With her hands still bound behind her back, Megan struggled to sit up as the two vampires battled each other. The smell of blood and scorched flesh mingled with the scent of sea and salt, making her stomach churn.

Villagrande hurled Rhys against the wall with such force, Megan was surprised the wood didn’t crack from the impact. With a feral cry, Rhys sprang to his feet and lunged at Villagrande, his hands like claws, his fangs dripping blood.

It was a battle unlike anything she had ever seen. Like two superheroes, they flung each other to and fro, fangs and claws rending preternatural flesh that healed almost instantly. Blood splattered on the walls, the ceiling, the deck.

As blood sprayed over her face and robe, Megan cowered against the bed, praying that Rhys would be the victor even as she wondered how much more punishment he could take.

She let out a cry as Shirl struck Rhys from behind, opening a gash in the back of his head and knocking him off balance. Springing forward, Villagrande seized Rhys by the nape and slammed him to the floor, facedown; then, straddling his back, Villagrande grasped a handful of Rhys’s hair, jerked his head backward and buried his fangs in the side of Rhys’s neck.

Megan glanced at Shirl, but one look at Shirl’s face, contorted with bloodlust, banished all thought of asking for help. Her former friend’s eyes burned with excitement as the scent of Rhys’s blood filled the air.

Megan swallowed the bile rising in her throat. Rhys had told her that vampires rarely fed on other vampires, but Villagrande drank for what seemed like forever, then rose gracefully to his feet.

Moving toward a small desk, Villagrande picked up a long wooden letter opener and tossed it to Shirl. “Finish him and throw him overboard.”

Shifting his focus to Megan, Villagrande lifted a hand to his face, his fingers gingerly probing his scorched flesh. He glared at her for a long moment; then, muttering, “This isn’t over,” he stalked out of the cabin.

Shirl stared after Tomás and then, to Megan’s astonishment, Shirl laid the stake aside and sank her fangs into Rhys’s throat.

Megan stared at Rhys. She had to do something, but what? Clinging to the faint hope that the blood bond she shared with Rhys would somehow give her the strength she needed, she struggled against the rope that bound her wrists.

She didn’t know whether it was the adrenaline coursing through her body, the power of her connection to Rhys, or if the ropes hadn’t been as tight as she’d thought, but one last desperate tug, and her hands slipped free.

Moving as silently as she could, she tiptoed toward Shirl. Sending a quick prayer winging toward heaven, Megan grabbed the letter opener and plunged it into Shirl’s back, aiming for her treacherous heart.

The wood slid through skin and flesh and muscle as easily as a needle through cloth.

Shirl toppled onto the cabin floor without a sound.

Megan didn’t waste time wondering if Shirl was dead. Surprisingly, she didn’t care one way or the other.

Kneeling beside Rhys, she shook his shoulder, gently at first, and then more vigorously. “Rhys! Dammit, Rhys, I need you to get us out of here. Now!” When he didn’t speak, didn’t even twitch, she shook him again, harder. “Rhys! Don’t you dare be dead!”

“I’m already dead,” he muttered.

Relief washed through her when he rolled onto his back, but only for a moment. He was badly hurt. His face was swollen and discolored; blood seeped from the gash in the back of his head, staining the floor beneath him.

“Rhys, we need to go, now.” Knowing that Villagrande could return at any moment, she glanced warily at the door.

“I need…blood.”

She blinked at him, then sighed in resignation. She was the only game in town. Rolling up her sleeve, she offered him her wrist.

His gaze met hers for stretched seconds, and in his eyes she saw regret for what he was asking of her, and gratitude for her willingness to give it to him.

She turned her head away as he drew her arm to his mouth. He drank greedily, the pull of his mouth on her skin both repellant and oddly sensual. He had tasted her before, but this was different. This wasn’t an act of love but survival.

A growl rose in his throat and then, abruptly, he pushed her away.

Megan watched the red fade from his eyes, the bruises vanish from his face. Moments later, he was standing over her, as silent and still as a statue. The hair raised on her arms as he drew on his preternatural power.

“Hang on,” he said, and lifted her into his arms.

Weak from the loss of blood, she rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, her stomach roiling as the world spun out of focus. There was a dizzying sensation of movement, as if she were on an out-of-control roller coaster, a rush of wind in her ears, an overwhelming sense of disorientation, and then nothing.

When her stomach and the world stopped spinning, she opened her eyes. And frowned. “Where are we?”

