Eternal Hunger (15 page)

She dropped back onto the bed indulgently and pressed her face into his pillow, mindful of the bruise that still stung slightly. Oh God, she thought, breathing him in. He smelled so good, so indescribably good—like coffee, an earthy scent that was hard to describe but that made her feel warm and thirsty, and desperate to stay in bed. It was utterly impossible to deny her attraction to him, her desire for him now, and she wasn’t even going to try. The irony of being caught up in a state of delicious insanity involving vampires, mind travel, and potential danger wasn’t lost on her professional acumen. And yet she was willing to overlook it all if she could just feel that thing she’d felt in Montauk one more time. Tucked inside that ancient lighthouse surrounded by an angry sea, she’d felt completely and totally connected to someone.

It had been a long time.

Sensing the lateness of the morning even with the blackened-out windows, she glanced at the clock. It was nearly six thirty and she was on duty in an hour. She slipped out of bed and headed for the attached bathroom, which continued the minimalist style that Alexander seemed to favor. Gleaming white with chrome accents. For a second, she contemplated showering at the hospital, but her curiosity and her ache to remain close to him had her stripping off her clothes and stepping into the white limestone stall. She glanced around for the showerhead, but saw none. She twisted the faucet handles, hoping for an answer, and in less than an instant, hot water rained down on her from above. Startled, she looked up. The water was falling from a hundred tiny holes in the ceiling tiles. It was magnificent. As she washed her hair, she imagined Alexander beside her, engulfing her small frame with his massive one as the water sluiced over their skin. The intensity of desire that ran through her in that moment concerned her. Granted, fantasizing was a normal, natural part of being human, and for Sara not uncharted waters every other month or so, but the continuous, unbalanced need she had for this man, this nonhuman male, seemed excessive, and, frankly, out of the realm of what she considered normal. Maybe she was under some kind of spell. Vampire voodoo.

Grinning at her idiocy, she quickly finished up and left the bathroom. With a towel wrapped around her, she padded into the large walk-in closet attached to his bathroom, looking for a robe or something that would hold her until she could slip on yesterday’s clothes again. But what she saw there made her pause, made her nearly drop her towel. Her clothes, every piece, every pair of shoes, was either hung up or folded on one side of the closest. He’d brought all her things here, put them beside his own. That intimacy, the sweet, uneasy promise of that gesture, sent a shiver of fascinated apprehension through her. How long did he expect her to stay? How long did he
want
her to stay?

In his room, his bed . . .

The clock on the wall screamed at her to hurry and she piled her hair on top of her head in a loose knot, covered the bruise on her face with a little bit of makeup, then slipped into a black pencil skirt, white sweater, and a pair of heels before grabbing her purse and heading for the door.

Outside in the hallway a young man was furiously working, installing several sets of rather unusual metallic window coverings to the windows. He didn’t look up from his task and acknowledge her so Sara moved on, rounding the corner, hoping to find a staircase nearby. But in her rush, she ran straight into someone. “Oh!” She backed up quickly and apologized. “I’m so sorry. I—”

“It’s all right. No permanent damage done.”

Sara caught her breath enough to see the black-haired woman she’d nearly knocked down. She was a total stranger, but one of the most beautiful women Sara had ever seen. She looked to be somewhere in her early twenties and was a good five inches shorter than Sara, but her face and figure made up for her height. She had very pale skin, eyes the color of sunlit grass, pretty white scarves wrapped around her neck and both wrists, and a simple black dress that accentuated hips and breasts that would’ve made Marilyn Monroe jealous.

She smiled at Sara and stuck out her lovely, pale hand. “Bronwyn Kettler.”

“Hi.” Sara shook the woman’s hand and returned her smile. “Sara Donohue.”

“You’re human?”

The question and its casual delivery made her laugh. “Yes. Which must mean you’re not.”

“There are days I wish I was. How’s that?” The woman’s smile deepened, exposing a lovely set of dimples and the tips of two ultrawhite fangs. “Are you going downstairs? I’ll walk with you.”

“All right,” Sara said as they headed for the stairs. “So, do you . . . work here?”

