She swore silently.
“Then leave the room and feed.”
“And have her wake up alone? No.”
A charged silence followed.
“Oh, man,” Marcus breathed. “You like her.”
Against her will, Sarah’s eyes flew open and sought Roland’s reaction.
He was kneeling beside her, his hair mussed and damp with perspiration around his face. The terrible wound in his neck was sealed and no longer bled. A long cut followed his jawline from his right earlobe to his chin where one of his opponents must have tried to slit his throat again and miscalculated, laying open the flesh so deeply that she feared she would see bone if she rinsed away the blood.
His shirt was saturated with the red liquid, his clothing torn in numerous places. He was also holding his left arm close to his body in a way that made her wonder if it weren’t broken.
Battered and looking no better, Marcus stood behind the sofa. In one hand, he held a bag of blood similar to those used in hospitals.
Neither man paid her any attention as they stared at each other.
Marcus looked concerned. Roland looked bitter.
“You do, don’t you?” Marcus pressed. “You like her.”
A muscle in Roland’s cheek jumped. “Don’t you think that would be rather foolish, considering?”
“Considering what—that she’s smart, pretty, and good with a gun?”
“No,” Roland said, his voice laden with sarcasm. “Considering she would have used her gun on us if you hadn’t made her promise not to. As soon as she wakes up, she’s going to run screaming for the door.”
Okay, she knew he was a vampire or whatever, but felt guilty anyway because running and screaming had been her first impulse and he looked as if he knew that and his feelings were hurt.
Marcus stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I think you’re wrong.”
“Why, because you know her so well?”
“No, because you’re so distraught over her injuries and her potential fear of you that you’ve missed something pertinent I have not.”
His gaze still on Marcus, Roland brushed his fingers through her hair in what seemed an unconscious gesture of affection. “And what might that be?”
Marcus smiled smugly. “She’s been awake ever since you laid her on the sofa and has not run for the door.”
Roland’s head snapped down. His brown eyes widening when they met hers, he snatched his hand back as though afraid he would be reprimanded for daring to touch her.
Minutes passed.
The silence stretched.
Sarah cleared her throat. “Um, hi?”
He frowned. “Why aren’t you screaming?”
Why indeed? “Because my head is killing me?”
It wasn’t a lie exactly. Her head was killing her. Yet the truth was that the longer he went without baring his fangs and diving for her throat, the more calm usurped fear’s place.
Maybe she had a concussion.
“May I take a look at it?” he asked hesitantly.
She nodded, then groaned at the agony the small movement spawned.
His fingers went to her forehead.
“I don’t think it’s that one,” she whispered, afraid talking louder might make her skull explode. “I think it’s the one in back.”
His frown deepened. “Forgive me. I didn’t know there was another.” Very carefully, he eased his hand between her head and the pillow it rested upon, tunneling through her hair.
She flinched and, for a moment, thought she was going to vomit, the throbbing got so bad.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “It’ll get better in just a second.”
“Roland,” Marcus warned.
“You’re going to feel a momentary warmth,” Roland continued, ignoring his friend.
What was he …?
Sarah blinked. His hand was getting hotter. And, as it did, the pain lessened. It almost felt as though he were holding a heating pad to the wound.
She looked at Marcus, who was scowling his displeasure, then at Roland again.
Was he paler than he had been a moment ago?
He slipped his hand around and covered the cut on her forehead where it had slammed into the driver’s side window.
Again that odd warmth heated her head where he touched her.
He closed his eyes. His jaw clenched.
The pain receded.
Sarah opened her mouth to thank him and ask him what he had done but ended up sucking in a startled breath instead. As she watched, an abrasion formed on the left side of his forehead high up near his hairline. It darkened, widened, swelled. A deep cut opened his flesh. Blood spilled down his cheek.
Swearing, Marcus reached down and yanked Roland’s hand away from Sarah’s face.
Roland opened his eyes. “What?” His voice was hoarse. “What happened?”
“You know what happened,” Marcus snapped, releasing him.
Roland raised a hand and gingerly probed his new wound. His fingers were wet with blood when he lowered them. “Oh.” He glanced at Sarah, then hastily wiped his hand on his shirt as though he hoped to conceal what had just taken place.
