thieves, or spy central, or resistance cell, or wherever the heck he operated from, she had a window of opportunity to break free.
Or so she hoped. He wasn’t letting her stray an inch, keeping a hard grip on her arm. Talia made the trip down the stairs with the Ruger pressed into her ribs and her hands wrenched behind her back, wrists cuffed. The position made her shoulders ache.
It was awkward going, step-by-step, Lore never letting her get more than half a pace ahead. Their feet shuffled and echoed as they passed from landing to landing, neither speaking a word—Talia because she refused to let her voice show her fear. That just turned some bastards on.
Lore was letting the Ruger do his talking for him. Man, she hated the strong, silent, carry-the-big-gun type. Worse, she was fairly sure he wasn’t short on brains. Silent didn’t mean stupid. In his case, she was willing to bet the opposite.
The fluorescent lights in the stairwell hummed and flickered, the harsh glare showing every gum wrapper, every bit of chipped paint. She was starting to get dizzy from staring down so many identical flights of stairs. By her count they were halfway to the parking garage, where she would no doubt be stuffed into the trunk of a car and driven off to whatever new outrage the universe had planned.
But isn’t that what you deserve? If Michelle hadn’t taken you in, she’d still be alive. Just by being there, didn’t you murder her as surely as if you’d swung that sword yourself? And she wasn’t the first casualty, the first loved one you destroyed.
A stab of despair suddenly robbed her knees of strength. She sagged a moment, stumbling. Lore grabbed her arm and heaved her toward the sixth-floor fire-exit door.
“Where are we going?” She should demand answers, proudly rage against him, but instead her voice sounded breathy and weak. She had to fight, but she was drowning in grief.
He paused a moment to make sure the hallway was empty before marching her from the stairwell into the hall. “I’m locking you up, remember?” he muttered.
For a second, incredulity trumped everything else. “In your condo?”
“What do you want? A crypt? Sorry, not available.”
A sick fear jolted through her. Keeping a prisoner took soundproofing, locks, privacy. It wasn’t a spur-of- the-moment project.
She swallowed hard. “Keeping girls locked up is your special hobby?”
“Shut up.” He shoved her against the wall, the gun between her shoulder blades while he unlocked his door. “Don’t even think about making a noise. Vampires are hard to kill, but they still break.”
Her cheek pressed against the wallpaper, Talia gazed longingly down the hallway, willing with all her might for a neighbor to wander into view.
But no one ever rescued her. She just wasn’t that kind of girl. You’re a monster. She could feel a tear leaking down her cheek, but she didn’t dare move. Save me, save me, save me. She could hear Lore breathing, rattling keys in his left hand.
She could hear that his heartbeat was slightly fast, as if taking a captive was the exercise equivalent of a brisk walk. Her window of escape opportunity was closing fast, but there wasn’t a damned thing she could do while the Ruger was still planted firmly against her spine.
She tried to care, but all she could see in her mind’s eye was Michelle’s dead body. Why did I let her try to help me? Why couldn’t I just leave her alone?
“Consider this your formal invite.” He grabbed her above the elbow and pushed her through the door. Talia stumbled. His fingers tightened, keeping her from spilling forward. “Sorry.”
He let her go as she leaned on the corner of the wall, steadying herself. Lore’s apology had been automatic. At some time in the past, manners had been drilled into him. That made her feel just a little bit better. Too bad that innate sense of etiquette didn’t extend to, say, not handcuffing a girl on first acquaintance.
Is it anything more than you deserve?
Now she could hear the police sirens again. Rack lights splashed on the thin drapes, showing the first squad cars had arrived. But who had called? Lore hadn’t had time. Perhaps another neighbor had found Michelle while investigating the sound of their scuffle? Or maybe the killer himself had called, anxious for his fifteen minutes of fame?
Lore had gotten her away from the crime scene just in time. She was safe from the law. But really, how safe was that? Talia looked around, sick with anxiety.
She saw at a glance the layout of Lore’s place was the exact image of Michelle’s. Corner suite, even the same color of paint—except these walls weren’t splattered with gore. Remembering what lay upstairs sent a hot, queasy wave through her. Lore took her arm again, pulling her to the left.
“Hey! Take it easy. You’re leaving a bruise,” she snapped, summoning some attitude, but her words were faint.
“Vampires heal.” But he let go, instead poking the gun in her ribs. “That way.”
Lore propelled Talia into a dark room and flipped on the overhead light. Oh, Lord, it’s his bedroom.
He wasn’t Mr. Tidy. The queen-sized bed was made, its navy comforter dark against a brass bed frame, but clothes, magazines, and other junk littered the floor in the basic single male decorating scheme. Her heel caught on a wadded-up sock.
“Onto the bed,” he ordered.
Onto the bed? Not bloody likely!
Forgetting the gun, Talia twisted away to face him. A furious tingling crept up her limbs, the shock of just too much emotion. She was either going to throw up or slug him the moment her hands were free. “What kind of male fantasy bullshit is this?”
“Fantasy?” His heavy-browed scowl fragmented, drifting into embarrassment.
Something inside her snapped. All of a sudden, Talia’s nerve was back. So what if she was in handcuffs? She’d give him the fight of his life. “You sick bastard.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” He gave her a shove that made her sit with a bounce on the soft mattress. “I don’t do dead people.”
Her arms pinned behind her, Talia struggled to stay upright. The mattress was one of those poofy pillow-top things. “Then what are we doing here?”
“This is my private territory. No one comes here unless they’re invited.”
Anger stabbed through her. “Your personal den of iniquity, huh?”
“More like the one place I can get some peace and quiet. Or used to be. Now there’s a vampire in my bed.”
“I’m not in it yet, bud.”
His expression dripped irony. “I always forget the chocolates and flowers.” Lore holstered the gun and pulled a handcuff key from his jeans pocket.
“That’s more like it.” Talia turned so he could reach her wrists.
She felt his fingers working with deft efficiency. Her right wrist came free. She flexed her arm, making sure it still bent in all the right places. Then she felt him moving her left arm and heard a metallic snick.
“Hey!” she yelled, squirming around to see what he’d done. He’d fastened the empty half of the cuffs to the heavy brass post framing the headboard. Now she was chained to his bed. Oh, gag me!
He stepped back, his expression hard. “You may as well get comfortable.”
Her stomach plunged. “This is my prison cell?”
“As I said, the crypt was already booked.”
Oh, shit! She gave the cuffs a jerk because, well, it was mandatory in the shackled prisoner handbook. Metal grated on metal, the silver of the cuffs biting into the skin of her left wrist. She took in a breath that rattled with fear, but she forced her voice to steadiness. “You don’t have the fur-lined model, huh? Those would be a bit more comfy.”
His eyes narrowed. “Not my thing. Bondage is a bit too much like my day job.”
The words felt oddly like a joke she wasn’t getting. Maybe it was something cultural. He had an odd, halting way of speaking—no accent, but she was willing to bet that English wasn’t his first language.
Talia clenched her fist to hide the fact her fingers were shaking. “What exactly is your day job? Village executioner?”
