Chapter One

THOR CAME AWAKE WITH A START. One name stuck on a loop in his mind as he sat in total darkness, his breathing fast, his pulse speeding. Disoriented, he wasn't sure where he was or what had happened. It took a full minute to realize he'd been dreaming. The smell of gunfire filled his nostrils, and for a split second, he thought it was real—that someone had shot at him or near him, and that had been what had woken him from a deep sleep. The smell vanished, and he realized he'd dreamt it.

Lance.

Try as he might, the name wouldn't leave his head. It was as if his mind were a broken record and the needle was there, trapped on one word. One name that haunted him.

Lance.

Lance.

Lance.

The loop repeated again and again in his head, like a broken record, until he was on the verge of screaming. Finally, it stopped, but it didn't take with it the unease he still felt. It didn't lessen the rate at which his heart was pounding, or take with it the sense that he should run. It didn't matter that the destination was unknown to him. He caught another distant trace of gunfire, and for a second, an image of a man with an automatic weapon aimed right at him flashed through his mind. Somehow, he knew the man, but he had no name to go with the face.

"Brother," he said, though he felt no real connection to the man. What he did know was the man had been about to shoot at him—relation be damned.

As quickly as the flash in his mind came, it went, leaving the faintest of echoes remaining. His mind had become the enemy as of late. It was always playing tricks on him, even in his waking hours. There were days he questioned his sanity, and he wondered if those around him had begun to do so as well.

Tossing the sweat-soaked sheets aside, he let out a long, slow breath, doing his best to calm down. He couldn't recall the details of the dream—he never could. That hadn't stopped the dreams, or rather nightmares, from happening to him nearly daily anymore. He disliked going to sleep, hating the way he felt upon waking each night.

Panicked.

Lost.

In pain.

Confused.

His body ached as if someone had taken a bat to him. It hurt to draw in a deep breath, but he didn't know why. He wasn't injured. At least not physically. Mentally, he wasn't so sure. He did know that he'd not been attacked, yet his body felt as if he'd been through a war and emerged from the other side the loser.

Absently, he rubbed his chest, coming away with sweat before moving his hand lower, to his chiseled abs. Whenever he was stressed or felt the need to feed, he channeled the energy into working out. It meant his body was perfectly honed.

A beautiful weapon.

That was what the master, Pierre Molyneux, had taken to calling him. From the first moment he could remember, Thor had been gifted in the art of fighting and weaponry. Like he'd been born that way. He'd woken a super soldier, able to handle himself in nearly any situation. He didn't know what kind of life he'd led prior to his conversion, but since he'd been reborn part vampire, he'd been used as a weapon.

And he hated it.

Hated the way he was treated like property. Like he was a dog whose owner was close by with a leash in hand, telling him what he could and could not do. That was what Pierre did. He barked orders at Thor, and Thor obeyed—at least to a point.

Most of all, he hated the way the master watched him, with desire pouring off him in waves. As he thought about the number of "pets" the master took to bed with him, he cringed.

Not happening.

Not ever happening.

He swung his legs around on the bed and sat up on the edge of the mattress, the room around him pitch black. He balled the dark gray silk sheets in his hands. The master thought he treated his pets well because he gave them the "finer things," but sheets with a high thread count couldn't make up for all the horrors he made them commit.

Thor bent his head, doing his best to come to terms with what was happening to him. Since his return from Seattle, and his scrimmage with Walter Helmuth —a dick with a power complex who'd ended up being a gargoyle—Thor had been left with more questions than answers.

The dreams had begun to occur nightly after that as well. Try as he might, he could not recall anything from the dream other than the name Lance. It was evident the name held deep meaning for him, but he was lost to what that meaning was. The name beat at him from within, demanding he acknowledge it.

What did it mean?

Who was Lance?

Was he tied to the past Thor could no longer remember? And why had the name been said to him more than once as of late while he was on assignments for the master? Could it be that Thor's name truly was Lance? If so, why couldn't he remember as much? Who was he before his rebirth as a vampire-shifter hybrid, as one of the master's playthings? Was he some kind of super soldier? A fucking ninja? And why were his memories of his life before gone?

