Cyrus remembered the boy with fondness. He’d been bright and pleasant, and very talented in the bedroom. And Cyrus had repaid him with cruelty, drawing the youth to him and pushing him away by turns.

Shame burned in him at the memory. “You do know your father and I have a history, don’t you? Of course, he wasn’t nearly as responsive as you are. Does that excite you? To know you’re a better lay than he was? God, what would he think of you if he saw you, on your hands and knees, begging me to fuck you?”

And he had begged. Cyrus had made sure of that.

Absently, he reached out and flipped down the nearest picture, so he wouldn’t have to see the smiling faces of father and son staring back at him.

Max immediately stepped forward and righted the frame.

Ah, so that’s how it would be then. It made sense. In his life, Cyrus had done abominable things, and worse. Now, he was receiving retribution. But if this puffed up child-masquerading-as-tough vampire thought he could dole out the worst of the punishment, he was sadly mistaken. Some vampires in the desert had already claimed that particular prize.

Morbidly, Cyrus’s mind made its way back to the church basement. Did the fire still smoke? Had anyone found her? Had her body burned away? It seemed wrong that he’d left her there, helpless in her death. His logical mind recognized the fact she felt no pain, but his emotions played havoc with his brain, showing pictures of her serene face contorted with terror as she woke to find herself abandoned to the flames.

He should have made Carrie leave him with her, so he could have said goodbye in private. Oh, he wouldn’t have used her the way he had done the girls he’d killed himself. The thought was disgusting when applied to a person he cared about, a person whose life he’d valued. But it had seemed rushed. He’d wanted to hold her, to lie beside her, close his eyes and pretend she lived, despite the stiffness creeping into her limbs and the coldness of her skin. Maybe he would have stayed a few days, never moving. Maybe he would have died of a broken heart.

It was a possibility that eluded him now. His grief, left untended, had subsided some. He didn’t want to survive losing her, but circumstance had forced him to heal to a cruel plateau. He ached for her, but he could not bring that ache to drive him to the madness required to harm himself.

The werewolf—Bella, Max had been calling her—walked in a few lazy circles around a pile of blankets before lying down. She pillowed her chin on her arms, stretched in front of her like a dog’s paws, her eyes scanning a book.