I didn't look up as my escort's pale figure drifted past me. What can I say? I was shaping up to be a teen heroine. Acting like one wasn't difficult today.

"Blair, was it?"

This drew my attention. My brothers had devised all sorts of nicknames for me, some of which I despised. "Glare," "Scare"—some were cleverer than others. Nothing annoyed me as much simply calling me the wrong name. But I wouldn't look up. He had a nice voice, I'd give him that. It sounded kind of like dark chocolate or something. I don't actually like dark chocolate.

Gerard, I assume, drawled, "Well, now, this won't do." Was I really hearing this? Chocolate and a British accent? Why not choose . . . French? Wasn't Gerard a Normanic name or something?

His office's floor was gorgeous. Vibrant red cherry (or mahogany?) shone proudly. I guess a better word would be gleamed. Really, I could look at it all day. Mm, that smooth wood grain. I have a thing for wood, courtesy of my career. Mm, wood grain.

"I need to verify a few things, darling." That chocolate swirled around with the consistency of droll amusement. "And I do require you to look at me." Amusement melded slowly into command. "Look at me."

Hindsight told me that disobedience would cost me.

I looked at his shoes. They looked horribly expensive. They weren't hidden behind a desk. I didn't like that. He had complete freedom to move closer.

Sure enough, the black pants attached to the dress shoes—okay, you know what? I have really good peripheral vision. This man was hot. Stupidly so. I was actively trying not to think so, but it was the truth. And I'd only really seen his shoes. Plus his suit. Plus the build emphasized by that suit. Plus . . . let's just say that everything the unfocused part of my vision was picking up on was a plus.

Anyway, those pants and shoes were walking towards me.

What was going to happen in vampire cliché land? He'd go for my chin. Not to mention the other half of my blood.

I faced my fears and looked up. Slate gray eyes met mine. His mouth (no, I don't have any fancy adjectives for it, sorry) quirked warningly.

A large hand reached for my chin.

I jerked awa—ouch! I gasped as I found a handful of my hair yanking me back. "Look at me," he commanded while I fought down tears. I obeyed. I also thought through the repercussions of spitting in his face. I'd die quickly, maybe?

"Now then, darling, let's get started. Is your name Blair?"

I don't think I've maintained eye contact for this long outside of a staring contest, not even when I interviewed for my master's degree. I glanced away uncomfortably. "No," I said. His fingers tightened in my hair. Fine. Eye contact take two.

Ugh, attractive or not, him staring back was pure torture!

"My name is Claire," I explained. "Claire Iverson. Would you please let go of me?"

He might have smiled, but all I registered was a display of teeth. "I'm not going to let go of you until I've tested your blood for myself, darling. Youngbloods don't simply show up. I'm the head of the breeding registry, you see."

Um, what?

"Tell me your identification number, darling, and I'll be lenient. I won't even force you to tell me who protected you."

Lenient was knotting his fingers in my hair. Announcing that he'd bite me just like Damian had. Telling me that he bred humans.