“Boston.”

“Boston!” She sagged against him. “What are we doing here?”

Rhys jerked his chin toward the house behind them. “This is Erik’s place.”

The house was small and square, with a red brick chimney, bright yellow shutters, a white picket fence, a security screen door, and white bars over the windows, upstairs and down.

The front door opened before Rhys knocked, and Erik peered out at them, a comical look of surprise on his face. “What the hell! What are you doing here?”

“Looking for a place to spend the day,” Rhys muttered. “Can you put us up?”

Rhys could almost see the wheels turning in the other vampire’s head as Erik glanced from Rhys to Megan and back again. Megan looked weak and pale, and he knew Delacourt was wondering if Rhys had started to bring Megan across and then changed his mind.

“Sure, come on in.” Erik stepped aside, then closed and locked the door before following Rhys and Megan into the living room. “Sit down and tell us what happened. Daisy, why don’t you get Megan a glass of wine?”

With a nod, Daisy disappeared into the kitchen.

Rhys eased Megan down on the sofa, then slipped his arm around her shoulders. Her head fell back, and her eyelids fluttered down. It worried him that she looked so pale. Had he taken too much?

Erik lifted one brow. “So?”

“Villagrande kidnapped Megan. I almost got there too late. I owe you a big one. If it wasn’t for that spell you worked on Megan, I think he would have killed her.”

“She looks half-dead now.”

“I needed blood. Villagrande beat the crap out of me.”

“Ah.”

Rhys ran his knuckles lightly over Megan’s cheek. “I was going to let the bastard have the city,” he said quietly, “but I never got a chance to tell him so.”

Daisy glanced at the glass in her hand, then looked at Rhys. “Should we wake her up?”

Rhys shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“I think you should let her rest,” Erik remarked. “She looks exhausted.”

Megan stirred in Rhys’s embrace. “I’m thirsty.”

Rhys took the glass from Daisy and held it to Megan’s lips. “Here you go, love.”

Megan looked up at him, a half smile on her face as she murmured, “Wine is supposed to be good for the blood.”

Rhys shook his head, amazed that she could find humor in the situation, then muttered, “Just drink it.”

Megan drained the glass, then curled up against his side and closed her eyes.

“I think she’ll be all right once she’s had some sleep.” Daisy took the glass from Rhys and set it on a side table.

Rhys nodded.

“I’ll make up the bed in the guest room,” Daisy said. “She’ll be comfortable there. You’re welcome to share our lair in the basement.”

“No, I’m staying with her.”

“Do you think that’s wise, all things considered?” Erik asked.

“Probably not, but I’m not leaving her alone again. If Villagrande finds us, he’ll have to go through me to get to her.”

“Looks like he already did that once,” Erik remarked with a wry grin. “Are you planning to give him a second chance?”

Rhys glared at Delacourt.

Daisy placed her hand on her husband’s arm. “I’m not sure you’re helping.” She looked at Rhys. “You don’t think Villagrande will come here, do you?”

“I hope not.”

“Well, if he does, it’ll be three against one. Four, when Alex gets home.”

“Is he still spending my money?” Rhys had paid Alex O’Donnell two hundred thousand dollars for his help in locating Mariah. He had learned later that Alex had split the money with Daisy.

“Just as fast as he can,” Daisy said with a grin. “Or he was. He’ll he home from his honeymoon tomorrow night.”

“He got married?”

“Last month. They’ve been touring Spain but they’ll be home soon. I’ll have Megan’s bed made up in two shakes.”

A short time later, Rhys carried Megan up the stairs. He waved Daisy away when she offered to help get Megan into bed. “Thanks, but I can do it.”

Megan muttered something incoherent as Rhys eased her out of her bathrobe, noticing for the first time that it was stained with blood. Not all of it was his. He could smell Villagrande on her. “What’d you say?”

“I need a shower. I feel dirty.”

He nodded. If she hadn’t suggested it, he would have. The sooner they washed Villagrande’s stink off of her, the better. “Wait here, I’ll turn the water on.”

Grunting softly, he went into the bathroom and turned on the taps. Standing there, waiting for the water to get hot, he tried to understand how she must feel, but couldn’t. He had killed when necessary and never lost any sleep over it. He knew he had a reputation for being a hard-ass, and sometimes he was, although since Megan had entered his life, he seemed to have lost a little of his edge.

“Nothing like the love of a good woman,” he muttered as he tested the water.