Questions burned a hole in his gut and made him feel nauseous. Blackness was all that greeted him when he tried to remember a time before he'd come to be with Pierre. He knew he wasn't born a fully grown adult male, but it certainly felt as if he were. Since he'd woken to find the master above him, the man's lips stained red and his wrist bit open, Thor had known nothing else. Anything before his siring day was blank, and if anyone knew more details of his past, they weren't talking.

The little bit they had told him was that the Immortal Ops and the PSI-Ops were the enemy. He had been told the sole purpose of the other operatives was to kill supernaturals so that humans could rule the world.

The master's dislike of humans was well known, and many under him shared his opinion. Thor found he did not. Nor did he hate all supernaturals, as the master claimed the other operatives did. The master had plans for a superior race of supernaturals that would one day soon rule the humans, rather than hide in the shadows as they were forced to do now. Their numbers, while high, were no match for the humans, who bred at an exponential rate.

Pierre had been clear in his orders: Kill operatives whenever the opportunity arose, and kill as many humans as they wished without drawing attention to themselves.

So far, Thor had followed neither directive. He'd only followed Pierre's commands when he was dispatched to eliminate one of Pierre's hybrids who got out of control or who was drawing too much attention to their goal.

Such had been the case with Belial. Thor had developed a soft spot for the young supernatural, who had also been one of the master's pets. The man had also been a shifter before he was sired, so he could change into an animal and had a bloodlust. The same as Thor. But Belial had relished in the dark gift the master had given to them—vampirism.

Thor had not.

Belial had taken the dark gift too far. He'd slaughtered humans in a way and at a rate that had drawn too much attention to them all. And in the end, Belial had been nothing more than a pawn in Pierre's twisted game of life. He'd been used to root out a female Pierre had interest in. The woman had ended up being Belial's sister, but that didn't matter to the young supernatural. He'd tried to kill her all the same.

As Thor suspected had been Pierre's goal the entire time.

The master loved to play with people's minds and their lives. The pleasure Pierre got from his manipulations was sickening. And more and more, Thor had become aware of it all. Aware that everything was only a game to the master vampire. And while he was currently in the master's favor, that could change on a dime.

Thor had started to question everything he'd been led to believe. Seattle had been his breaking point. He'd been loaned out to Helmuth, who had been in charge of the Seattle paranormal underground scene. Helmuth orchestrated fight clubs that held death matches between supernaturals that he'd captured and forced to compete. Pierre had been fine with that behavior. It wasn't until Helmuth had partnered up with Gisbert Krauss that Pierre had taken note. Pierre had a working relationship with Krauss as well, getting many of his children from the mad scientist.

Krauss had taken to creating what could only be called berserkers for Helmuth. The berserkers were huge, way more powerful than the average supernatural male, and often looked like the stuff of nightmares. The one Thor had stood against while in Seattle was easily over seven feet tall and had about fifty eyes. A rocket launcher had taken it out, spreading creature goo everywhere in the process.

Whatever the creature had been prior to Krauss getting his hands on it was long gone. All that had remained was a monster.

From Thor's understanding, the creatures had been engineered to be sure bets against other supernaturals in the fighting rings for Helmuth. Guaranteed gladiators, who would bring in high-dollar clients to watch them slaughter others, but they'd been too hard to control, and had gone on killing rampages more than once in the city.

He pushed up from the bed and began to pace, feeling agitated as the past forced its way into his mind. It bubbled up inside of him like nervous energy, demanding he remember, as if some clue lie hidden within the horrors of his past. He balled his fists, tempted to beat his frustrations out on the wall until he was too exhausted to stand. Maybe then his mind would let him rest.

Thor had found himself fighting with an operative from the other side to battle the berserker, as well as botched hybrids that were under Helmuth's control. Thor had fought against Helmuth and his creations, knowing full well it might cost him his life should Pierre learn the truth.

Thankfully, Pierre's mistrust of the men he aligned himself with had played to Thor's advantage. It meant Pierre was quick to buy the lies Thor had spun. And spun he had upon his return. He'd told him partial truths, that Helmuth had been a gargoyle and had gone insane, and that Helmuth had unleashed the berserker on Thor. Wisely, Thor left out the bit about helping operatives from the other side.

