His eyes held a little more starlight and a little less anger. ‘They’re not my kind.’

‘Shades of gray.’ She rubbed at her shoulder. The muscles were balled into knots and had been for days.

‘Tell me about those.’ He nodded in her direction and she knew exactly what he referred to.

Lifting her hair and turning slightly, she patted the sun gilded onto the nape of her neck. ‘There is only one signum required to be comarré, the phoebus.’

He notched his head with what seemed like genuine interest. She took it as an indicator to go on.

‘Signum are extraordinarily painful. We are taught to meditate into a trancelike state, but nothing keeps the bite of the signumist’s needle from getting through. The sacred gold is heated to a threadlike consistency so it can be stitched into the skin.’

A grimace twisted his mouth. ‘Why not just numb yourself with drugs or booze?’

She slanted her eyes at him. ‘Because we must keep our blood pure for your kin – for the nobility.’

If her slip upset him, he didn’t show it. ‘Do any comarré get just one? You’re covered with them.’

This time he looked away, but not before silver sparked in his eyes. Was he remembering her blood-drunk nakedness when he’d seen exactly how many signum she had? Her nails stung her palms. She relaxed the fists she’d made. ‘There are seven sets, but they’re not all required. Most comarré get as many as they can handle.’

‘Because they make your blood more desirable.’

‘In part, yes. The more signum, the purer our blood, the higher our blood price. But we continue to get them after we receive patronage.’

‘Why?’

The water lapped gently at the ship’s hull, soothing her memories. ‘Because for the time it takes to recover, we are left alone. For those few days, we meditate and heal. Only a skeleton staff attend us and then only when we require it. In pain, we find a fleeting peace.’ Confessing such things was wrong but powerful. The comarré did not even speak this way among themselves. If Mal ever revealed what he knew, she would be ostracized for sure, but sharing made the burden – and her mood – lighter.

She laughed softly. ‘I am the worst comarré to ever draw breath.’

‘Why do you say that?’ His expression held genuine disbelief.

‘I reveal too much. They say the comarré’s mystery is a great part of our beauty. I must seem rather ordinary to you right now, hmm, vampire?’

Before she drew a second breath, he was in front of her, so close only moonlight separated them. ‘There is nothing ordinary about you. Knowing the pain you’ve endured for those marks only makes them that much more impressive, because pain is one thing I most definitely understand.’

When he was this close, it was nearly impossible to deny her training. Her instinct took over, bowing her head, dropping her gaze. She fought to keep from calling him master, finally raising her face to his again after she squelched her inbred impulses.

He lifted a strand of her hair and held it to his nose, closing his eyes on the inhale. His lips parted enough to give her a glimpse of fangs. ‘Everything about you reminds me of the sun. The way you smell, the color of your hair, the glow that surrounds you, the warmth of your skin … ’

It’s the gold, she wanted to say, and that is our purpose, but his nearness muted her tongue. Her heart was as restless in her chest as a feral cat. Her body’s want and her mind’s fear made her tremble. Such a reaction was weakness and she willed it from her body.

‘It’s no wonder I want to devour you,’ he growled softly. He twisted the hair around his finger. ‘Aren’t you afraid of me?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered. Afraid she might have to kill him. Afraid she might not be able to.

‘Wise,’ he whispered back, dropping the strand to coast his cool fingers down the curve of her neck. ‘I’m not a champion. I don’t know any other way to be but this thing I’ve become.’ His hand stopped, his thumb pressing lightly over her jugular, perhaps to absorb her quivering pulse. ‘And yet, you scare me too.’

His admission calmed her. ‘I scare you?’

He nodded, barely moving his head. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, but I’m afraid I will.’ The words seemed spoken to himself more than to her.

‘You won’t.’ But no faith backed the words she desperately wanted to believe.

A breeze blew the loose strand across her face. His hand moved from her throat to tuck it behind her ear, then he stroked his palm down the length of her hair to her hip. His hand stayed there, fingers firm against the flimsy pajama pants she still wore. She shivered.

Eyes as silver as the reflected moonlight took her in. ‘I’m scaring you now.’

It wasn’t a question, but she answered anyway. ‘Yes.’

‘I can tell. Your scent changes.’ He stepped back, his nostrils flaring, hands flexing. Everything about him said he was losing the battle with his self-control. ‘That first night, in the alley, you truly believe you could have killed me?’

‘Yes.’ At least she had then.

‘Would you, had you felt it necessary?’

She tensed but replied, hoping the affirmation would convince her too. ‘Yes.’

He scrubbed a hand across his face. ‘Good. You may have to yet.’

Her jaw opened slightly. That wasn’t the direction she’d thought he’d been headed in. There seemed to be no correct response, so she just watched him, waiting for whatever interesting thing he might say next. She was not disappointed.