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like a stone on his back, disabled for a moment. But a moment was all the black-haired
paven
needed to get down and dirty. He dropped on top of Lucian, his hand clamping around Lucian’s throat.
Oh
,
hell no,
Lucian mused, recovering quickly and reaching up to lock his right hand around the other male’s thick neck. Grinning, he squeezed with all the built-up rage he had inside himself for this pretty-boy vampire who had claimed his princess.
    Both breathing heavy and feral into each other’s faces, like animals after a hunt, the blue-eyed
paven
chose to speak first. “You know who I am.”
    “Got a good guess,” Lucian uttered, his chin hard as he fought the
paven
’s grip. “But since your dick is pressing against mine, maybe we should introduce ourselves proper-like.”
    The grin Synjon Wise flashed him had all the charm of a snake. “Where is she?”
    “Who?”
    “Don’t play games with me, Frosty.”
    “Are we talking about Bronwyn?” Lucian laughed darkly. “You lose your
veana
already, Brit Boy?”
    “Only one
paven
who lost something today, and I’m looking at him, mate.”
    In under a second, Lucian released Synjon’s throat and shoved the base of his hand up and straight into the
paven
’s nose.
    “Ahhh, fuck you,” the male cursed.
    “Another time,” Lucian said, grabbing Syn by the arms and rolling them both over. He had the black-haired bastard on his back now, blood streaming out of his nose like water from a hose.
    Synjon glared up at him. “That was a mistake.”
    “Maybe so, but I don’t really give a shit at this point.”
    “Tell me where she is and we can end this play.”
    “I don’t have your precious mate,” Lucian returned with ice.
Never did
.
Never could
.
    Synjon’s tongue emerged and swiped at a pool of blood near his upper lip. “Your brother showed up a moment ago inside the hall. Bronwyn went to have a bit of a chat with him.” His brow arched. “She never returned to me.”
    “Maybe she ran back home. Maybe she had second thoughts. Maybe it’s all that cologne you’re wearing.” Lucian said the words with all the sarcasm he could muster, but something inside him started to churn at the words Brit Boy had just uttered. It wasn’t anxiety, but it was close.
    “She’s not at her home,” the
paven
said, his eyes serious as a heart attack to a human now. “I checked. Your brother took her—flashed her away. I saw the bloody sparks.”
    “Not possible.” But he pushed off the Pureblood and stood up. He was antsy now—like he hadn’t had blood in a week.
    “Where is your brother?” Synjon asked, snapping to his feet too and meeting Lucian eye to eye, grave stare to grave stare. “Where is Nicholas Roman?”
    “None of your motherfucking business,” Lucian snarled as his brain squeezed inside his skull and his ears rang with bells that clanged the march of death.
    “If you care for Bronwyn at all, you’ll answer me,” the
paven
said with controlled venom as he wiped the last drops of blood from his nose.
    Lucian wanted to tell the guy to fuck off and die, wanted to tell him he didn’t give two shits about Bronwyn and never would—but those words wouldn’t come out easy or true.
    “Nicky’s in France, all right?” he said tightly. “Has been for three weeks.”
    Lucian barely had the last bit out before Synjon grabbed him, hauled him into a tight embrace, and flashed him from the cold, hard ground outside the Veracou Hall.
    As soon as her feet hit sand, Bronwyn screamed and started flailing her arms, punching at anyone or anything that held her. But nothing did. She was alone. On a beach—the sun setting impossibly and beautifully all around her. From cold, snowy Boston to gentle breezes and warm sand—it was a complete shockto her system, to her mind, and she couldn’t catch her breath.
    Where was the
paven
? she thought, panic clinging to every cell, every inch of her skin as she turned in circles, making herself dizzy. Where was the