She stroked his spine and held the towel and couldn't help but keep murmuring to him. When it was over, the patient lay still, breathing through his mouth, his hand with the glove clenched around a tangle of sheets.
"That was so not fun," he rasped.
"We'll find you another painkiller," she murmured, brushing his hair from his eyes. "No more Dem for you. Listen, I want to check your wounds, okay?"
He nodded and eased onto his back, the expanse of his chest seeming as big as the damn bed. She was careful with the adhesive tape, gentle as she lifted the gauze. Good lord The skin that had been perforated by the staples just fifteen minutes ago was completely healed. All that remained was a small pink line down his sternum.
"What are you?" she blurted.
Her patient rolled back toward her. "Tired."
Without even thinking about it she started stroking him again, the sound of her hand smoothing up and down his skin making a hushed noise. It wasn't long before she noticed that his shoulders were all hard muscle and that what she was touching was warm and very male.
She took back her palm.
"Please." He caught her wrist with his unmarked hand-even though his eyes were closed. "Touch me or shit, hold on to me, I'm all adrift. Like I'm going to float away. I can't feel anything. Not the bed not my body."
She looked down at where he held on to her, then measured his biceps and the breadth of his chest. She had the passing thought that he could snap her arm in two, but she knew he wouldn't. He'd been ready to rip the throat out of one of his nearest and dearest a half hour ago to protect her-
Stop it.
Do not feel safe with him. The Stockholm syndrome is not your friend.
"Please," he said on a shaky breath, shame constricting his voice.
God, she'd never understood how kidnapping victims developed relationships with their captors. It went against all logic as well as the laws of self-preservation: Your enemy cannot be your friend.
But denying him warmth was unthinkable. "I'll need my hand back."
"You have two. Use the other." With that he curled himself around the palm he held on to, the sheets getting pulled farther down his torso.
"Let me switch sides then," she muttered as she slid her hand out of his grip, replaced it, then laid her newly freed palm on his shoulder.
His skin was the golden brown of a summer tan and smooth boy, it was smooth and supple. Following the curve of his spine she went up to his nape, and before she knew it she was stroking his glossy hair. Short in the back, long around his face-she wondered whether he wore it that way to hide the tattoos on his temple. Except they had to be for show-why else would he put them somewhere so noticeable?
He made a noise in the back of his throat, a purr that rolled through his chest and upper back; then he moved away, the shift tugging her arm. Clearly he wanted her stretched out next to him, but as she resisted, he eased off.
Staring at her arm in the tight clutch of his biceps, she thought about the last time she'd been entwined with a man. Long while. And it hadn't been that good, frankly.
Manello's dark eyes came to mind
"Don't think of him."
Jane jerked. "How did you know who was on my mind?"
The patient released his hold on her and slowly shifted around so he faced away from her. "Sorry. Not my biz."
"How did you know?"
"I'm going to try to sleep now, okay?"
"Okay."
Jane got up and went back to her chair, thinking of his six-chambered heart. His untypeable blood. Those fangs of his in that blonde's wrist. Glancing over to the window, she wondered if what covered the glass panes was not just for security but also to keep out daylight.
Where did it all leave her? Locked in a room with a vampire?
The rational side of her rejected the thought out of hand, but at her core she was logic driven. With a shake of the head, she recalled her favorite quote from Sherlock Holmes, paraphrasing it: If you eliminate all possible explanations, then the impossible is the answer. Logic and biology didn't lie, did they? It was one of the reasons why she'd chosen to become a physician in the first place.
She looked down at her patient, getting lost in the implications. The mind reeled at the evolutionary possibilities, but she also considered more practical matters. She thought about the drugs in that duffel bag and the fact that her patient had been out in a dangerous part of town when he'd been shot. And hello, they'd kidnapped her.
How could she possibly trust him or his word?
Jane put her hand in her pocket and felt for the razor. The answer to that one was easy. She couldn't.
Chapter Fourteen
Up in his bedroom at the big house, Phury sat with his back against his headboard and his blue velvet duvet over his legs. His prosthesis was off, and a blunt was smoldering in a heavy glass ashtray next to him. Mozart drifted out of a set of hidden Bose speakers.
