by Laura Wright
Nicholas broke through his thoughts. “We need to act swiftly, Alexander. Where do you want to take her?”
“Home.”
“Isn’t this her apartment?”
“Our home,” Alexander clarified. He knew the decision wasn’t a wise one, but he couldn’t stop himself.
Nicholas and Lucian stared at him for a good thirty seconds. Finally Lucian shook his head and muttered, “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“She’s unconscious, Alexander,” Nicholas said, attempting to reason with him. “She needs a doctor.”
“She remains unconscious because of me. I sedated her. Her mind is protected, unharmed, and, for the record, we have a doctor.”
“She needs a doctor who treats humans,” Lucian said sharply.
Alexander covered the ground between them, stood nose to nose with the white-blond vampire. “She’s coming with me, Little Brother, so if you have a problem with that, you’d better get over it in the next five seconds.”
Lucian stood his ground, his nostrils flaring. “We have a covenant, Brother. No humans in our home—”
“Screw the covenant,” Alexander snarled. “This is different.”
“How?”
“She’s mine!”
“Stubborn ass.” Lucian backed away, signaled for Nicholas. “You talk to him.”
Nicholas had been a lion on the battlefield, but in business matters and family squabbles, he could always be counted on to remain the closest thing to unruffled and rational. “Alexander, you know what we risk if she—”
“She saved my life, Nicky!” Alexander roared, his tone as passionate as it was fierce. “But for her, I would be the dust on your boots.”
The words coated the air around them, and after several moments of silence, Nicholas nodded and said, “All right. For now, she is welcome in our home.”
Alexander’s gaze shifted to Lucian. “What about you?”
His jaw rigid, Lucian locked eyes with Alexander. “Do I even have a say here?” A century of fighting side by side, of helping each other escape a childhood of daily nightmares, of finding the courage to reject the race who had held them captive, had built an unshakable bond between them. At their very core, they were not only brothers—they were best friends. Finally, Lucian nodded and muttered, “Fine,” but his almond eyes remained wary.
“Luca,” Nicholas said, his tone serious and purposeful. “Check the sidewalk. It’s early yet, but I don’t want an audience when I’m hauling the human to the car.”
After Lucian left, Nicholas turned to Alexander, his expression grave.
“Say it,” Alexander urged, grabbing the black cloak and throwing it on.
“It cannot be for long.”
“It will not.”
“And above all things, you cannot bind yourself—”
“I know,” Alexander said tightly as Lucian walked back into the apartment and announced that the way was clear.
“Okay. I’m out of here. See you back at the house.” Nicholas lifted the bony male human into his arms and was out the door in seconds.
In the most gentle of ways, Alexander gathered the woman in his arms, feeling an odd pleasure at her supple weight.
Lucian watched him. “You look like a monk in that thing.”
“Flip up the hood, will you?”
“It won’t fully protect you,” Lucian said.
“It’ll have to do. We need to get her home.”
With a wary expression, Lucian did as his brother asked, then checked the street and sidewalks once more before they all made a quick escape into the waiting BMW.
4
Tom Trainer woke up in the back of a strange car, dizzy as hell and unable to speak, his throat burning with each breath. It took him several moments to remember where he’d been and what had gone down.
But when he did, panic struck.
Whomever this car belonged to, the asshole didn’t want him happy and healthy.
He lifted his head an inch, spotted wide, thick shoulders, black hair, and an unfamiliar face in the rearview mirror. The man was talking on his cell, barely above a whisper in some foreign language. He was a real looker, a model or actor probably. Whoever he was, Tom wanted nothing to do with him.
He put his head down against the cool leather seat again. What did he do? How did he get the hell out of here? As the car moved, he felt every pothole, smelled every bit of exhaust from the cars ahead of him. When they finally slowed, then stopped, Tom glanced up as quick as a gopher from its hole and saw that directly in front of them, cars were waiting at a red light.
It was now or never. His throat hurt like a motherfucker, and he hoped that when the time came he could run.
He took a deep breath, grabbed for the door handle, and pulled.
“Oh, fuck!”
The man.
Off his cell and pissed.
Go. Go.
Like a drunk, Tom stumbled out of the car. He was dizzy and felt like puking, but fear gifted him with a shot of adrenaline and he got himself together and ran.
“Come back here, you little shit!” the man roared after him.
Halfway down the sidewalk, Tom glanced back, saw that the man had pulled to the side of the road and was getting out of his car, flashing a deadly stare and a set of pearly white . . .
Oh Jesus.
Tom’s mind spun back to Dr. Donohue’s apartment, to the other man, the one who’d jumped up from the floor like a haunted-house freak and attacked him: impossibly large, tattoos or gang symbols carved into his skin, and the same needle-sharp pearly whites.
What are they?
Despite the pain pounding in his skull and throat, Tom whirled around and ran like hell down the sidewalk.
5
Sara awoke with a start and one hell of a headache. At first she thought she had a hangover. She squinted at the stark white ceiling, in particular a beautiful plaster medallion in the shape of a sunburst. A shot of unease moved through her as she realized she was not looking at the ceiling in her apartment.
