“I have two unconscious humans and no protection.”
“No protection?” A stunned silence vibrated across the line. “What have you done?”
“Protection from the sun,” Alexander said angrily.
“What?”
“I’ve gone through morpho.” The words were bitter on Alexander’s tongue.
There was a pause. Then Nicholas uttered a curt “Impossible.”
Yes, Alexander mused, as the brands on his hands and face twitched with residual pain. “Get the hell over here. I need to find out what’s going on.”
Ten minutes later, Nicholas and Lucian walked through the door. Both standing well above six feet, both broad and lethal, they surveyed the one-room apartment and its contents with the same military vigilance they’d relied upon in battle more than a century ago.
“Damn,” Lucian said, his severe sand-colored gaze shifting from the man on the floor to the woman on the couch. “You did it.”
“Did what?” Alexander snapped, standing sentry beside the woman, monitoring her physical condition.
Lucian tossed the black cloak he’d brought with him, a makeshift sun shield for Alexander, over one arm of the couch. “Drained them both.”
“Bullshit,” Alexander growled. “The woman’s blood is untouched.”
“And the man?” Nicholas asked, walking over to Alexander, his stride heavy with predatory grace.
“In a coma, I believe,” Alexander said.
When Nicholas reached his eldest brother, his black gaze moved over Alexander’s face and forearms. “Have you seen yourself?”
“No,” Alexander said, his jaw tight.
“It’s not pretty.”
“Then not much has changed, has it?”
A quick grin touched Nicholas’s lips, showing off the tips of his fangs. It was gone in an instant. “You have the markings of our father.”
The circles branded into his cheeks screamed “I am descended from the Breeding Male.” Alexander nodded. “Yes.”
“And of your true mate,” Nicholas said, eyeing the key-shaped markings within the circles. “Is this good news or bad?”
Alexander sniffed. “You mean am I relieved that I don’t carry our father’s gene to screw and impregnate any female that crosses my path?” He heard Lucian snort with amusement behind him. “Yes.” He was glad of that, and had felt deep concern for the day he would morph and find out what future he had been given. But was this good news? Instead of a Breeding Male’s empty circle, he had the mark of a true mate inside of his, and his body, without his consent, would soon be on the hunt for her.
“Going through morpho explains the extreme hunger,” Nicholas said. “Is it gone now?”
“It is different,” Alexander said. “I have more control, but the blood I desire isn’t as random.”
Nicholas’s ink black brows drew together in concern. “What are you saying? You must be selective in the vein you choose? Not just any female will do?”
“The hunger remains, but it too has morphed into something I’m not exactly sure how to feed.” His nostrils flared. “Blood has become the appetizer ...”
“Not the main course,” Nicholas finished for him.
Alexander said nothing.
“Sounds great. Can we finish the question-and-answer portion of this game show later?” Lucian said, impatience registering in his tone. He looked at Alexander, arching one pale brow. “Are you going to tell us what went down in here?”
A growl began to build low in Alexander’s chest. “Take care not to push me today, Little Brother. I don’t feel so good.” He raised his chin and inhaled deeply, trying to rid himself of the unnecessary aggression surging through his blood. “Sun came up and I needed shelter.” Alexander looked at the woman, felt a deep tenderness roll through him. “She provided it. Without question.” His voice conveyed a hint of awe.
“What about the man?” Lucian asked.
“He was waiting for her. The little prick attacked her.” Alexander stared at the bruise on the woman’s face as she slept peacefully. A low snarl escaped his lips. “I should have drained him.”
“Good thing you didn’t,” Lucian uttered tightly. “That would’ve been another problem we don’t need.”
Sensing another round of morphed male hostility in the air, Nicholas asked a practical question. “What do you want to do with the man?”
Still hovering close to the woman, Alexander eyed his brother. “You take care of him, Nicholas.” He lifted one thick eyebrow. “Make sure he never comes back here. Make him forget that she even exists.”
Nicholas nodded quickly. “Done. And what about her?”
“I’ll take care of her,” Lucian offered with a wicked grin.
“No!” Alexander snarled, his upper lip lifting, exposing his fangs. “No one touches her.”
“You sure the hunger’s eased, Alex?” Lucian said, his grin widening. “You’re acting like an animal over a feed. Perhaps she has the vein you desire?”
Nostrils flared, Alexander stared at Lucian, ready to strike with either words or fists.
“Easy there, boys,” Nicholas said dryly, stepping between the two. He eyeballed Alexander and said in a low voice, “
Duro
.”
The tender word for “brother” barely registered with Alexander. Blood was rushing in his ears as he tried to keep himself under control. This was not the debilitating pangs of hunger; this was something altogether different—a barely restrained ferocity when it came to the woman who’d saved him. Jesus, how could he even think about striking his brother? The brother he’d protected and cared for, for more than a century?
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
T
om 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
S
ara 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, she 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.”