After he’d hauled me into the bathroom over his shoulder, we brushed our fangs like good little vampires. When we climbed into the bed, the blankets fluffy and cool, the automatic shutters shushed softly over the windows, locking into place to protect us from the murderous sun.

I curled against the side of his body, his arms enclosing me.

“Much preferable to sleeping alone,” he said. “Even if it comes with a little bad luck.”

I wasn’t sure how much “a little” would change the already sizable pile of it.

“And how was your bachelorette party, at least before the darker turn?”

“Good. There was poetry and chocolate. Mallory and Lindsey did a very good job of planning.”

“And no strippers?”

“And no strippers.” I glanced at him. “And you?”

“No strippers,” he said. “Although the liquor was ample and the cigars were very definitely Cuban.”

“What is it with bachelor parties and cigars? I mean, that’s a pretty phallic symbol for a pre-wedding celebration.”

“It’s a bachelor party,” he said with a wink. “We aren’t celebrating the wedding. We’re celebrating the bachelor.”

“You hardly need celebrating. I think your ego’s big enough.”

I’d barely gotten the words out of my mouth when he pounced, covering my body with his and pressing me back into the bed. Pitched forward on his elbows, he brushed the hair from my face.

“You had something to say about my ego, Sentinel?”

I smiled at him, pushed a lock of hair behind one ear. “You’re doing just fine, I think.”

Eyes closing, he lowered his mouth to mine, teased with kisses that were soft and sweet, hints of things to come. “You are mine, Sentinel. Bachelor party or not, that is an undeniable truth.”

“I think I was always yours,” I said, and his eyes darkened. “There’s something inside”—I put a hand over my heart, then his—“that was always waiting for you. I just had to get ready for it.”

He grinned. “You had to ripen.”

“I don’t like the sound of that. And even if that’s true, I’m not sure what it says about you.” I patted his cheek. “But four hundred years isn’t that long.”

He nipped playfully at my neck. “It’s nothing in vampire years.”

“Which are like dog years, but longer?”

He made a haughty sound, nibbled harder.

“I forgot,” I said. “There’s actually something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Mmm-hmm.” One of his hands cupped my breast, sending shivers of anticipation along my skin.

“But you’re making it difficult to concentrate.”

“That’s the general idea,” he said, and applied those nips to my jaw.

“This is a serious talk, though. For real.”

He looked up at me, a lock of blond hair over his eye, so he looked very much like a pirate interrupted during a very interesting journey. Eyes narrowed, he sat up and looked at me consideringly.

I pushed up to sit beside him, legs folded beneath me. “It’s about our names.”

“Our names,” he repeated, expression blank.

“Only Master vampires use last names, which is a rule I’m technically breaking, since Merit is my last name. I guess, technically, I could play the ‘Caroline Merit Sullivan’ game, but that’s too much. There’s too much baggage, and it just—I don’t know.”

He lifted his eyebrows.

I held up my hands. “I’m not saying this very well. The point is, after we’re married, I’d like to stay ‘Merit.’ I want to keep that name.”

He smiled. “Ah. I see.”

“I’ve been putting this off. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

He smiled at me. “You were born Caroline, and you made yourself Merit. I demand your love and your faithfulness.” He smiled slyly. “Your identity is yours to keep.”

That was it, exactly. The thing I hadn’t been able to put into words. I shouldn’t have doubted that he’d understand what it was to feel like you’d made your own identity. He’d done the same when escaping from Balthasar, the vampire who’d made him.

“Come here,” he said, pulling me against him as he lay down again.

I put a hand on his chest, felt his heart pounding beneath my hand. “You were born a soldier, turned into a monster, or so you feared. And you made yourself a Master. You made your identity.”

“That was more of an ‘it takes a village’ effort, but to your point, yes.” He lifted my fingers to his mouth, pressed lips to soft skin. “Others wanted us to play certain roles. To be certain people. But we made ourselves. So keep your name, Merit of Cadogan House. I have your heart.”

He certainly did.

“Besides, I wasn’t born ‘Sullivan.’ And I don’t believe I’ve told you that story yet.”

Before being outed, vampires had changed names every few decades to avoid detection. “You haven’t,” I said, a little guilty I hadn’t thought to ask him before.

“Television anchor in the seventies,” he said with a grin. “Name was Sullivan Steele.”

“No.”

“Absolute truth. He wasn’t nearly as suave as the name suggested—I believe there was a double-knit suit in there, but I liked Sullivan.”

“And Ethan?”

“That was Aaliyah’s idea.” Aaliyah was Malik’s wife, a writer who tended to keep to herself. “Found it in a book of baby names, which is what we used back then for ideas.”

“In the days before the Internet tubes.”

“I don’t think they’re tubes, but yes. When the library was truly necessary.”

I narrowed my gaze at him. “I hope you don’t mean to suggest it’s not necessary now. Because it is.”

He wrapped his arms around me. “Easy, Sentinel. There are plenty of vampires who use the library, including us. The Librarian would certainly lead the charge for my assassination or dismissal in any event.”

“Good,” I said. I kissed him lightly. “Because that would endanger our relationship.”

He nodded. “Besides, what would I do with the space? Although a conservatory would be nice . . .” He smiled again, but there was still a troubled tightness around his eyes.

“You’re trying to calm me down,” I realized. “By lightening the mood.”

“Since we met,” he said, putting his chin atop my head, “I’ve been telling you to be still.”

“So you have,” I said, and let myself be drawn in by the warmth and scent of him, by the comfort of his nearness, of having him as a lodestar. “I love you, Ethan Sullivan.”

“And I love you, Merit of the Single Name.”

And that was good enough for me.

CHAPTER FOUR

COLD FEET

We’d ignored the tradition of sleeping in separate rooms, but Ethan was still gone when I woke. Margot had left a breakfast tray of muffins, fat red strawberries, and a pot of Earl Grey that fragranced the air with citrusy bergamot.

“Let the wedding-night pampering begin,” I said, and poured myself a cup, settled into a chair in the sitting room for a few minutes of peace and quiet before the chaos began.

Ethan had left a business card on the tray. His name was printed on the front, and on the back, in watercolor blue ink, was a heart and a note in his slanting script: “See you soon, my beautiful bride.”

And because it was Ethan, a postscript followed: “Security briefing at D+1,” or one hour after dawn.

This might have been my wedding night, but we still lived in Cadogan House.

After the security briefing, I’d be whisked off to the Portman Grand, where I’d be dressed and primped up, then off to the library for the ceremony and reception.

The implications of my having left the details to my mother and Helen suddenly hit me—they’d be in charge of my wedding day, and how and where I spent my time. Nice that I wouldn’t need to worry about it, but not as nice as having relaxed friendlies in charge of the events.