She sat up and glimpsed only wood floors, white bed linens, and the dark cast of evening light before fireworks exploded inside her head. Red. Gold. Bam. Pow. She sucked air through her teeth, draped her arm over her eyes, and moaned.
Where am I?
After a moment, her head cleared and she lowered her arm, blinked against the pale light of a bedside lamp. The room was large with an incredibly high ceiling that was trimmed in stark white dentil molding. There was a white fireplace against one wall, arched windows on the other, and an alcove beyond. For a second, Sara’s heart jumped into her throat and she wondered where she was—if she was still in New York. She turned to the windows and through the darkness saw a cut of the city skyline through the room’s corner view.
Not a hospital room. She was in a bed in someone’s house. How did she get here? Who brought her—
She stopped, her mind quick-dropping images that took her a moment to comprehend. Then, like a river breaking free of its rocky restraints, the memory rushed through her. As she touched her face, felt the swollen flesh beneath her fingertips, she winced. She remembered it all and her heart picked up speed. The man on her floor, the phone, Tom in her apartment, Tom’s pissed-off expression and ready fist . . .
Oh God. What if Tom brought her here?
She looked around for a phone, saw none. Where was her cell?
Don’t panic, Sara. Just get the hell out of here.
Whipping back the bedspread, she eased herself off the mattress. Her head felt like a stone balloon, bloated and heavy. She was missing her coat and gloves, but she spotted her shoes on the floor beside the bed. They were huddled neatly together, and she slipped them on. She had to get herself to the hospital, or to the police—somewhere safe.
She stood. Her legs felt boneless and impossible to control as she stumbled across the room to the windows. No way out. No fire escape. She turned and headed for the door. Gritting her teeth against the waves of nausea, sh
e gripped the handle and turned the knob. When she found it unlocked, her heart jumped with the small victory and she pulled the door wide and staggered through it.
The hallway was long and wide. There was artwork on the walls, rugs on the floors, antiques and modern sculptures balancing on masculine console tables. From the small bit she could see, the place seemed lavish, museumesque. Where was she? Brownstone? Warehouse? It couldn’t be Tom’s place; he didn’t fit here. Besides, he’d described his apartment as a “one-room shitbox.”
She looked left, then right, down the impossibly long hallway. She saw it. A staircase. It had to lead to a way out. Though her head throbbed against her skull, she forced herself to walk. Just a few steps, she told herself. But soon her head was spinning and she had to grip the wall for support.
Get downstairs, outside in the air where you can breathe—
She heard something. At first she thought it was her heart knocking in her chest. But the sound was coming closer.
Someone was coming up the stairs.
Tom.
Her heart swelled in terror and she suppressed the scream that hovered in her throat. She may have been hurt and wobbling around like a drunk, but she wasn’t about to let him get her. She whipped around, tried to run down the other length of hall. Her face pulsed and dizziness whirled through her again. A few feet past the room from which she’d just escaped, she lost her footing and fell against a small table, crying out in pain as the edge of the wood stabbed into her hip. Tears pricked her eyes. She heard him coming down the hall and panic flooded her senses. She wasn’t going to die this way! Fuck no—unable to run or to fight, in a strange house, by some stalker ex-patient.
Clawing at the wood, she pushed herself to her hands and knees. She had to get out of here, get back to the hospital. Gray. He had no one to help him but her . . .
“Goddamn Nicholas. All he had to do was hold on to that human long enough to clean his mind.”
Sara stilled. The voice coming from the stairs was male, but it wasn’t Tom. Who—
“Nicholas said there were police in the area.” Another voice. Female this time. “He did the right thing holding back.”
Sara started to crawl, her left side hugging the wall. Maybe these people were working with Tom, or for him. Her breath was shallow and dense as she inched forward. If she could just get to a room with a fire escape . . .
“Oh, shit,” the man said, his tone full of panic. “She’s out of bed.”
Quick, heavy footfalls echoed down the hall, and in seconds, Sara felt hands on her—large, male hands. And she was being lifted.
“No!” she uttered fiercely, struggling like a cat in the man’s arms.
“Please don’t fight, Dr. Donohue,” he said, his tone gentle. “You’ll injure yourself further.”
“Let me go!”
“Sara, please.”
His voice suddenly registered in her consciousness. She turned and, through her blurred vision, saw who held her.
It was him. The man outside her apartment, the one she’d helped.
Beneath long black lashes, his scarlet eyes implored her. “Sara ...”
“You won’t hurt me,” she said.
He shook his head. “Never.”
“I don’t want to die,” she said, completely spent now.
“And you won’t,” he said as he carried her back into the bedroom. “I will not allow it.”
6
“Lie down, my dear.”
The woman’s voice was soft and maternally soothing. “Yes. Good. There we are.”
The scene in the hallway had taken its toll on Sara and she allowed herself to be directed back against the pillow. The man was gone now. He’d deposited her in bed and disappeared, leaving her to wonder where he was and if he was coming back.
She sighed when she felt the woman’s cool hand on her forehead. The gesture reminded her so much of her mother and those days she’d been allowed to stay home from school, eat Chef Boyardee, and have as many Pudding Pops as she wanted. Those normal, coveted days before the fire . . .