The book of firearms in front of him was being used as a lap easel instead of reading material. A thick sheet of white paper was laid out on top of the thing, but he hadn't made any marks on it with his Ticonderoga No. 2 for a while. The portrait was complete. He'd finished it about an hour ago and was working up the courage to wad it up and throw it out.
Even though he was never satisfied with his drawings, he almost liked this one. From out of the blizzard-thick blankness of the page, a female's face and neck and hair had been revealed by strokes of lead. Bella was staring off to the left, a slight smile on her lips, a strand of her dark hair across her cheek. He'd caught sight of the pose at Last Meal this evening. She'd been looking at Zsadist, which explained the secret lift to her mouth.
In all the poses he'd drawn her in, Phury always sketched her with her eyes elsewhere. If she were staring out of the page, at him, that just seemed inappropriate. Hell, drawing her at all was inappropriate.
He flattened his hand over her face, prepared to crumple the paper.
At the last moment he went for the blunt instead, craving some artificial ease as his heart beat too hard. He was smoking a lot lately. More than ever. And though relying on the chemical calm made him feel dirty, the idea of stopping never crossed his mind. He couldn't imagine getting through the day without help.
As he took another hit and held on to the smoke with his lungs, he thought of his brush with heroin. Back in December the backflip off the H-cliff had been prevented not by his making a good choice, but because John Matthew happened to pick the right time to interrupt.
Phury exhaled and stared at the tip of the blunt. The temptation to try something more hard-core was back. He could feel the urge to go to Rehv and ask the male for another Baggie full of deep nod. Maybe then he'd get some peace.
A knock went off on his door and Z's voice said, "Can I come in?"
Phury stuffed the drawing into the belly of the firearms book. "Yeah."
Z walked in and didn't say another word. With his hands on his hips, he paced back and forth, back and forth, at the end of the bed. Phury waited, lighting up another blunt and tracking his identical twin as Z wore out the carpet.
You didn't push Z to talk any more than you'd try to coerce a fish onto the business end of a hook with a lot of chatter. Silence was the only lure that worked.
Finally the brother stopped. "She's bleeding."
Phury's heart jumped, and he splayed his hand out over the cover of the book. "How much and for how long?"
"She's been hiding it from me, so I don't know."
"How'd you find out?"
"I found a thing of Always stuffed in the back of the cabinet right next to the toilet."
"Maybe they're old."
"Last time when I got my buzz razor out, they weren't there."
Shit. "She has to go to Havers's, then."
"Her next appointment isn't for a week." Z started up with the pacing again. "I know she's not telling me because she's afraid I'll freak out."
"Maybe what you found is being used for another reason?"
Z stopped. "Oh, yeah. Right. Because those things are multifunctional. Like Q-tips or some shit. Look, would you talk to her?"
"What?" Phury quickly took a drag. "This is private. Between you and her."
Z scrubbed the top of his skull-trimmed head. "You're better with shit like this than I am. The last thing she needs is for me to break down in front of her, or worse, yell at her because I'm scared to death and not being reasonable."
Phury tried to take a deep breath, but he could barely get the air down his windpipe. He so wanted to get involved. He wanted to walk down the hall of statues to the pair's room and sit Bella down and get the story out of her. He wanted to be a hero. But it was not his place.
"You're her hellren. You need to do the talking." Phury stabbed out the last half inch of the blunt, rolled up a new one, and flipped open his lighter. The flint wheel made a rasping noise as the flame jumped up. "You can do it."
Zsadist cursed, paced some more, then eventually headed for the door. "Talking about this whole pregnancy thing reminds me that if I lose her, I'm fucked. I feel so goddamned powerless."
After his twin took off, Phury let his head fall back. As he smoked, he watched the blunt's lit tip flare and wondered idly if it was like an orgasm for the hand-rolled.
Jesus. If Bella was lost, both he and Z were going to go into a tailspin the likes of which males didn't come out of.
As the thought occurred to him, he felt guilty. He really shouldn't care that much about his twin's female.