Thankfully, the master had believed him. Helmuth was still a wanted man, and should he cross paths with any of Pierre's associates, he'd more than likely be killed on sight.

More than once, Thor had helped those whom Pierre labeled the enemy. The operatives Pierre seemed to detest continued to surprise Thor. Though he'd been told that whenever his mission overlapped one of the other operatives, he was to take the kill if presented, that had not been what happened. Each time he'd found himself near an Immortal Op (I-Op) or a Paranormal Security & Intelligence Operative (PSI-Op), Thor had ended up aiding in their mission and disregarding his own.

He didn't know why, but their fight and their cause resonated with Thor far more than his master's did.

Follow the master's orders without question.

Yet it seemed impossible. He was constantly at war with himself. His shifter side wanting to kill the master. His vampire side wanting to obey to a point. And the side that was just a man was lost in the inner struggle.

All he knew for certain was that he was fundamentally broken. His will to serve the master was all but gone. Each day he had to remind himself who he served, and that the others were, in fact, the enemy.

Still, nothing seemed to satisfy his growing hunger to kill his master.

To bite the hand that had given him life was foolish and unheard of. He should have been filled with gratitude for the master vampire. Yet, each time Thor found himself near Pierre, he had to restrain his inner beast to keep it from lashing out at the man.

Thor was considered special to the master. A prized pet. Though he found himself with competition as of late. A newly sired hybrid had joined the mix in the last month, and Pierre had shown great interest in the man.

Pierre had given the man the name of Beowulf, and had started to watch the newcomer with the same intensity he did Thor. Desire emanated from the master whenever Thor was in his presence and, before the arrival of Beowulf, Thor hadn't noticed Pierre doing it to any of his other pets.

A little piece of him was thankful that Pierre's attention was being pulled in the direction of Beowulf, the shiny new toy. It meant a small reprieve from the master's lust-filled looks. Yet another part of Thor felt bad for the newcomer. Being the center of Pierre's attention wasn't fun.

Thor would know. He'd been in the position for just over a year, if his count was right. The first few weeks after his rebirth had been fuzzy and blended together. No one had given him hard timelines, so he wasn't sure how long he'd actually spent under Pierre's thumb to start with. It was beginning to feel like forever.

He took a deep breath, stretching his sore muscles. The dream had taken its toll on his body. His chest still ached. He rubbed it once more and walked to the bathroom off his bedroom. His sleeping quarters were extremely nice. As with everything involving Pierre, no expense had been spared.

Once in the bathroom, Thor flipped on the light, even though it wasn't needed. The bathroom was done all in calacatta marble. There were double sinks and a separate toilet room. The walk-in shower was so big that several people could have fit in it—not that he'd ever tried. Thor had never used the large soaking tub either.

He looked at his reflection in the giant mirror and noticed blood dripping from his nose. That was happening more and more too. It used to be accompanied by head-splitting pain. He wiped the blood away with the back of his hand, his focus going to his chest. There were no marks there. Nothing to indicate a source of the pain, yet it was there.

Phantom pain, he thought, running his fingers over his smooth skin. The faint smell of gunfire filtered over him again. Was that a phantom smell to go along with the pain? Was he remembering something?

Thor turned the water on and bent, cupping his hands in the sink. Cool water filled his hands, and he splashed it on his face, chasing away the blood and some of the unease he'd woken with. He remained like that for several minutes, continuing to splash his face with water.

He went to the giant walk-in shower and turned the water on, letting it heat. Once the bathroom had filled with steam, Thor slid off his silk pajama bottoms and stepped into the hot stream of water, letting it sluice over his body. He took the bar of vanilla-scented soap and rubbed it in his hands, building it to a lather. He ignored the smell of the soap, associating it with Pierre. He then began to wash, the hot water helping to loosen his sore muscles and chase away the phantom pains in his chest.

As Thor's hands slid lower, he found his cock hardening under the weight of his touch. While the opportunity to have sex was offered to him nearly nightly, he had yet to act upon it. Pierre's other pets seemed to relish offering blood and sex to one another —the master included. The idea of being with any of them sickened Thor.

He'd see to his own needs.