Sarah touched her own forehead and confirmed it.
No cut. No swelling. Her wound was gone.
Now Roland sported one just like it.
The large knot on the back of her head was gone, too. If she were gutsy enough to stroke the back of Roland’s head, would she find a large lump there as well?
“Are you feeling better?” he asked, voice tight with suppressed pain.
“Much better.” Her head was fine. Her ribs were fine. What had he done?
“Please, don’t be afraid, Sarah.”
“I’m not.” Her answer had been automatic and took even her by surprise.
It was true. She wasn’t afraid anymore.
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment.” Rising, Roland staggered and would have fallen into the glass coffee table had Marcus not leapt over the sofa in the blink of an eye and caught him.
Sarah sat up, heart pounding. “Roland?”
Careful not to touch his friend’s broken arm, Marcus drew the other across his shoulders and began dragging Roland toward the dining room. “I told you to feed first,” he groused in furious undertones.
Now she thought she understood why. At least in part.
Sarah stood. “Is he going to be okay?”
Marcus nodded and waved her back. “Yes, just … stay there, Sarah. We’ll be back in a moment.”
He wouldn’t feed in front of her.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asked uncertainly.
“Don’t leave,” Roland whispered as they entered the small dining room and passed through it into what she assumed was the kitchen, out of her line of sight.
“Sit here,” she heard Marcus command.
The refrigerator door opened and shut.
Sarah looked around the living room, comfortably if sparsely decorated with very attractive modern furniture.
This was her chance to sneak away. Roland and Marcus had both been weakened by their wounds. Roland was even worse off after healing her, which apparently entailed transferring her wounds to his own body. Marcus was distracted, tending him. They probably wouldn’t notice she was gone for several minutes.
Sarah raised a hand to her forehead, drawing her fingers across the healthy flesh that now lay beneath the drying blood.
Don’t leave. Roland’s words had been not a warning, but a request, almost pleading.
She looked toward the kitchen.
Drawing a deep breath, hoping she would not come to regret her decision, Sarah sat down on the sofa to wait.
Roland couldn’t believe it. She hadn’t left.
He had emptied several bags of blood as quickly as possible, ears straining to hear the creak of a floorboard or the sound of the front door opening and closing or a window shattering. Anything that would indicate either a stealthy or frantic attempt at escape. He had taken a moment to rinse the blood from his face, strode through the dining area into the entrance of the living room, and …
She hadn’t left. Sarah was still there, sitting on the sofa, studying her hands.
He watched her for a moment, both relieved and puzzled.
Why wasn’t she freaking out? Did she merely feign calm in order to gain his trust so she could leave, then return later with a band of humans to kill him?
Sarah glanced over and noticed him standing there. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“You look a lot better.” Unease flickered across her expressive face. “Is it because you … because you fed?”
“Yes.” No point in denying it. He felt awkward as hell admitting it, though.
“Oh.”
Oh? That’s it? “You still aren’t screaming.”
“Is that the usual reaction you get when people realize you’re, um …”
“Different? Yes, generally.”
Marcus stepped up beside him. “We also get shrieks, curses, pants wetting, bowels releasing”—Sarah grimaced—“religious recitations….”
Her eyebrows rose. “Religious recitations?”
“You know—Get thee back, you, ah …” He nudged Roland. “What was it that priest called us?”
Roland rolled his eyes. “Which one?” They had had run-ins with quite a few.
“The one in London.”
“What century?”
“Eighteenth.”
Sarah’s mouth fell open.
“The one with hair like Albert Einstein?”
“Yes.”
“Spawns of Satan.”
“Right.” Adopting a raspy, elderly man’s voice, Marcus shook his fist at Sarah and intoned dramatically, “Get thee back, ye spawns of Satan. Return thee to the bowels of hell where ye belong!” Lowering his fist, he proceeded in a normal voice. “Then he hurled numerous biblical verses at our heads as we walked away. And this after we saved his arse from a fairly nasty vampire he had mistaken for a poor parishioner.” He shrugged. “But screaming is by far the most common reaction, from both men and women.”
