s wings, his almond eyes lethal and lustful, his face hard and chiseled. For Bronwyn, looking at him was like looking at the other side of death, and yet she could look nowhere but.