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“Beyond this mask of protective anger, I know you are willing.”
    She started pulling up my dress.
    “It would be,” I said, watching her with a look that was probably more hungry and scared than angry and defiant. “As I have not given you consent.”
    “I am your Queen,” she said, “your Siren. I do not need your consent.”
    “Now you are the one fooling yourself.”
    The skirt of the dress was bunched up over my hips. The tips of her fingers slipped beneath the waistband of the leggings. “Oh no, Epiphany.” Her fingers played under the tops of my undergarments. I tried to find that anger that had been such great aid earlier, and couldn’t.
    I didn’t want to fight her. It was true. In some part of myself, I was willing, more willing than I wanted to admit. Every facet in me ached for her.
    So many years, and the true battle was against my own feelings.
    Her fingers dipped lower, low enough that I pressed myself into her touch.
    “You may lie to yourself,” she whispered, “but not to me, Epiphany. You may never lie to me.”
    She lowered her mouth and traced the line of my waist with her lips and tongue.
    A sound close to a whimper escaped me.
    I watched as her mouth opened, and knew what she intended to do before she bowed her head.
    Her fangs pierced the skin of my stomach and I cried out at the fiery pain and pleasure. Her power fell over me like a warm cloak. I was cold, so cold, and only her touch could keep me warm. My blood filled her mouth and I writhed for her, writhed as her hands moved up my torso. She locked her mouth around the wound and sucked. I was floating, aware only of her mouth on my stomach, of my blood rushing out and into her, of her jaw working at me, of her tongue like velvet against my skin.
    It had been a long time, too long. My heart ached for her, ached for this sharing. I wanted more. I wanted so much more. I wanted her to tear my clothes off, to take my will, to bend me to hers as of old.
    In that moment, I would’ve done anything she asked.
    Distantly, I heard the loud clatter of the door hitting the wall on the other side of the room, but I wasn’t really aware of it. No, what I was aware of was the woman lying between my legs, of her tongue lapping at the two circular wounds she’d created. Her hands held my waist, and I was small enough that her nails tickled my back. The wounds were beginning to heal. I didn’t want them to heal.
    She drove her fangs into me again and my hands clawed at the sheets.
    “Epiphany! My Queen! What are you doing?”
    Was that Vasco?
    Did I care?
    It felt like something hit me. If I were human, I was certain the breath would’ve been knocked out of me. My body struggled to process what had just happened. I looked down at Renata and felt anger. No, not anger…rage. I didn’t think. I acted. I grabbed a handful of her velvety hair and pulled.
    I screamed as her fangs tore my skin.
    “Epiphany!” It was Vasco. I heard him speaking in fast Italian. What he was saying, I couldn’t translate for the death of me.
    Anger. Fear. Panic. Vasco was panicking. I was feeling his panic as my own.
    He grabbed my face and turned me to look at him. “Bellezza,” he said. “Colombina…look at me.”
    “Look at me,” Renata said and I couldn’t help myself. I turned to look at her.
    “Colombina,” Vasco said in a gentle voice. I started to turn to look at him and Renata said my name.
    Sharing blood had called to my power and they were playing tug-of-war with me, casting their emotions at my empathy.
    Vasco’s power pulsed against mine, like he was water and I the sponge. He showed me gentleness and protection, but when I turned to look at Renata she showed me passion and lust.
    It was the latter my body craved.
    “Vasco,” I said and felt his hopefulness. “Let go of me.”
    His hope crumbled in my mind.
    “No, colombina.” He seemed so sad. Why did I have to make him so sad? Why was I so determined not to let him protect me? Vasco