He closed his long fingers around the girth of his cock and turned away from the showerhead, stroking his shaft with the built lather. Closing his eyes, he let his mind wander to what turned him on. Instantly, he conjured a mental image of a tanned woman with olive undertones to her skin. His focus was her legs to start. She was tiny compared to him, and he liked that. It turned on his alpha side, knowing he'd be her protector as well as her lover. It didn't matter that she was merely a figment of his imagination. For now, she was real.

He pumped his hard, long cock, his mind still drawing images of his ideal woman. He could clearly make out the juncture of her thighs. Dark hair was neatly maintained on her mound, as if marking her sweet spot for him. Not that he'd need a map or anything. Deep down, he knew he could more than please a woman.

"Pfft, you used to be a total ladies' man," he said, gasping as he realized he'd remembered something of his past. It wasn't much, but he'd take it.

As he continued to work the lather over his cock, he tipped his head back, letting the water from the showerhead run over his shoulders and down the front of his body.

He thought of his imaginary woman's breasts. They were on the small side. He didn't like overdone ones. He liked them pert and sized just right. As he thought about what her face would look like, he found himself pumping his cock harder and faster. Full lips, a dimpled chin on a heart-shaped face. Large brown eyes, rimmed with thick black lashes. And a head of long, thick, wavy dark brown hair that fell over her shoulders.

"Ah, yes," he bit out as his ball sac tightened a second before his cock jerked. Seed erupted from him and was washed down the drain quickly, taking the evidence of his arousal with it.

Thor expelled a slow, shaky breath, an image of the perfect woman fading fast from his mind. The harsh reality of his existence came over him, reminding him that he was due in the main gathering room soon. He was charged with overseeing the others and keeping them in line. Pierre's safety was also a task allotted to Thor, though he felt like he might be the biggest risk to the master.

He finished showering then shut off the water and stood there for a moment, needing to draw on his willpower to keep up the façade that he was still one of Pierre's adoring minions. It was getting harder and harder to pull off. Soon he'd be discovered.

He was sure of it.

He'd gone too long between the feedings that kept his strength at full force, and it had been far too long since he'd last drank from the master. His lip curled at the idea of ingesting Pierre's blood. It had never tasted right to him. There was always a taint to it he couldn't explain and didn't want to dwell on. All he knew for sure was that without Pierre's blood, he'd eventually die. The master had been clear on that. Clear on the fact he was the giver and could be the taker of life.

Ingesting the master's blood was something most of the pets did daily in some manner. Some drank straight from the source and others opted to drink from the bagged supplies of blood that held at least a few drops of Pierre's blood. Very few bags were untouched by the master's blood.

And those were the bags of blood that Thor gravitated toward.

There was part of the problem.

"I'm not feeding directly from him either," said Thor softly, knowing the walls often had ears. Secrets were hard to keep and even harder to live with. Betrayal was almost a given among the pets.

He toweled off and then headed back into the bedroom. Thor went to his wardrobe and surveyed his clothing options. As one of the master's favorites, he was provided with anything he wanted or needed. That included money and credit cards. It also included items he had no wish for; such was the case with the black leather skinny pants and black mesh shirt that had been on his bed the night prior.

Pierre liked to dress his pets in clothing he found attractive. Thor hated it. He was not a child's plaything to be dressed and led around. He was a man, and he had no intention of wearing the leather outfit.

More and more, he was taking a stand where he could. He'd stopped shaving his face daily, choosing instead to let a close-cut, sandy-blond beard grow in. His beard had flecks of white blond in it, matching his hair.

The acts of defiance were small, but they were all he had, and they helped him cope with his daily reality.

He selected a pair of dark gray, distressed, relaxed-fit jeans and a blood-red pullover cotton T-shirt that fit him snugly. For the last bit, Thor put on the black combat boots he'd bought while in Seattle. They were a sore point between him and the master.

A knock came on his bedroom door and he tensed. It was rare for anyone to bother him when he was in his room. He sniffed the air and caught the scent of wolf mixed with vampire.

Beowulf.

