NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • J. R. Ward returns with an all-new tale of paranormal passion in the world of the Black Dagger Brotherhood. The Black Dagger Brotherhood continues to train the best of the best to join them in the deadly battle against the Lessening Society. Among the new recruits, Axe proves to be a cunning and vicious fighter—and also a loner isolated because of personal tragedy. When an aristocratic female needs a bodyguard, Axe takes the job, though he’s unprepared for the animal attraction that flares between him and the one he is sworn to protect. For Elise, who lost her first cousin to a grisly murder, Axe’s dangerous appeal is enticing—and possibly a distraction from her grief. But as they delve deeper into her cousin’s death, and their physical connection grows into so much more, Axe fears that the secrets he keeps and his tortured conscience will tear them apart. Rhage, the Brother with the biggest heart, knows all about self-punishing, and he wants to help Axe reach his full potential. But when an unexpected arrival threatens Rhage and Mary’s new family, he finds himself back in the trenches again, fighting against a destiny that will destroy all he holds most dear. As Axe’s past becomes known, and fate seems to be turning against Rhage, both males must reach deep—and pray that love, rather than anger, will be their lantern in the darkness. Praise for Blood Vow “Sharp, sexy, and funny.” — New York Journal of Books “Nonstop action, steamy sexual tension . . . and absorbing characters.” — BookPage   “Packed with quietly gut-wrenching emotions, healing and sacrifice.” —Under the Covers Praise for J. R. Ward’s Black Dagger Brotherhood series “Utterly absorbing.” —Angela Knight “To die for . . . I love this series!” —Suzanne Brockmann “Sharp, sexy, and funny.” — New York Journal of Books “Nonstop action, steamy sexual tension . . . and absorbing characters.” — BookPage   “Packed with quietly gut-wrenching emotions, healing and sacrifice.” —Under the Covers Praise for J. R. Ward’s Black Dagger Brotherhood series   “Utterly absorbing.” —Angela Knight   “To die for . . . I love this series!” —Suzanne Brockmann J. R. Ward is the author of more than twenty previous novels, including those in her #1 New York Times bestselling Black Dagger Brotherhood series. She lives in the South with her family. One   The Keys, Caldwell, New York   T here was a place in Axe’s life for masks. Whether they were literal and hid your face, or figurative to protect your soul, he was supremely comfortable with camouflage. Knowledge, after all, was power only if it gave you insight into your enemy. If insight was applied to you?   He’d rather have a knife to his throat.   And everyone was his enemy.   Standing in a crowd of over a hundred sexually aroused humans, he was ready to feed his dark side—-you know, toss some fresh meat over the chain--link fence of his sex drive and stand back as the meal was consumed, the gnawing hunger briefly satisfied.   It never lasted. But that was why he’d joined this club.   The Keys was a private, members--only gig, and there were only two rules. No minors. Always with consent.   After those conditions were satisfied? You could scratch the itch of whatever sin you wanted: glory holes, gang bangs, girls on girls on guys. There were rooms for fetishes, and pits for fucking, and every tie--up, chain--down, in--the--air you could ask for.   Especially here in the Cathedral.   Of all the spaces in the sprawling, multi--block compound, this was largest and the loftiest. Filled with swirls of white smoke, pierced by purple and blue lasers, empty of furniture and fixtures except for the altar, only the hardest of the hardcore were allowed in here.   And masks were always worn, even on nights when the rest of the club didn’t require it.   Through the eye holes of his fitted skull plate, Axe looked up, way up, to the altar.   It was like a scene out of The Silence of the Lambs , a human body suspended high above the floor, arms outstretched, head tilting to the side, swaths of fabric fanning out like wings all around the torso. The Hannibal--arisons ended there, though. Not a man, a woman. Not clothed, but naked. Not real blood on the flesh, but a viscous wash that fell like rain from the ceiling, hitting her breasts, dripping over her stomach, licking down her thighs so that she glistened under the remote lights.   Not dead, but very much alive.   “Do you want that?” he was asked from behind.   Axe smiled and didn’t bother hiding his fangs.   None of them knew that he was an actual vampire. And not as in a neo--Victorian Dracula--wannabe with cosmetically altered canines, high--heeled boots, and a fake black rinse through his already dark hair.   As in the real deal. Different DNA. Different traditions and language. Different biological imperative that, yes, involved drinking blood from a vampire of the opposite sex.   Different sex drive