Sweat ran from Alexander's neck to his chest and arms, but he didn't slow. Hadn't in the past three hours. Hyped up and ready for battle, he'd run the tunnels, then sparred with three Impure guards, before following Lucian on the course he'd erected in the living room.

Night had fallen now and as the burlap bags swayed back and forth, Alexander weaved between them, slamming his blades into the center of each. Planted in the hallway, fresh from his own workout, Lucian cleaned weapons, while Nicholas performed a little cyber recon on Google maps as he waited for news from the "eyes."

"It's too bad Bronwyn's gone," Nicholas said, typing furiously. "Knowing who Dare's family connections are--who could be helping him ..."

"You can blame Luca for that," Alexander muttered as he ripped a burlap sack from top to bottom, sending beans raining all over the floor. "She just couldn't handle being around such a charming personality all day."

Lucian glared at the destruction. "Hey, save it for the Impures, Alex. That's my work there."

Nicholas eyed Alexander and grinned. "Yes. Charming."

The screech of a car's brakes outside the house dissolved Alexander's dark chuckle, and had them all up and headed for the window. Alexander got there first, his gaze dropping to the curb below.

"What is it?" Lucian asked, coming up behind him.

"Dillon's car," he said, already turning around to go. "Halfway up on the curb.

Something's up."

The brothers were out the front door, down the steps in mere seconds. They rushed over to the town car, ignoring the driver, to find Dillon slumped in the backseat.

"What the hell happened to you?" Alexander demanded.

Dillon lifted her head then, let the top half of her body fall back against the seat.

No bruises, no blood . . .

"Oh, shit," Alexander uttered as he saw the man sitting beside her in the back, dressed for a freaking summer day in jeans and a T-shirt. "You took Sara's brother from the hospital?"

"The human," Dillon whispered, her tone pained. "Trainer--he tried to attack Gray. I had to ..."

Alexander's guts dropped into his boots. "Sara?"

Dillon squinted up at him. "She was with a patient. She's okay. She doesn't even know."

Alexander gestured to Nicholas and Lucian. "Take him in, call Leza, and tell her to get over here."

When Gray was out of the car and headed into the house, huddled against both brothers for support, Alexander leaned in and tried to remove Dillon from the backseat.

He wasn't sure what kind of injuries she'd sustained, but knew they were internal.

"Trainer's body is still in the room," she said, letting Alexander pull her out and onto the sidewalk.

"Dead or out cold?" he asked, helping her up the steps.

She was pressing her hand against her right side. "I don't know. Didn't have time to check."

"Why the hell were you with the brother? Why weren't you watching her?"

"She asked me to go to him." They got to the door, inside the entryway. Dillon pushed him off of her. "I'm okay. You have to go back."

"She'd better be unharmed." Alexander turned to go, to flash, just as Dillon collapsed in the doorway, blood seeping from her side.

Sara entered her office, and with a heavy veil of exhaustion dropped into her chair. Long-ass day, and now she had the pleasure of going back to her hotel room, ordering a pizza, and watching some bad TV as she stared out at the balcony hoping the other half of her heart would show up and maybe make her cry again . . . maybe make her come again.

Her skin vibrated at the thought. Or she could take his deal. Her throat went dry.

She was so damn thirsty. Had been for two days now. And not the kind of thirst that can be satiated with a few glasses of water. Her lust, her perverse need to possess Alexander had done something to her, changed her physical structure, and now his blood was all she thought about.

Over the years, she'd treated a few patients who were "human vampires," mostly adolescents who were desperate for love, their beliefs and rituals self-destructive and impossible to maintain in society. And yet Sara couldn't help wondering if one of them had perhaps met up with a friend of the Romans.

She sighed, grabbed a few files from the stack on her desk. Her gaze flew over the pages: Derek Kennedy wasn't tolerating meds, diarrhea ... fine, fine. Pamela Newl was back for the fourth time--twelve-year-old daughter brought her in this time . . . Pearl McClean: second set of lab results-- never got the first. With keen interest, Sara scanned the labs, thinking that Pete was probably right about letting the cops and social deal with the mom. Unfortunately, Sara rarely did what was "right" in these kinds of situations.

Instead, she did what she had to do to get the answers she--

Sara sat forward in her chair, her pulse knocking harder in her veins, louder in her ears. She stared at the file, the labs. "Jesus Christ."