Chapter Two

THE URGE to snarl was great as the scent of a man Thor was fast starting to loathe came over him. Opening the door, Thor stood there staring at the man who matched him in height and build. Both stood well over six feet. Beowulf was no slouch in the muscle department either. Already Thor had sparred with him more than once. While he'd managed to best him, it had been a close call each time.

There was a wildness to the black-haired man. The kind of vibe that said Beowulf had no fear of death, no fear of pain. Beowulf 's blue gaze always held a level of crazy that was normally reserved for the most broken of Pierre's pets. It was simply the man's everyday look.

Thor often wondered if he too was showing outward signs of insanity. "What do you want?"

Beowulf folded his arms over his leather-vest-covered chest. Leather bands circled his wrists, and he wore matching black leather pants. It was clear the master had selected his clothes as well. Though Beowulf didn't seem to have an issue with them, which surprised Thor. "You're a dick."

Thor prepared for a possible attack. "Came all the way up here to tell me that? How sweet of you."

"Yep. Dick," said Beowulf, clearly sizing Thor up for a rematch.

He stepped back from the doorway. "You seem really focused on my dick. Something I should know?"

Beowulf 's gaze darkened. "No."

"Good to know. With what you're wearing, I was getting worried."

Beowulf snorted. "I didn't care enough about the outfit to put up a fight over it. And I didn't come up here to fight either."

"Could have fooled me," said Thor as he considered taking the first punch. "I generally assume anyone calling me a dick doesn't have my best interests at heart."

Beowulf shrugged. "I don't like you. That isn't really a state secret or anything."

"Feeling is mutual." Their last sparring match had left both men nursing wounds. That was telling, as they weren't exactly easy to hurt as hybrids.

The other man rubbed his jaw, grinning slightly. The guy was seriously disturbed. "Master wants a word with you."

"He's risen already?" asked Thor, surprised that he hadn't sensed as much. It meant his bond to Pierre was weakening more and more with each passing day.

Beowulf lifted a dark brow. He jutted out his chin, his beard closely cut. His long hair was down tonight, falling to mid-back. He had a cover-model-meets-biker vibe to him that seemed to greatly appeal to Pierre. Versus Thor's Nordic godlike appearance, as the master had so often referred to it. "You didn't sense him wake?"

Shit.

Thor cleared his throat and shook his head. There was no point in lying so he went with a truth that could help explain it away. "I've not fed in days."

Beowulf continued to watch him. For a moment, Thor wondered if the man had changed his mind about coming up to start a fight. It wouldn't have shocked him. Beowulf had a short fuse.

"How is it you resist the pull of blood?" asked Beowulf, his demeanor moving from threatening to curious in a matter of seconds.

The topic had come up more than once in Thor's time under Pierre's thumb. With every new batch of hybrids brought on, there was always one who wanted to know Thor's secrets to waiting so long between blood feedings. While he didn't like Beowulf, he hated the idea of being forced to live off blood more. From the genuine expression on Beowulf 's face, he wasn't a big fan of having to answer to the bloodlust either.

With a sigh, Thor told him the truth. "I have discipline. I channel the need into the task at hand or working out."

"Why not just feed?" asked Beowulf, something off in his voice.

Thor had seen the man's repulsion at the fact they required blood to survive. It had been fleeting but there during Beowulf 's conversion period. Because of the man's brute strength, Thor had been brought in early in the process to help control him. It was the first time Thor had been privy to the conversion process. He didn't remember his own, but he did know that he'd been out of commission for a long period of time during it all. The little bits he'd pieced together of the time weren't pretty. It had been painful and horrifying. An honest-to-God rebirth.

During Beowulf 's conversion, he'd been taken off bagged blood and a woman had been brought in. She was so deeply mesmerized by Pierre that she hadn't had any real clue of the danger she'd been in.

Thor knew. He'd understood she wouldn't walk away from the ordeal. He'd been outnumbered, and he also knew if he dared try to save the human woman, he'd have been killed or worse—taken to Pierre's dungeons. Alive, he could try to right some of the master's wrongs; dead, he was of no help to anyone. He had to pick and choose his battles.

Beowulf had done his best to resist the urge to feed from the woman. Pierre had cut her throat enough to entice the newly turned hybrid, but not enough to let the woman die quickly. She'd bled out slowly, Beowulf there, smelling the blood, a hunger gnawing at him that no one other than a newly sired vampire could understand.

