But just before Victorija killed her grandmother, the former matriarch had apologized for not being there for her and touched her cheek. When she did, Victorija was swamped by emotions, by memories of the loving, happy times that she’d spent with Lucia and her Debrek family in Venice. But still Victorija’s anger and need for revenge overcame her, and she ripped her grandmother’s heart out.

Lucia said that a small part of Victorija’s soul had a chink of light still there. Of course Victorija didn’t believe that, but when she killed her grandmother, some of the walls that she had erected to prevent her abuse from destroying her started to crumble. That and the new blood bond were destroying all the certainties she had about herself.

Every fibre in her being was telling her to drink from Daisy, but she couldn’t escape the vow she’d made to Angele. Victorija was in utter torment. She had loved Angele, and the pain she suffered now proved how wrong love was.

Victorija got up and walked across the room and looked down at Daisy. She was different from Angele in many ways, but she recognized Angele in Daisy’s bone structure.

She had spent many days as a seventeen-year-old vampire lying with Angele in a grassy field, away from the bother of their families, and memorizing every inch of her. Her nose, her eyes, everything, and now looking at Daisy, as much as she was different—Daisy’s hair was dark, while Angele’s had been a strawberry-blond—there were similarities, especially her little nose.

But she wasn’t her Angele and never would be. Victorija hungered, and to make matters worse, Daisy moved in her sleep and bared her neck. Victorija’s mouth watered, and the fangs in her mouth ached.

Victorija reached a shaking hand towards the neck of Daisy’s nightie. She had a silver chain around her neck, and when Victorija pulled the collar of Daisy’s nightie down slightly, she saw the same familiar necklace that had stopped her in her tracks when she had bitten her when they encountered one another in The Sanctuary bar.

Angele had worn it. It was a Brassard heirloom, one that protected the wearer from a vampire’s compulsion. Angele had always worn it, apart from one fateful day when her life changed. Gilbert had caught Angele early one morning without the necklace. He compelled her to go to Victorija, and he slit her throat in front of her.

The incident destroyed Victorija, and her heart and soul turned dark with no light still remaining within her, or so she believed.

Victorija stroked Daisy’s hair softly. “I’ve got no way out, Daisy MacDougall. I need your blood.”

But even as she contemplated sinking her teeth into Daisy, she could hear Angele’s words echoing in her ears.

Please don’t do this, Torija.