“Better?”
It hurt to move her head, but Sara managed to nod.
“Are you hungry? Thirsty?” the woman asked. She was somewhere in her fifties, and had eyes the color of olives and short, gray hair.
“No.”
“If you change your mind, I have some fruit and juice here on the side table.” The woman smiled as she placed a hand around Sara’s wrist.
“What are you doing?” Sara asked weakly.
“Checking your pulse.” The woman pressed two fingers into the groove along the inside of Sara’s wrist.
“Who are you?”
“Leza Franz.”
“A doctor?”
“Yes,” the woman said, giving Sara a tight-lipped smile.
“What hospital?”
“I’m a . . . private physician.”
Sara shifted uncomfortably. This was wrong. Something was wrong—she could feel it in her gut. Where was the man?
She stole a glance at the window, then the door. If she could just get up, if she could just get to a phone . . .
“You have a concussion, my dear,” the doctor said gently. “But it’s a mild one, and with a few days’ rest, you should be up and—”
“I should be in a hospital,” Sara interrupted, her tone as forceful as she could manage. “Why am I not in a hospital?”
The doctor hesitated for a moment, then looked over her shoulder. “Do you want me to . . . ?”
“No. I’ll explain it to her.”
Sara’s pulse jumped at the sound of the man’s voice. He was here. The whole time. But how? She’d seen him leave . . . hadn’t she?
She lifted her chin. Where was he? She wanted to sit up, see him, demand he tell her what was happening—but her body wouldn’t respond.
“Very good, sir,” said the doctor. “I’ll return in an hour.”
“Thank you, Leza.”
The low, almost growling timbre of his voice seemed to take up residence in Sara’s chest, the vibration warming her blood.
The doctor walked to the door, and, suddenly panicked, Sara called out, “Wait!”
Before the door clicked shut, Leza glanced back and smiled empathetically. “Not to worry, Dr. Donohue. You’re safe here.”
Safe? Who is she kidding? Pressing the heels of her palms into the mattress, Sara pushed herself into a semisitting position, then gripped the sheets when a rush of dizziness came over her.
“I can feel your fear, Sara.”
Sara blinked to recover her vision. “Where are you?” she demanded.
“Right in front of you.”
“No, you’re not. I can’t see—”
Fire roared to life in the hearth across the room. “I swear to you there is nothing to fear here.”
He sat in a massive black wingback chair in the shadowed alcove directly across from the bed—a chair Sara didn’t remember being there before her unsuccessful escape moments ago. He was dressed for cold weather in a thick gray sweater and black pants. He watched her intently, his arms crossed over his broad chest.
In the amber light of the fire, he looked to be somewhere in his thirties, and was far from good-looking. In fact, with the buzz cut, narrowed burgundy eyes, and those two small, black key-shaped markings carved into the hollowed flesh beneath his high cheekbones, he had a face to fear, a face that might make some recoil. But strangely, Sara felt nothing but relief under his watchful gaze. Yes, he looked relentless, ready to spring, but even so, every fear within her eased, warmed even, and the hum his voice had created within her returned.
Clearly, the knock on the head had screwed with her brain.
“Who are you?” she demanded, trying to keep her voice calm.
“Alexander Roman.”
“I don’t know you.”
“No.”
“Where am I?”
“My home. In SoHo.”
The way he stared at her mouth when sh
e talked made a muscle quiver in her thigh. “Are you going to tell me why I’m here?”
“You were attacked.”
“I know that, but why am I here and not in a hospital?”
He leaned forward, his eyes glowing. “Unfortunately, that little bastard who attacked you got away, and I’m fairly certain he still wishes you harm.” Alexander growled softly. “He will be found and dealt with, but until then I want to make sure you’re safe.”
The news that Tom was still walking around Manhattan and not locked up in a jail cell devastated Sara, but she didn’t show it. She had another problem to contend with, an immediate problem. “I’m not safe here.”
“You are,” he assured her.
“No. I want to go to a hospital.”
His expression was sympathetic, but there was an immovable flicker in his gaze. “I can’t allow that. I’m sorry.”
“You can’t or you won’t?”
He sighed. “I’m bound to protect you, Sara.”
With those words, the vibration and the calming heat from a moment ago moved from her chest to her belly, then threatened to dip lower. She ignored it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, or who you think you are—but I don’t need your protection. If Tom’s still out there, and he goes after me again, I’ll call the police. Have them deal with it.” She watched his eyes flash in the firelight at the suggestion. “Where’s my phone?”
“Back in your apartment, I’d imagine.”
“Then I’ll use yours.”
The man stood and walked to her. His size, like a cross between a linebacker and military badass, was unnerving.
He gestured to the end of the bed. “May I?”
She swallowed hard, but refused to show her unease. “Do I have a choice?”
The mattress dipped low with his weight. “Listen, Sara.”
“How do you know my name? And how does the doctor know my name?”
“I know this is an unusual situation—”
“You think?” she said darkly.
“But I need you to trust me for just a little while longer.”
