I woke to the low murmur of voices, my brain filled with cotton. For a few moments, I lay there, eyes closed, listening to the comforting sound of one in particular. That deep, male voice lulled me in and out.

"...very fortunate, indeed. Have Zola scout the location. It's too much to hope Hassan is alive, but we owe it to him to try. At the least, we will gain answers."

My fingers twitched, pressing against soft fabric. My body was cocooned in a delicious cloud. Fluffy and warm.

"She'll be quick about it," came the answering voice.

"Yes, we may be ready to move against them tonight—tomorrow at the latest." A few more murmurs were exchanged. My brain began to sharpen, thoughts crystalizing one after another. I recalled who the voices belonged to. Then, why I was hearing them—why I was here. That awful realization brought an ache radiating from my neck, towards my left shoulder and jawbone.

My eyelids fluttered in time with my pulse.

"She's waking up," came Laurent's voice. That answered one question. He could hear my heartbeat signaling to him. "Go and speak with Zola."

"Yes, Sire."

My eyes flew open, fixing on the coffered ceiling overhead. I swallowed against the sandpaper feeling in my mouth. My tongue seemed to stick to the roof—

"Here."

A hand slipped beneath my head and shoulders, lifting me. So gently. The rim of a glass pressed to my lips. I opened instinctively. Cool water met my tongue. I took a few swallows and whimpered.

"I know it hurts," Laurent said, keeping his voice low, calm.

My hand rose to my neck, landing on a padded bandage. The events from earlier sharpened. I took a gasping breath, finally remembering everything. His hand retreated. My head sank back into the pillow.

It hurt too much to turn, but my eyes strained and found Laurent sitting at my beside. His broad, muscled body leaned forward to regard me. He was in a billowy cotton tunic, rolled to the elbows, like something from the cover of a romance novel.

"You...you saved...my life..." I managed, my voice scratchy. Talking hurt, even though the injury was on the side of my neck, at my pulse. I wasn't about to thank him; he was the reason I was in this mess. But I wasn't above acknowledging it. Especially after his warning from last night, his claim that he'd let me die and save himself the trouble.

His gaze darted over my face.

"The doctor informs me you will make a full recovery." A breath blew from my lips. "Unfortunately, the damage was extensive. I fear that when I ripped Henrietta off of you, she took some flesh with her." I groaned, disgusted, devastated. "So, there will be scarring. But something tells me that is of no consequence to you."

I closed my eyes, processing. Did it matter? I was alive. Given everything, scarring seemed to be the least important thing to worry about.

"You'll be stuck in bed for a few days, I'm afraid." He didn't sound too worried about that aspect.

I managed an angry huff, though I'd wanted to laugh. "Can't...can't escape if...I'm stuck..."

"No, I daresay you cannot. Do you recall our conversation before you fell unconscious?" His piercing silver gaze bored into me—a warning. I swallowed, then nodded. "Good. I'm curious, how long have you lived in Braxton?"

I didn't want to give him anything about myself. Didn't owe him anything. Still, I said, "Three years."

"And before that?"

"Tioa...City." It was a small agricultural town a couple of hours east. Most people hadn't even heard of it.

He looked thoughtful, running a hand along his jaw. "I found you at a college party. You are a university student, then?"

"Yes, a spoiled party brat." I threw his words back at him, still salty about the sting. Technically, I had graduated. But I was enrolled to begin graduate studies in the fall.

He made a humming noise, not bothering to refute what I'd said.

"I take it the rumors about vampires and sunlight weren't actually true," I said, bitterly.

He huffed. "Obviously."

"So, it doesn't bother you then?"

He shrugged. "It's annoying, more so for vampires than humans. But we can manage. Sunglasses help."

I held back a sneer. How stupid, to assume they wouldn't catch me. To assume they'd be tucked away in coffins. That I'd had a fighting chance. That's why Laurent had left my door unlocked.

I swallowed. He hadn't been the only one making hasty, inaccurate assumptions. I considered my words in front of the manor, about him sleeping in the basement in a coffin. How often did he face snarky comments from people who weren't like him? Perhaps that was why he'd reacted so coldly. Then again, did it matter? Did I really care? The last thing I wanted, was to understand this– "You should get some rest. I'll leave you now." He stood. In a flourish, the chair was returned to the breakfast table. He paused at my door. "Someone will be by later, to check on you. Good day, Miss Shaw."

I waited until I was certain he was gone, before allowing my gaze to blur. A tear slid from the corner of my right eye, down my temple. Another followed, until silent sobs wracked my body. It hurt, but I couldn't help it. My whole body ached, from getting slammed against the ground, from running barefoot, from getting a chunk eaten out of my neck. But that wasn't why I cried.