“No. I’m here for a handfast with the eldest Roman.”

“Handfast?” Sara repeated. The list of vampire vocabulary was growing at a steady pace. Starting a list might be a good idea, she thought.

“It’s a vampire thing,” Bronwyn said, shrugging her shoulders, which caused her very real, very perfect breasts to bounce. Sara had never been jealous of another woman’s top half, but she really wouldn’t mind possessing a rack like that.

“The handfast goes back many, many years,” Bronwyn continued as they walked down the stairs. “You’d probably call it dating. Exclusive dating.”

The captivated haze Sara had been in for the past two minutes abruptly wilted, and she rewound their conversation in her mind until she got to a point of confusion. She stopped on the last step and cocked her head to one side and said, “Wait a second. The eldest Roman?”

Bronwyn nodded. “Alexander.”

Sara’s smile, along with every intimate feeling she’d had in the past half hour, faded. “You’re dating Alexander? For how long—”

“No, no,” Bronwyn corrected quickly. “We’ve never met. We hadn’t a need to. Until now. You see, in our breed, we have true mates—our destined one—and when a
paven
goes through morpho—”

Sara didn’t wait for her finish. “You think Alexander is your true mate.”

The woman lifted her chin confidently. “I do.”

Electric currents of blind jealousy ran through Sara’s body, attacking every muscle, every soft spot of emotion, and her eyes narrowed on the woman she’d only moments ago thought sweet and charming. She’d liked guys before, even felt possessive a time or two. But this, what she was feeling now was altogether different. This had rage behind it, a true fighting spirit, and she wasn’t exactly sure what do with the feeling.

Bronwyn’s concerned gaze moved over Sara’s face. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” she mumbled.
Come on now. Get your shit together, Donohue.
Sara’s gaze caught on the tips of Bronwyn’s fangs and she inhaled deeply. She needed to get out of here, get back to reality for a while—
her
reality. Forcing a thin-lipped smile, Sara nodded at the woman. “Excuse me. I’m running late.”

The woman smiled. “Okay. It was nice to meet you, Sara.”

Right
.
Very nice
. Normally, blurting out sarcasm in her head did wonders for her morale. Not so much today. Seemed she had competition.

Sara left the beautiful vampire on the stairs, walked across the foyer and out the front door into the sunlight.

 

Three hours later, she was embroiled in the dealings of the hospital: new patients, med schedules, group therapy checks, evals . . . Quite honestly, it was a welcome chaos. Here she knew the language, the rules—she ran the show.

“Gray? Are you listening to me?”

Well, not every part of the show apparently.

“Gray?”

Ignoring her and refusing to cooperate, Gray lay flat on his back inside of Walter Wynn’s new high-resolution MRI scanner, while Sara sat on the other side of the glass, doing the job of an MRI tech. Moving in on the territory of other staff members wasn’t standard practice in her hospital, but when it came to patients with PTSD and/or memory trauma, most of the staff understood her penchant for taking over jobs that weren’t normally hers. Sara had to be on hand to witness every movement, every change, and today was no different. It was the first in a series of scans she was performing on three of her patients over the next seven days. As she recounted their traumatic memories, she was going to record the changes in the amygdala—the area of the brain that processed emotional and fearful experiences.

“I need you to hold your breath for a moment,” she said again, this time with undisguised frustration. “Come on, Gray, please.”

But not only did Gray continue to breathe normally, he slipped off his headphones and dropped them on his stomach. Cursing, Sara stabbed at the emergency-shutoff button and sank back in her chair. So, he was getting sick of this, of the tests, of the trials and the experiments? Well, so was she. Tough shit.

She reached out and pounded her fist on the console. What were their other options? Suicide? Sitting around staring into space, heavily medicated for the rest of his life? Not going to happen.

For more than three years, Gray had been a docile patient, wanting her to fix him and bring him back from wherever it was he mentally resided, but in the past six months things had changed—he had become sullen and uncooperative, as if he didn’t want to get better. As if he’d given up.

