“Thank you, Bhal.”

* * *

Victorija pushed her last victim away and fell back onto her throne. Blood coated her shirt and hands. She had never gorged on so much blood before and the experience was exhilarating, what she’d heard humans describe when they got drunk.

She tried to regain her breath as she looked out over the throne room. The floor was littered with bodies. Some would wake eventually and return as vampires to help her build an army, and some were simply food. To turn a vampire was simple. If a person died with vampire blood in their system, and then revived and began to feed on blood, they were turned.

Her own vampires were littered around the room, some feeding, and some in states of undress, indulging their sexual desires. Some were doing both, and some were on the streets of Paris turning as many people as they could find.

Even her doubters were starting to see the benefits of her regime. Drasas, her new Duca approached, her clothes as bloodstained as them all.

“You did it, Principe.” Drasas smiled.

Victorija flourished her hand. “Did you ever doubt it?”

“Never.”

She sat up straighter on her throne and said, “You need to keep everyone very disciplined, Drasas. We cannot achieve great things if we are not strong, not together. Make it known that anyone who fails me will find their heart on the burning altar.”

A sly grin grew on Drasas’s face. “You can count on me, Principe.”

“Ensure everyone cleans up their messes out on the streets and doesn’t draw us unnecessary attention, and pay a visit to the police department. A bit of compulsion should cover for any of tonight’s festivities.”

“I will,” Drasas said, before bowing and starting to walk away.

Victorija stopped her. “Drasas, keep the witches safe and unharmed.” She saw the look of annoyance on Drasas’s face. “I know your feelings on the matter of the witches, but they are central to my plans. There will come a time when they are not, and we will dispose of them.”

The smiled returned to Drasas’s face, and Victorija repeated, “They are not to be harmed—yet. Quite clear, Duca?”

“Exceptionally clear.”

When she walked away, Victorija’s body reminded her just how much she needed to come to assuage the arousal the blood had caused.

She was just about to pick one of her female vampires when the doors to the throne room burst open, and her father’s lover Eleanora strode in purposefully. As soon as her eyes turned on Victorija, a sexy smile erupted on her face.

Eleanora had been her father’s lover for years, although not a permanent fixture in his life. She stalked across the throne room in her tight red dress and heels like she was on a Parisian catwalk. Gilbert had turned her into a vampire at her request a long time ago, but she had a more mature appearance than most vampires since she had been turned at age forty-five. If Victorija had expected anger from Eleanora at the recent events, then she would have been shocked. She hadn’t, and she wasn’t.