She grabbed the phone, dialed the extension for the nurse's station in the juvenile ward. The second it was picked up, she jumped. "This is Dr. Donohue. Is Pearl McClean in her room?"

"Dr. Donohue, Pearl was released an hour ago."

Blood drained from Sara's face. "What?"

"You signed her out yourself."

"No--" A hand stole around Sara's mouth, the other reached around her, grabbed the phone, and yanked it from the wall.

Instinct jumped in Sara's blood, and she drove her heel into the ankle of the attacker, grabbed at his hand, and clawed at his flesh. But whoever it was held her in an iron grip.

"You can forget about Pearl," the man whispered, his mouth near her neck. "She's with the commander now."

Sara's eyes widened and her nostrils flared trying to get air in her lungs. Fuck no!

Tom Trainer.

She bit down on his hand, then flinched at the sudden pain. Her teeth, they hurt, felt loose . . .

Tom jerked her back against him, keeping his hand over her mouth, but snaking his arm across her belly. "I've missed you, Dr. Donohue."

The fight in Sara hummed, wanting to get out, get wild. She slammed her elbow back into his gut, over and over, but he barely flinched.

"I thought about holding you again, touching you," he said, sadness threading his tone. "I thought about it every time he touched me. It was like we were all together. The three of us. Maybe that's how it's meant to be."

Recalling a technique she'd read about in a case study, Sara sucked in her breath, hunched her back slightly, and spun in his arms, stopping when she faced him. Without a thought, she kneed him hard in the groin. When he sucked in air, she did it again, a huge jolt straight to the balls. But he didn't back off, didn't do anything but breathe heavy and grip her so tightly against him that she could manage only tiny gasps of air.

He smiled down at her. "I look different, don't I? I feel different. I am different."

She couldn't give a shit. She struggled in his arms.

"A friend shared his blood with me," Tom said.

For one brief moment, Sara froze, looked up at him. "Shared blood ..." Oh God.

That's what she'd missed. The look in Tom's eyes--she'd seen it before. The cuts, the look of pleasure in Pearl's eyes--she had fed too.

"Jealous?" Tom leaned down and ran his tongue over the skin at the base of her neck. "I'd be happy to show you how it's done."

Sara struggled against him, but her breath was shallow in her lungs.

"My fangs aren't as sharp as some, but they'll get the job done." He chuckled.

"Too bad your favorite patient won't be able to witness your transform--"

"What?" she managed to utter. "What patient?"

"The one who always comes before the rest of us."

Gray? God, no. Her eyes searched Tom's maniacal ones. "Where . . . ?"

"Why do you love him so much?" A snarl erupted from Tom's throat and he released her, gripped her shoulders and pushed her back, rammed her against the wall.

Gasping for breath, her back screaming in pain, Sara cried, "What did you do?

Tell me right now, you sick fuck!"

Tom slipped his hand under her chin, his palm putting pressure on her windpipe.

"I would have given you anything. Done anything for you. That vegetable couldn't even say your name."

Kicking out, she fought wildly, like a cat. But it was no use. She was losing air, losing oxygen.

Then suddenly, Tom was yanked off her. She slumped to the floor, grasping her throat, trying to pull air into her lungs, feeling as though she might vomit and pass out simultaneously.

"No, Alexander." Nicholas's voice, somewhere in her mind. "He's mine."

"He touched her."

Alexander. He's here. She pulled in air and cried, "Gray . . . ?"

"He's fine, Sara," Alexander said. "Dillon brought him to me."

"Trainer is mine," Nicholas growled, his mind single-tracked.

"No," Sara said, gasping for breath, pulling herself up, stumbling over to where Alexander held Tom by the throat. "He's mine." She grabbed the knife from Alexander's waist. "I'm done with this bullshit."

Tom grinned as she approached. "You don't have the guts, bitch."

Without deliberation, Sara hauled back and ran the blade deep into Tom's stomach. The effort exhausted her and she dropped into a chair.

"Oh God, Sara." Alexander gathered her into his arms, held her against him like a child.

In the back of her mind, Sara heard the snap of a neck being broken and a crack of bones as Nicholas finished him off.

"Take her home," Nicholas said quickly. "I'll clean this up."

"Do not dispose of him. We need his memories."

"Where are you going to exit? Roof?"

"Window."

"I'm on it."

Tucked into Alexander's chest, Sara heard the cut of glass, felt the blast of frozen air, then the moment of weightlessness before they were flying.

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