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stroked the long, slender column of her throat. “I’ll take that one, near the stage.”
    It was the best in the house, a large half-moon leather banquette and table, centrally located, with a view both of the dancers onstage and the rest of the club. And it was also currently occupied by no fewer than eight Breed males, most of them of equal or higher rank than Deputy Director Arno Pike.
    Although his lieutenant hardly looked comfortable with the command, he jogged off to do Dragos’s bidding. There were a few turned heads from the Agents at the table, a couple of affronted stares and disgruntled scowls, but Pike cleared the men out, then hurried back to see Dragos to his seat.
    Dragos prowled through the Agency club like he owned it.
    Hell, it wouldn’t be long before he did, in fact, own this club, the city, and everyone in it—Breed and human alike.
    He wouldn’t be satisfied until the whole goddamn world was kneeling at his feet.
    Soon, he assured himself. His plan had been long in the making—several centuries of laying the foundation and setting each building block into its proper place. It was all coming together now, and not even the Order would be able to interfere with his goals.
    He slid onto the sumptuous leather seat at his newly acquired table, the pretty redhead on one side of him, the wide-eyed blonde on the other. “Join us, Pike. Everyone here has already seen that your allegiance is to me. Besides, there’s no need to pretend anymore. The game has changed as of this morning. Now
I
make the rules.”
    As Pike settled in next to the blonde, Dragos turned an appreciative eye on the other woman. The skin of her throat and generously exposed cleavage was as pale as cream, almost translucent. Fine blue veins ticked near her collarbone, tempting his fangs from his gums. The sharp canines swelled in his mouth. He descended on her in a single, punching strike—too swiftly for her to do anything more than gasp as he pierced her carotid and drew a long, hard swallow from the pulsing wound.
    After a couple of greedy pulls, he pivoted to sample her friend on the other side of him. He was even less gentle with her, digging his fingers into her arms when she whimpered, trying to squirm out of his hold as he bit her. He could have calmed her with a light trance, a consideration most of his kind offered freely to their blood Hosts. But where was the fun in that?
    Dragos fed openly from both women, his eyes on Arno Pike, who was fighting like hell to keep the savage part of himself in check amid so much fresh, flowing blood. His eyes glowed as bright as embers, pupils narrowed to thin vertical slits. Even though his lips were clamped tightly closed, Dragos knew Pike’s mouth would be full with the extended length of his fangs.
    Dragos laughed. He reached over and grabbed a fistful of the male’s Enforcement Agency standard issue black suit and whiteshirt, hauling him closer. “Why do you deny yourself? What are you afraid of—the Order?” He shook his head. “This is what we’ve been working toward. This freedom. It is the birthright of all the Breed.”
    Pike released a gust of air from his lungs. With the exhalation, his lips curled away from his teeth and fangs, baring them on a hungered growl as the scent of fresh blood wreathed the banquette. Pike swiveled his amber gaze onto the blonde, who now drooped in the booth between them, narcotics and blood loss leaving her dazed and unaware of what was happening.
    “Take her,” Dragos told his lieutenant. “She’s yours.”
    With a snarl, Pike swung the woman onto the table and tore her dress open down the front. He fell upon her like an animal, feeding in a public spectacle that drew every pair of Breed eyes in the place.
    Dragos watched with voyeuristic pleasure, not only for the unleashed, frenzied lust of his lieutenant but for the avid interest of the other males who slowly closed in from all sides, fangs gleaming, amber stares smoldering, in the