Thor had been shocked at the man's restraint, but he knew it would be short-lived. And it had been. The memory of it all still haunted Thor. He also knew deep down that something similar had more than likely been done while he was converting. And clearly, he'd done as Beowulf had—he'd surrendered to the bloodlust and lived to see another day.

Live to fight another day.

Pierre had missed the look of repulsion Beowulf had held that night, and Thor had filed the knowledge away, hoping to one day find an ally in the newcomer, not an enemy. Time would tell which way the coin would fall. For now, they still held a good deal of contempt for one another.

Beowulf lowered his gaze. "I need to know how you resist the urge to feed. I need a real answer."

"I'm sure you have already been told as much, but I didn't take to the dark gift as well as others," said Thor, hoping that, by pointing out what Pierre saw as a shortcoming, he could throw Beowulf off. It was the truth, he'd never developed the dark thirst to the extent of the others, nor had he developed their drive to kill everything around them.

Beowulf let out a long breath. "I understand."

There was a sadness in his voice that Thor understood all too well. It was all too easy to feel hopeless. "After I speak with the master, I can work with you in the training room, if you want."

"Will it help curb the hunger?" asked Beowulf, tipping his head, his fangs distending. He shook his head, his teeth returning to normal. "It eats at me from within. It's all I think about."

"I know," returned Thor, stepping closer to the man. He put a hand on Beowulf 's shoulder. "Work with me in the training room tonight. It will help. Learn to channel it into something else, be it working out, or hell, even rage. You've got a lot of that built up. Use it to resist the need to feed daily. I've seen you eating real food. That means you didn't fully convert either. We just have to train your body to respond differently to the bloodlust."

Beowulf glanced away, shame evident on his face. "Pierre encourages me to feed as much as I want."

Thor knew that Beowulf could be playing him— gathering intel for Pierre on whether Thor was loyal —but that didn't stop him from speaking the truth. "He encourages a lot of things that aren't exactly on the level. I guess you have to figure out what your end goal is. Be like him, or not? I'm not a big fucking fan of being an indentured slave to the bloodlust—or to him."

"If he heard you say that, he'd punish you," said Beowulf.

Thor nodded. "Yep. Or find me amusing. Depends on the mood he's in at the moment."

"True. He's a fickle son of a bitch, isn't he?"

Thor didn't respond.

Beowulf swallowed hard. "What about resisting his blood? How is it you've gone so long without drinking from him?"

"First, you need to learn to control the bloodlust. From there, you work on controlling the urge to drink from Pierre."

"I hunger for a taste of his blood all the fucking time," Beowulf said, sounding disgusted. "And I don't even like the taste of his blood. It tastes off. Like old milk or something. Why the hell do I want it so bad? Is it because he's right? We'll die without his blood?"

Thor wasn't sure how to respond because he didn't have a good answer for the man. Hell, he'd had the same questions for as long as he could remember. Offering clarity on the subject wasn't something he could do. "I don't honestly know."

Beowulf nodded. "You're a dick, but you're honest. I respect that. I'll work with you in the training room when you're done meeting with the master."

Thor held his ground.

Beowulf gave a curt nod and then pulled away quickly. He walked ahead of Thor, down the long corridor, past the other doors, each a room for another of Pierre's pets.

Pierre's bedchamber was in the basement. He had a fear of light finding its way to him during the day. It didn't seem to matter that the windows were UV protected, and some rooms had the windows bricked over.

Pierre's paranoia knew no bounds.

Some of it was probably warranted. If his business associates were anything like him, they too were scheming to kill him and take what he had.

Thor made his way downstairs to the main living level and Beowulf splintered off, heading in the direction of the kitchen. Thor had a pretty good idea of what Beowulf was going for—the bagged blood stores they kept on hand. Thor would need to dip into the reserve soon if he didn't give in and feed. Even sucking on bagged blood made him hate the vampire side of himself.

Still, it was better than feeding from a human.

He really hated that.

It went against every fiber of his being.