As anxiety made him feel like he'd swallowed a swarm of locusts, he smoked his way through the emotion until he caught sight of the clock. Shit. He had to teach a class on firearms in an hour. He'd better hit the shower and try to get sober.
John woke up confused, vaguely aware that his face hurt and that there was some kind of bleating going off in his room.
He lifted his head out of his notebook and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The spiral binding had left behind a pattern of dents that made him think of Warf from Star Trek TNG. And the noise was the alarm clock.
Three fifty in the afternoon. Classes started at four P.M.
John got up from the desk, wobbled into the bathroom, and stood over the toilet. When that felt too much like work, he turned around and sat down.
God, he was exhausted. He'd spent the last couple of months sleeping in Tohr's chair in the training center's office, but after Wrath had put his foot down and moved John up to the big house, he'd been back in a real bed. You'd think he'd be feeling great with all that legroom. Instead, he was whipped.
After he flushed, he turned on the lights and winced in the glare. Damn. Bad idea to lose the darkness, and not just because his eyes were killing him. Standing beneath the recessed lighting his little body looked horrible, nothing but pale skin over evident bone. With a grimace, he covered up his thumb-sized sex with his hand so he didn't have to look at the thing and killed the lights.
There was no time for a shower. Quick brush of the teeth, little splash action on the puss with some water, and he didn't bother with his hair.
Out in his bedroom he just wanted to go back between the sheets, but he pulled on jeans that were junior-sized and frowned as he zipped up the fly. The things were loose on his hips, baggy though he'd been trying to eat.
Great. Instead of going through the transition, he was shrinking.
As another round of what-if-it-never-comes-for-me? rolled him over, his eyebrows started to pound. Crap. He felt like there was a little man with a hammer in each of his eye sockets, bashing the shit out of his optic nerve.
Grabbing his books off his desk, he shoved them into his backpack and left. The instant he stepped into the hall he put his arm over his face. The sight of the brilliant foyer made his headache roar, and he stumbled back, bumping into a Greek kuroi. Which made him realize he hadn't put a shirt on.
Cursing to hell and gone, he went back to his room, threw one on, and somehow made it downstairs without tripping over his own feet. Man, everything was getting on his nerves. The sound of his Nikes across the foyer was like a band of squeaky mice following him. The clicking of the hidden door into the tunnel seemed loud as a gunshot. His trip through the underground route to the training center went on forever.
This was not going to be a great day. His temper was flaring already, and going by the last month or so, he knew that the earlier it kicked in, the harder it would be to hold.
And as soon as he walked into the classroom, he knew he was really in for it.
Sitting in the back row at the loner table John had called home before he got tight with his boys was Lash.
Who now came in the economy-size asshole package. The guy was big and filled out, built like a fighter. And he'd gone through a G.I. Joe makeover. Before he'd worn flashy couture clothes and a vault's worth of Jacob amp; Co. jewelry; now he was dressed in black cargo pants and a skintight black nylon shirt. His blond hair, which had been long enough to pull back into a ponytail, was now military short.
It was as if all that pretension had been wiped clean because he knew he had the goods on the inside.
One thing hadn't changed: His eyes were still sharkskin gray and focused on John-who knew without a doubt that if he got caught alone with the guy he was in for a world of hurt. He might have taken Lash down the last time, but it wouldn't happen again, and more than that, Lash was going to get him. The promise of payback was in both the set of those big shoulders and the half smile that had fuck you written all over it.
John took a seat next to Blay, feeling a dark-alley kind of dread.
"Hey, buddy," his friend said softly. "Don't worry about that bastard, okay?"
John didn't want to look as weak as he was feeling, so he just shrugged and unzipped his backpack. God, this headache was a killer. But then, the flight-or-fight response on an empty, rolling stomach was hardly a dose of Excedrin.
Qhuinn leaned over and dropped a note in front of John. We gotchu, was all it said.
John blinked quickly from gratitude as he got out his firearms book and thought about what they were going to cover today in class. How appropriate it was guns. He felt like one was leveled at the back of his skull.
He looked to the rear of the room. As if Lash had been waiting for the eye contact, the guy leaned forward and put his forearms on the table. His hands slowly cranked into two fists that seemed big as John's head, and when he smiled, his new fangs were sharp as knives and white as the afterlife.
