Her door was open and she flicked on the overhead lights and went over to her desk. She dropped into her chair and scrubbed a hand over her mouth, as if she were trying to stop herself from talking out loud.
Pick up the phone.
She stared at it.
What the fuck are you thinking, Sara? You’re no idiot. Do it. You owe the . . . vampire nothing, no loyalty.
But was that the truth? He’d saved her life. Whatever he was, whatever he claimed to be, he’d kept her alive so she could keep her brother alive, and wasn’t that worth something? Some token sense of loyalty?
You know what they call that, honey? Stockholm syndrome. Yep, you studied it in school, have patients who suffer from it.
Clamping her teeth together until her jaw ached, she pressed the intercom button, then stabbed in the numbers for Precinct 23. But before she even finished dialing, the call failed.
Without missing a beat, she tried again. But the second time, though the call went through, the ringing distorted into a strange moaning sound and wasn’t picked up on the other end. What the hell? She pressed the call button again, got a dial tone, and punched in the numbers. This time she heard the irritating trill of a fax machine. Frustrated, she slammed the phone down, glared at the thing, and fantasized about yanking the cord from the wall and chucking the whole thing at the door. But that would be a reactionary move, not a productive one, and today of all days she needed to pretend to be flexible and sane.
She took a deep breath, grabbed the piece of paper with the number on it, then headed out of her office and straight for the adult-care nurse’s station. Without a word to the crew, Sara picked up one of the desk phones and tried again. Thankfully, this time the call connected, and she sighed as the ringing continued on perfectly normal. But as it did, she started to feel a slight panic take over her nervous system. When the cops actually answered, she’d have to report the crime, not to mention explain his involvement in it. Or did she? Maybe she could just leave him out of it—make it all about Tom and the attack.
But Sara never had to make that choice. No one picked up, not even a machine. It just rang and rang. Cursing, she hung up, dialed one last time, and when she found it busy, slammed down the receiver and told herself she’d give it fifteen minutes and try again.
But four hours and three emergencies later, it was close to the end of her shift and the first time she’d had a chance to get back to her office.
She grabbed an apple from the basket on the corner of her desk and dropped into her chair. Releasing a heavy breath, she picked up the phone and waited for it, the low hum of the dial tone. But nada. Nothing.
“You have a very solid mind for a human.”
Sara slammed back in her seat, the apple dropping to the floor with a dull thud. “Jesus Christ!”
“No. Alexander Roman.” He stood in the doorway, taking up nearly every inch of it with his massive frame. He inclined his head, his fierce merlot eyes trained on her. “I apologize for startling you.”
“How did you get in here?”
“Your door was open.”
“On the ward,” she pressed. “How did you get onto the ward?”
One corner of his mouth flickered up. “I find every door open to me these days.”
“How convenient,” she said, wishing her pulse would stop the whole racing routine.
His gaze shifted from her to the phone. “Making a call?”
“I’ve been trying to, but there’s something wrong with ...” She froze, looked up at him. “It’s you, isn’t it? You’ve been—”
His brows lifted. “As I said before, no police.”
Fear flickered inside her chest. “You screwed with my phone?”
Alexander moved into the room, the door closing behind him. Unable to process the obvious, Sara pretended she had seen his hand on the wood, pushing it closed.
“Actually it was my brother Lucian,” he said, coming toward her, the black wool of his coat snapping against his legs. “I couldn’t leave the house until it grew dark—”
She stood up. Had to. Even with the anxiety snapping through her, she had to show him she wasn’t about to cower. “Your brother’s been watching me?”
“I had to make sure you were safe.”
“If you really cared about my safety, you’d let me call the police.”
“The police can do nothing.”
“Spoken like a true renegade or a—”
He lifted one dark eyebrow. “Or a what?”
“Someone I should be treating with a good deal of meds.”
He said nothing, just stood there, across the desk, dark as night, towering over her with a lethal grin playing about his mouth. Sara tried like hell to control her response to him, to that anything-but-sweet smile, but the traitorous, seductive heat that moved through her veins and sped up her heart was irrepressible.
“Do you really think the police can catch your skinny human?” he asked, coming to stand at the chair in front of her desk, his large hands closing around the metal top. “You think they’re even going to look all that hard for him?”
Sara forced out a solid, “Yes.” But honestly, she wasn’t sure of anything at the moment.
“That little scumbag will not stop until you’re dead,” Alexander said. “And while he’s trying, your officers will be pushing papers around their desks.”
“You need to stop trying to scare me, Alexander,” she said tightly.
“No, I don’t think so. Sometimes fear is necessary to bring clarity to the mind.”
“Where’d you get that? Oprah?”
He nodded to the wall of books behind her. “Psychology in Today’s Modern World.”
Turning around, Sara glanced at the bookshelf, then faced him again, confused. “What?”
“Third shelf, halfway in, gold binding, page sixteen, middle paragraph.”
She stared at him. “You’ve read that book?”
“Just now. The line jumped out at me. Seemed appropriate.”
It took her a moment to process what he was saying, but when she did, she shook her head and said slowly, “No way.”
His eyes held a bitter edge. “It’s new to me as well.” He reached out to her. “Come with me.”
Sara’s pulse kicked. “What? No!”
“I need to show you something.”
She shook her head. “I’m not going to walk out of here with you to God knows where.”
“All I wish to do is protect you.”
“Protect me, kill me . . . potato, patato.”
He was around the desk and in front of her in seconds, his voice low, menacing. “If I wanted you dead I could have done it back at my house, or at yours. And it would’ve taken an instant.” He lifted his hand, touched her face. His palm felt warm against her skin. “I want you alive, Sara. And safe. I cannot allow that human to get close enough to hurt you again.” His hand dropped to her chest, his palm resting just above her breast. “Just breathe now. Slow your heart. You have nothing to fear from me.”
Sara wanted to hate herself in that moment, hate the feminine lust that ran through her blood and made her want to arch her back and touch her mouth to his, but instead she felt her heart slowing with each beat and warm desire filling her veins. If she tilted her chin an inch she could do it—feel his lips, maybe even the tips of his fangs. As she stared into his eyes, her breath slid into synch with his and her mind played back the events of that morning—how he’d protected her, how easily he’d lifted and carried her, how his fearsome manner only erupted when he spoke of the ex-patient who wished her harm.
She brought her hand to his cheek, let her thumb brush over the key-shaped brand. The surface of his skin was hot, rough, complicated—like him.