The sound of music filtered through the air, and he cringed when he heard what was playing. Classical. That meant the master had not only risen for the night but was partaking in the nightly festivities. It would also mean there would be a high volume of blood and sex coming into play.

Thor entered the oversized room that held multiple antique, ornate loveseats and fainting sofas. All were upholstered in black material. Red accents filled the room and the walls were draped in blood-red fabrics. End tables were placed next to each sofa. The tables had white candles on them, each lit, offering the only light in the giant room. The room confused one's senses and made the occupants feel as if they'd stepped back in time, as everything in it was antique in some manner.

"Thor, come."

Thor tensed as the sound of his master's voice filtered over the large room to him. The Louisiana mansion wasn't one they normally spent a large amount of time in, despite its stunning spaciousness. The master had decided he wanted to spend a couple of months there so he'd issued the orders to make it so. Thor had grown used to the whims of his master. Used to the man acting like a spoiled child more often than not.

Unsure how old, exactly, the master was, Thor simply observed in silence. Already he was too far up in the ranks of the servants, and he'd achieved it in a short period of time. It was best to avoid drawing unwanted attention to himself, so he went along with whatever flights of fancy Pierre had.

"Thor," the master repeated, his tone held a warning—disobey again and there will be consequences.

Quickly, Thor tried to mask the disgust he felt at the very sound of the man's voice. If Pierre knew the truth, the best Thor could hope for was death. Pierre was criminally insane. He derived great pleasure out of others' torment and misery. And he had a stupid love of naming all his pets something from mythology. The very sight of the man caused Thor's fingers to curl as he pictured himself wrapping his hand around the vampire's throat and squeezing the life from him.

Stop, he thought, knowing Pierre would figure out Thor was no longer under his thrall.

Pierre sat in the center of the enormous room, on an oversized chair draped in red clothes. The chair was made to look like a throne, playing into the master's power complex. The man wanted everyone to obey him, and he wanted to rule the world. Already he was scheming to betray the criminals he'd aligned himself with.

They were in Louisiana because a longtime business associate of Pierre's was based out of the area, and the master had decided it was time to make a play for the man's territory.

On each side of the master vampire was a manservant, dressed in black leather pants and dog collars. Nothing more. Their chests had been well oiled, to make them shine and draw attention to them. The sight did nothing for Thor.

Another manservant knelt before the vampire, stroking the man's leather-covered leg. Pierre wore a puffy white pirate shirt and a pair of knee-high, lace-up leather boots. Thor had to bite back a laugh. The man looked ridiculous.

He lifted an imperious brow, his gaze raking over Thor's attire. His lip curled. "Why do you insist on dressing like you're about to dispense petrol at a service station?"

Glancing down at himself, Thor shrugged. His clothing choice felt right. He had his hair pulled haphazardly in a messy bun, acutely aware of how much Pierre disliked the look.

It made Thor want to wear his hair like that all the time.

"Where are the leather pants I had sent to your room?" demanded Pierre, reaching out and petting one of his manservants.

Thor cringed for the man. The manservant's mind was no longer his own. From the moment Pierre had put the human under his thrall, he'd been nothing more than a puppet. A walking blood bank and sex toy.

Thor's fingers clenched into a fist, and the overwhelming urge to charge the vampire and rip his throat out struck him hard. He wanted to let his mouth shift shape into animal form before sinking his teeth deep into the man's pale throat. He wanted to be brutal and feral. He wanted to be sure the man could not heal the damage.

As suddenly as the thoughts came over him, they were gone.

The near outburst was happening more and more as of late. The first time Thor had fought the urge to try to kill Pierre, it had scared him. Now he was used to it. Used to his hate and loathing of the master.

Everyone else he surrounded himself with seemed to adore him. They remained swept up and enraptured by him and his power. They saw him as a thing of beauty, power, and authority. Thor saw him as a puppet master. A monster. One he wanted to rid the world of.

But why?

Pierre had saved him.

At least that was what Thor had been led to believe. He'd been told by the master himself that the government had betrayed him and left him for dead. That Pierre's bite and his blood had breathed life back into Thor's broken body. Now he wasn't sure what he believed. The vampire was a master of lies and deception. And Pierre took great joy in manipulating circumstances to suit his twisted desires.