She leaned in and pressed the button that released the table, watched as he slid out of the scanner, as he sat up and faced her through the glass. Their eyes locked. He was going to fight her—he was going to resist her attempts to help him.

She picked up the phone, dialed. “Tommy, I need a pickup in MRI. I’m done with him for today. I have Lotera and Mills scheduled for scans later this afternoon; you can bring them together.”

When she looked up again, through the glass, Gray was holding the headphones. In under a second, he had them behind his head and in under two, he chucked them right at her. They hit the glass with a bruised thud and dropped to the floor.

Sara stood there, curbing the urge to run into the magnet room and scream at him as though he were an uncontrollable child. He wanted it too—she could see it in his eyes. He wanted her to get angry, to lose control.

He wanted her to fail.

Thankfully, Tommy arrived. He came in to the magnet room and took over. Sara left the console room before them and headed over to the juvenile wing, her nerves frayed. It was part of the job, failures and successes. Couldn’t have one without the other—couldn’t recognize one without the other, but it was a hard truth to accept.

“Hey, Jerry,” Sara said, coming down the hall and pausing outside the door of one of her new patients, Pearl McClean.

The short, stocky male nurse looked up from his charts and smiled. “Doc.”

“How’s she been?”

“Real quiet night. Took her meds. No drama.”

Something Sara always liked to hear. “Any visits?”

“No.”

And something she didn’t. It was another tough truth, but kids who consistently acted out at home, self-mutilated, lied to their parents and were in and out of treatment tended not to have too many visits. Mom and Dad stayed away for a while, to catch their breath and regain their sanity.

Sara pulled back the door and walked into Pearl’s room. She saw the girl right away, lying on her bed, looking up at the ceiling, her straight, pale hair spread around her head like the rays of the sun. At first glance, she appeared peaceful, but as Sara drew near, she noticed that the girl’s body was tense.

Sara sat down on a chair next to the bed. “Hey, Pearl.”

The girl said nothing, kept her eyes skyward.

“How are you feeling today?”

No response.

Sara glanced down at the girl’s chart, checking to see if labs were back and if there had been any communication between Pearl and the nurses during the night. Nothing on the former or the latter, but Sara did see a note regarding the impressive physical improvement of Pearl’s cuts.

“I’d like it if we could talk for a few minutes,” Sara said, reaching out and touching the girl’s shoulder gently. “What do you think about that?”

“Don’t. Touch. Me.” Pearl yanked her arm away, turned her head, and pinned Sara with a venomous stare.

“No problem.” Sara said the words calmly, as though she’d said them a hundred times before. And she had. She gestured toward the girl’s legs with her chin. “I understand you’re healing nicely.”

Pearl’s eyes lost all of their fight and she looked very sad. “How do you know that?”

“The nurse who checked you this morning.”

Pearl’s light brown eyes filled with tears.

“You don’t want your cuts to heal?” Sara asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

The girl shook her head, but said nothing.

“Pearl,” Sara began, her tone gentle, calm. “Do you want to talk to me? Tell me what happened.”

“No.”

“I know you must be feeling scared—”

“You don’t know shit.”

Wow. Okay. Sara shrugged. “I know you’re angry.”

Pearl turned away, fixed her eyes to the ceiling once again.

Sara continued. “I just want to help you.”

“I don’t want your help.”

Sara sat back, tried a different tack, one based solely on the truth. “Just for the record, I know what it feels like to be alone and scared, yet have to keep up some hard-ass front so you don’t look weak.” She saw Pearl’s fists unclench. “I know how it feels to hurt—and honestly, being hurt by someone you care about is—”

“What is it, Dr. Donohue?” Pearl interrupted, turning to look at Sara again.

Sara shrugged, but her tone was all seriousness. “It’s wrong, and it’s not your fault.”

Something flashed in Pearl’s eyes, but Sara didn’t stop to analyze what it was. She was getting somewhere, getting through the girl’s metal-hard exterior and she needed to stay on the path. “You didn’t cause this or ask for it,” Sara said evenly. “I know it may feel like that, but—”

The girl’s laughter halted Sara’s attempt at a dialogue. “You’re embarrassing yourself, you know that?”