Shit. John was a dead man if his transition didn't come soon.
Chapter Fifteen
Vishous woke up, and the first thing he saw was his surgeon in the chair across the room. Apparently even in his sleep, he'd been keeping track of her.
She was watching him, too.
"How are you?" Her voice was low and even. Professionally warm, he thought.
"I'm better." Although it was hard to imagine feeling worse than he had when he'd been throwing up.
"Are you in pain?"
"Yeah, but it doesn't bother me. More an ache, really."
Her eyes went over him, but again it was with professional purpose. "Your coloring is good."
He didn't know what to say to that. Because the longer he looked like shit, the longer she could stay. Health was so not his friend.
"Do you remember anything?" she asked. "About the shooting?"
"Not really."
Which was only a partial lie. All he had were flashes of the events, partial clippings of the articles instead of the full columns: He remembered the alley. A fight with a lesser. A gun going off. And after that ending up on her table and getting evac'd from the hospital by his brothers.
"Why did someone want to shoot you?" she asked.
"I'm hungry. Is there food around?"
"Are you a drug dealer? Or a pimp?"
He rubbed his face. "Why do you think I'm either?"
"You got shot in an alley off Trade. The paramedics said you had weapons on you."
"It didn't occur to you I could be undercover police?"
"Cops in Caldwell don't carry martial-arts daggers. And your kind wouldn't go that route."
V narrowed his eyes. "My kind?"
"Too much exposure, right? Besides, you wouldn't worry much about policing another race."
Man, he didn't have the energy to tackle the species discussion with her. Plus, there was a part of him that didn't want her to think of him as different.
"Food," he said, glancing over at a tray that was set on the bureau. "Can I have some?"
She stood up and planted her hands on her hips. He had a feeling she was going to say something along the lines of Get it yourself, you freak bastard.
Instead she walked across the room. "If you're hungry, you can eat. I didn't touch what Red Sox brought me, and there's no sense throwing it out."
He frowned. "I will not take food meant for you."
"I'm not going to eat it. Being kidnapped has killed my appetite."
V cursed under his breath, hating the position he'd put her in. "I'm sorry."
"Instead of doing the 'sorry' thing, how about you just let me go?"
"Not yet." Not ever, some crazy-ass voice muttered.
Oh, Christ, not more with the-
Mine.
On the heels of the word, an all-powerful need to mark her lit him up. He wanted to get her naked and underneath him and covered with his scent as he pumped into her body. He saw it happening, saw them skin-to-skin on the bed, him on top of her with her legs split wide to accommodate his hips and his cock.
As she brought the tray of food over his temperature spiked, and what was doing between his legs throbbed like a bitch. Surreptitously he bunched the blankets up so that nothing showed.
She put the food down and lifted the silver lid off the plate.
"So how much better do you have to be for me to leave?" Her eyes went over his chest, all medical assessment, as if she were measuring what was under the bandages.
Ah, hell. He wanted her to look at him as a male. He wanted those eyes of hers going over his skin not to check a surgical wound, but because she was thinking about putting her hands on him and wondering where to start.
V closed his eyes and rolled away, grunting at the pain in his chest. He told himself the ache was from the surgery. Suspected it was more because of the surgeon.
"I'll pass on the food. Next time they come in I'll ask for some."
"You need this more than I do. And I'm worried about your fluid intake."
Actually, he was fine, because he'd fed. With enough blood vampires could survive a number of days without sustenance.
Which was great. Cut down on the trips to the bathroom.
"I want you to eat this," she said, staring down at him. "As your physician-"
"I will not take from your plate." For God's sake, no male of worth would ever rob his female of food, not even if he was starved to the point of dizziness. Her needs always came first-
V felt like putting his head in a car door and slamming it a couple of dozen times. Where the hell was this manual of mating behavior coming from? It was like someone had loaded new software into his brain.
"Okay," she said, turning away. "Fine."
Next thing he heard was banging. She was pounding on the door.
V sat upright. "What the hell are you doing?" Butch flew into the room, nearly knocking V's surgeon off her feet. "What's wrong?"