"Thor, you try my patience," drawled Pierre slowly, still petting one of his manservants. "Have you fed tonight?"

"No, Master," said Thor, careful to avoid glaring at the man. Feeding held little appeal to him. He didn't want Pierre to know that food seemed to sustain him far better than blood. With that said, Thor did notice his strength starting to wane when he went too long between feedings. He didn't like biting anyone and drinking from them. He preferred to drink from a mug or direct from the bag whenever he could find an untainted one, which also seemed to drive Pierre mad. "I wasn't hungry."

"Pet, we have been over this topic before. It bores me. If you continue to push back, I will force your hand in the matter," warned Pierre. "You are the only one of my pets who does not jump at the chance to feed. Some I've had to put down from drinking far too much, but not you. Why is that?"

Thor winced, thinking about the number of his brothers and sisters, those who had also been sired by Pierre, he'd been forced to hunt and destroy. They'd all gone mad with bloodlust, killing humans at an alarming rate. Some were savages when they killed, others killed cleanly, but far too often for Pierre's liking. For as insane as the man was, he knew they had to keep a low profile from humans or risk being hunted to extinction.

Pierre told stories of times long ago when some vampires weren't as careful to hide themselves among the living. They ate freely and did as they wished openly. Humans had risen up against them, as had the supernatural community. While vague on the details, Pierre's message was clear. Be as ruthless as you wish, but do not leave any evidence for humans to discover.

"Thor, your expertise and skill set are required in New Orleans. I've made arrangements for you. You'll be heading out within the hour."

"What is it you need me to do there?" asked Thor.

With the flick of his wrist, Pierre dismissed the manservants near him and sat up in the large chair. "Gérard has sat on his ass too long, collecting the spoils of the territory. He lacks the drive he once had and is no longer fit to be a master with his own den. From what my spies tell me, Gérard's favorite pet is currently calling New Orleans home. Seek out Chilton. Discover why Gérard has him stationed there when he normally never leaves Gérard's side. Once you have that information, destroy him." Pierre glanced away and looked far off in thought before focusing on Thor, his gaze narrowing. "Make it messy. I want Gérard to get the message loud and clear. I am the new master here."

"Yes, sire," he said before turning to seek out Beowulf to inform him their training session would have to wait.

As suspected, Thor found Beowulf in the kitchen, sitting at the table, drinking from a bag of blood. He glanced up at Thor and pulled the bag from his mouth, his teeth coated in red. "Is he sending you to New Orleans?"

"You overheard?" That was impressive. Most newly sired hybrids didn't have that much control over their senses at first. That came with time and practice.

Nodding, Beowulf took another sip from the bag of blood. "Guess our training will have to wait."

Thor took pity on the man and grabbed a bag of blood for himself. He bit the top open and took a drink. While the liquid tasted great to him, the very idea of what he was doing sickened him. But he didn't have a choice. He'd gone too long without it and needed to build his strength, especially if he was about to go hunting.

Beowulf snorted. "My wolf isn't repulsed by blood either. It wants to hunt and kill prey though. It doesn't like the bagged shit."

Thor chuckled. "I get it. My panther isn't a big fan of it either. It likes the idea of killing for blood too, but I think it hates sharing me with the vampire side, so it behaves."

"Ditto," said Beowulf. He leaned back in the wooden chair. "I heard Pierre talking on the phone with someone before he sent me to retrieve you. Whatever's in New Orleans is pretty badass. Sounds like it has taken out more than one person sent to handle it. And I think we both know that while Chilton is a force to be reckoned with, he's not the ultimate evil that I'm hearing whispers of."

Thor remained in place, the bag of blood in his hand. "So, I'm being sent on a suicide mission?"

"Try not to be another notch in its bedpost. I like you more than most of these insufferable shitheads," said Beowulf.

Thor's brows met. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"We're not gonna kiss or anything, so stop looking at me all doe-eyed," Beowulf grunted. "You're not my type. I'm not a fan of blonds."

Laughing, Thor headed out of the kitchen with his blood. "Asshole."

"Dick!" shouted Beowulf, only serving to make Thor laugh harder.

"There you go again, focusing on my dick!"