“Unhook me and empty the bag into the bottle.” He shoved his arm out, blood still flowing. I wanted to argue. To cringe away. But I wouldn’t let him bleed any more than he already had.

With now-practised hands, I grabbed his thick cuff and pinched the sterile coupling. Twisting counterclockwise, the seal broke with a soft click. A few droplets of blood smeared the silver, but I dabbed them up with gauze.

Nausea gushed through me as he swayed backward, planting a palm against the side table. Needing to distract myself—so I didn’t wrap my arms around him—I blurted any stupid question. Mainly to stop myself from begging him to talk to me. To demand to know what we were now, after we’d...you know.

“The permanent access points in your veins. How do they work?”

He chuckled under his breath, sounding so tired he was almost drunk. “Why? Is that vial not enough? Are you trying to figure out how to get more the next time I’m unconscious?”

I didn’t even have the capacity to scowl or scold him. It took all my willpower not to throw up as I cut the top of the blood bag and squeezed his blood into the small glass bottle. “Forget it.”

Was he deliberately putting distance between us again? Because it was working.

He watched me transfer the blood, his hand massaging his forearm above that nasty cuff. I expected him to stay quiet—to drag out the scratchy silence like he was so good at, but he murmured, “Most permanent ports are on the chest, close to the heart.” His lips twisted. “However, my heart is already host to a different kind of device.” Holding both hands up, he shrugged. “The wrists and forearms have multiple veins in them. The stabilising cuffs mean I can’t remove or accidentally dislodge their access.” He dropped his arms. “They can drain my heart blood whenever they damn well want, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

His voice turned arctic, his hands balling.

I shuddered. “I’m suddenly very sorry I asked.”

“You’re squeamish.” He laughed again before pinching the bridge of his nose as if he suffered the same headache I did. “How ironic.”

I didn’t know what was ironic about that.

And I didn’t want to stay in this horrid place any longer.

Screwing on the lid, I planted the vial full of thick red liquid in front of him. “All done. Can I go now?”

Lowering his arm, he stood to his full height and captured my eyes with his. “Drink it.”

My jaw fell open. “Drink it. What, now? When it’s still...warm?” I swallowed hard, fighting, fighting, fighting against the urge to be sick.

“I gave you some straight from the source last night. This is no different.”

“If you gave me some last night, why do I need more?” I swallowed hard. “I feel fine.”

“Liar. You’re wobbling all over the place. And I need you strong.”

“I’m fine.”

“Drink it,” he commanded coldly.

“No way.” I backed up, shaking my head. “I can’t.”

“Anyone else would gulp that back in a heartbeat—or sell it to the highest bidder.”

“Then keep it.” I eyed up the sink to toss it away, regardless of the waste. “I don’t—”

He stepped into me, caging me against the cupboard. “You already know it helps with whatever issues you have. You also already know it’s the only painkiller I can offer you.” Snatching it up, he forced it into my grip. “Drink it.”

“I’m good.” I tried to give it back. “Thanks, though.”

He slammed both hands on the cupboards, trapping me against his body. “What if I insist?”

I clutched the tiny bottle, flinching at his closeness. “I still won’t agree.”

His head tipped down, his forehead almost kissing mine. “What if I held you down and poured it down your throat?”

I tried to morph into the cupboard, his presence burning me alive. “Then you’d probably end up wearing it because I’d throw it all back up again.”

His gaze dropped to my mouth.

My heart stopped beating.

The moment stretched on and on and on, but then he finally nodded, pushed away, and stepped back wearily. “Fine.” He raked a hand through his thick hair. “I won’t force you because I know what that’s like.” His eyes snapped to mine, his face filling with harsh command. “But you will keep it on you at all times. If you become borderline catatonic, then you take it. Do you hear me?”

My heart translated his order as concern, all while common sense tried to keep me in- line. “What are you up to? Why do I get the feeling something’s wrong?”

He sucked in a breath as if fortifying himself. “Nothing’s wrong. Not yet anyway.”

“Does that mean something is going to be wrong?”

“Possibly. That’s why I can’t have you being a hindrance.”

“A hindrance?” I frowned, studying him. He seemed so different today and not just because he was dealing with the aftereffects of blood loss. He almost seemed resigned to something but also tightly wound as if going to battle. “I can’t do this anymore. What aren’t you telling me? What the hell is going on?”

He shot me a look and moved as steadily as he could toward the desk tucked on the office side of this strange hospital room. Without a word, he ducked, wrenched out the bottom drawer, and placed it on the tabletop. Angling it sideways, he ran his hand beneath it and gritted his teeth as he found whatever he was looking for.

The sound of tape ripping filled the room as he pulled off a small silk pouch from the underside and pocketed it.

I stepped toward him, my ears ringing thanks to rapidly building stress. “What’s that?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Leaving the drawer on the desk, he headed toward one of the filing cabinets. His gaze flashed to mine. “Did you ever take that silver pill Whisper delivered to you that first night?”

“What pill...?” A memory of a tin case and an oversized glossy silver pill filled my mind. “Oh no...” I shook my head. “I didn’t.”

“Do you have it with you?”

“It’s on the bedside cabinet in—”

“Forget it.” Opening the top drawer, Lucien yanked out my rucksack.

“Hey.” My eyes popped wide. “You have my bag—”

“Catch.” He threw it to me.

I caught it as he strode to the door.

“Come along,” he barked.

“Where are we going?” I slung the familiar tatty strap onto my shoulder, tucking the vial of blood into the small side pocket.

“To kill someone.”

My feet tripped over one another. “Eh...shouldn’t you be going to bed? You need to sleep like you always do after an afternoon in here.”

“I can rest later.”

“Murder is that important to you?”

He looked at me as he yanked open the door and prowled down the corridor. “I thought you’d learned by now that murder is my favourite pastime.”

I shuddered as Whisper appeared from wherever he’d been, attaching himself to Lucien.

I chased after both of them, my nose wrinkling. I really, really didn’t like his energy. Didn’t like the overall tension or that Whisper kept flicking looks between us as if he sensed it too.

Why had Lucien given me back my things?

Who was he going to kill?

Hadn’t he already gotten rid of the assassins?

I really didn’t want to watch another woman die today.

Besides, it was daylight.

He was a creature of routine.

He should be returning to his window seat and a good book if he wasn’t going to bed.

Yet none of this made any sense.

Was it my fault?

Had I disturbed him that much by coming on his hand and then giving him the same release?

Because...that wasn’t entirely my fault.

It’d taken two to play—

Did he regret it?

Did he hate me for overstepping, and I’d destroyed whatever peace he’d found?

By the time we stepped into the impressive foyer, I was a wreck. A headachy, teary mess who really needed a nap.

Lucien groaned as he wrenched open the double doors and thunder rumbled. Clouds piled on top of one another, turning white to stormy grey.