V cut into the drama with, "Nothing-"
The surgeon spoke over them both, all calm authority. "He needs food, and he won't eat what's on that tray. Bring him something simple and easy to digest. Rice. Chicken. Water. Crackers."
"Okay." Butch leaned to the side and looked at V. There was a long pause. "How you doing?"
Fucked in the head, thanks. "Fine."
But at least there was one good thing going. The cop was back to normal, his eyes clear, his stance strong, his scent a combination of Marissa's ocean smell and his bonding mark. He'd obviously been getting busy.
Interesting. Usually when V thought about those two together, his chest felt like it was wrapped in barbed wire. Now? He was just glad his friend was healthy.
"You look great, Cop."
Butch smoothed his silk pin-striped shirt. "Gucci can turn anyone into a rock star."
"You know what I mean."
Those familiar hazels grew serious. "Yeah. Thanks as always." In the awkward moment, words hovered in the air between them, things that couldn't be said with any kind of audience. "So I'll be back with chow."
As the door shut Jane glanced over her shoulder. "How long have you been lovers?"
Her eyes met his, and there was no getting out of the question.
"We're not."
"You sure about that?"
"Trust me." For no particular reason he looked at her white coat. " 'Dr. Jane Whitcomb,'" he read. " 'Trauma.'" Made sense. She had that kind of confidence. "So I was in bad shape when I came in?"
"Yeah, but I saved your ass, didn't I."
A wave of awe came over him. She was his rhalman, his savior. They were bonded-
Yeah, whatever. Right now and his savior was inching away from him, backing up until she hit the far wall. He closed his lids, knowing his eyes were glowing. The retreat, the horror in her face, stung like hell.
"Your eyes," she said in a thin voice.
"Don't worry about it."
"What the hell are you?" Her tone suggested freak could easily be the descriptor, and God, wasn't she right about that.
"What are you?" she repeated.
It was tempting to front, but there was no way she would buy it. Besides, lying to her made him feel dirty.
Leveling his stare on her, he said in a low voice, "You know what I am. You're smart enough to know."
Long silence. Then: "I can't believe it."
"You're too smart not to. Hell, you've already alluded to it."
"Vampires do not exist."
His temper flared even though she didn't deserve it. "We don't? Then explain why you're in my wonder-fucking-land."
Without taking a breath she shot back, "Tell me something-do civil rights mean anything to your kind?"
"Survival means more," he snapped. "But then, we've been hunted for generations."
"And the ends justify any means for you. How noble." Her voice was as sharp as his. "Do you always use this rationale to snatch humans?"
"No, I don't like them."
"Oh, except you need me, so you'll use me. Aren't I the lucky exception."
Well, shit. This was a turn-on. The more she met his aggression head-on, the harder his body got. Even in his weakened state, his arousal was a demanding throb between his thighs, and in his mind he was picturing her bent over the bed with nothing but that white coat on and him driving into her from behind.
Maybe he should be grateful she was repulsed. Like he needed to get tangled with a female-
All at once the night of his shooting tunneled into his brain with total clarity. He remembered his mother's happy little visit and her fabulous birthday present: the Primale. He'd been tapped to be the Primale.
V grimaced and clapped his hands over his face. "Oh fuck."
In a grudging tone, she asked, "What's wrong?"
"My goddamn destiny."
"Oh, really? I'm locked up in this room. At least you're free to go where you choose."
"The hell I am."
She made a dismissive noise, and then neither of them said another word until Butch brought another tray in about a half hour later. The cop had the presence of mind not to say much and move quickly-and also the foresight to keep the door locked the whole time as he made the delivery. Which was smart.
V's surgeon was planning on making a run for it. She tracked the cop like she was measuring a target and kept her right hand in the pocket of her coat.
She had some kind of weapon in there. Goddamn it.
V watched Jane closely as Butch put the tray on the bedside table, praying like hell she didn't do anything stupid. When he saw her body tense and her weight shift forward, he sat up, prepared to lunge because he didn't want anyone but himself handling her. Ever.
Nothing came of it, though. She caught his change in position from the corner of her eye, and the distraction was enough to get Butch out of the room and the door relocked.
V settled back against the pillows and measured the hard line of her chin. "Take off your coat."
"Excuse me?"
"Take it off."
"No."
"I want it off."
"Then I suggest you hold your breath. Won't affect me in the slightest, but at least the suffocation will help pass the time for you."
His arousal pounded. Oh, shit, he needed to teach her that disobedience carried a price, and what a session that would be. She'd fight him tooth and nail before she submitted. If she submitted at all.
Vishous's spine arched all on its own, his hips swiveling as his erection kicked beneath the sheets. Jesus He was so totally and completely sexed he was on the verge of coming.
But he still had to disarm her. "I want you to feed me."
Her eyebrows popped. "You're perfectly capable of-"
"Feed me. Please."
As she came over to the bed she was all business and bad mood. She unrolled the napkin and-
V sprang into action. He took her by the arms and dragged her over his body, the element of surprise shocking her into a surrender he was damn sure was temporary-so he worked fast. He stripped the coat off her, handling her as gently as he could while her body torqued to get free.
Shit, he couldn't help it, but the urge to subdue her took over. Suddenly he was touching her not to keep her hands from whatever was in that pocket, but because he wanted to pin her to the bed and let her feel his power and strength. He took both her wrists in one hand, stretched her arms over her head, and trapped her thighs with his hips.
"Let. Me. Go!" Her teeth were bared, fury iridescent in her dark green eyes.
Totally aroused, he arched into her and sucked in a breath only to freeze. Her scent carried no sultry sweetness of a female who wanted sex. She was not attracted to him at all. She was pissed off.
V let her go immediately, rolling away, though making sure he had the coat with him. The instant she was free she shot off the bed like the mattress was on fire and faced off with him. Her hair was tangled at its blunt ends, her shirt wrenched around, one pant leg shoved up to her knee. She was breathing heavily from exertion and staring at her coat.
When he went through it, he found one of his straight-edged razors.
"I can't have you armed." He folded the coat up with care and put it at the foot of the bed, knowing she wouldn't come near him if she was paid to. "If you attacked me or one of my brothers with something like this, you could get hurt."
A curse left her on a hard exhale. Then she surprised him. "What tipped you off?"
"Your hand going to find it as Butch brought in the tray."
She put her arms around herself. "Shit. Thought I'd been more discreet."
"I have some experience with concealed weapons." He reached down and pulled opened the drawer to his bedside table. The razor made a dull thud as he dropped it inside. After he shut the thing in, he triggered a lock with his mind.
When he looked back up she was doing a quick sweep under her eyes. Like she was crying. With a quick twist, she turned away from him and faced into the corner, her shoulders curling in. She made no sound. Her body did not move. Her dignity remained intact.
He shifted his legs over and put his feet on the floor.
"If you come anywhere near me," she said hoarsely, "I will figure out some way to hurt you. Probably won't be much, but I'll take a hunk out of you one way or the other. We clear? Leave me the hell alone."
He propped his arms on the bed and hung his head. He was gutted as he listened to the nothing-at-all sound of her tears. Would rather have been beaten with a hammer.
He had caused her this.
All at once she wheeled around to him and took a deep breath. Except for the red rims around her eyes, he would never have guessed she'd been upset. "Okay. You eating on your own or do you really need help with the fork-and-knife stuff?"
V blinked.
I am in love, V thought as he looked at her. I have so fallen in love.
As class progressed, John felt like holy hell on the end of a shovel: Achy. Nauseous. Exhausted and restless. And his head hurt so badly he could have sworn his hair was on fire.
Squinting like he was facing headlights instead of a blackboard, he swallowed through a dry throat. He hadn't written anything down in his notebook for a while and wasn't sure what Phury was lecturing on. Was it still firearms?
"Yo, John?" Blay whispered. "You okay, my man?"
John nodded, because that was what you did when someone asked you a question.
"You want to go lie down?"
John shook his head, figuring it was another appropriate response, and he wanted to spice things up. No reason to get stuck in a nod rut.
God, what the hell was wrong with him. His brain was like cotton candy, a tangle that took up space but was mostly nothing.