A soft knock sounded.

I cursed, wiping at my eyes. "Come in," I croaked.

Zola slipped in. I tucked my hands beneath the comforter, blowing out a breath.

"Oh, darling," she softly cooed, coming over to sit on the side of my bed. She placed a bottle of painkillers on the nightstand before reaching out to brush a fresh tear from the corner of my eye. "Everything will be all right, you'll see." She paired that with a kiss to my forehead. The gesture was tender, like a mother kissing a child.

My heart clenched. I wanted to cry all over again.

"No, it won't," I croaked, petulant. "Nothing will be all right."

"Oh, stop it," she said, voice firming up. "He doesn't deserve your tears. No one does. You're stronger than this—you have no choice but to be strong. You are an amplifier. There is no easy road ahead of you."

While I hated the truth in her words, she spoke them out of concern. I didn't mind tough love when it came from the right place. I swallowed.

"There, that's better." She patted me through the comforter.

"Why...why are you being so nice to me?"

She huffed. "Because Laurent is an asshole. He's often cruel. He forgets that there are more problems in the world than his own. But..." She sighed. "He hasn't had much choice in the matter. It is a heavy responsibility, being the head of a great household."

"A household?"

"House Sarkas." Perhaps she read the curiosity on my face, because she continued. "We are the second oldest vampiric household in the world, and arguably, the strongest, perhaps even the greatest. The houses have been dying for centuries. A thousand years ago there were nearly fifteen. Now? A mere five. Laurent has kept ours from dying out for a very, very long time."

"Oh." was all I could manage.

"Yes, you do not keep a household alive without cruelty, cunning, strength."

When she put it that way, I was taken aback. He hadn't been...completely awful to me. Hard and unyielding, yes. Selfish, obviously, doing what was best for him. But he could have locked me up in chains, mistreated me, hurt me. Maybe that was coming. I glanced around, taking in my beautiful surroundings, the level of comfort he'd offered me—

"Now, what you need is something to take your mind off things while you're stuck in bed. I'm afraid we won't get that shopping spree I promised today." She didn't mention I was the reason for that—that it was my attempt to escape that landed me in bed in the first place. "How about some television, hmm?"

I frowned. A vampire dressed from the roaring twenties—yes, she was still in her glitzy gown—asking if I wanted to watch TV felt absurd. She opened the nightstand drawer and fished out two remotes. She clicked one.

"Oh," I breathed.

A humming filled the air as a television screen rose from the wooden stand at the end of the bed. Her mouth twitched. "I'm guessing you weren't expecting that?" I shook my head. "Here, you can lower and raise it with this remote. This is the one for the TV. The apps are programmed in, so you can watch whatever you want, or just plain cable too."

I managed a weak okay.

"I've got a few matters of business, but I'll be home later to check on you again, yes?"

My gaze fixed on her face, her delicate features, tiny button nose, large, dark eyes. I nodded, appreciative. "Thank you," I whispered.

She helped me take a couple of painkillers, lifting me gently the way Laurent had, then left. I waited until she was gone to stagger to my feet, my movements weak and shaky, and visit the bathroom.

Everything hurt. I practically peed myself trying to get my leggings down. But I managed.

I collapsed back into bed, gracelessly throwing the covers back over my body. Grabbing the remote, I turned the TV on and began flipping through the channels. I settled on a broadcast chick-flick that was already half over. For a few minutes, I tried to keep up. To distract myself from thinking about everything else. From facing the hopelessness of it. My eyes began to droop, the sound lulling me to sleep.

Dozing felt good. Offered the escape I needed, craved. The light in the room changed, but I was only vaguely aware of it. Entire hours slipped by in blissful oblivion until—

"...start our evening news to bring you an update on last night's murder at the Yoshiki mansion."

Yoshiki...my eyes blinked open.

The television blurred, coming into view. I watched, still hazy with sleep, as a newscaster began reporting on site. The familiar Yoshiki mansion materialized, swarming with news vans and police. My brain sharpened, a furrow forming between my brows. "There have been no answers, as of yet. Investigators are still at work, interviewing those present. Daniel's body was found in one of the guest bathrooms, neck broken—"

Neck broken?!

Buzzing filled my ears. My mind darted back to last night, to the moment Laurent had burst into the room. Oh, God!

Don't worry about him. Laurent's words came back to me. They repeated over and over, faster and faster. He'd lied to me! That fucking bastard had lied to me. My fingers curled around the comforter, and despite the pain, I sat up.

Laurent was a fucking liar.

You do not keep a household alive without cruelness, cunning, strength, Zola had said.

I blinked.

"...claim it was a drunken accident, that he must have slipped and fell. However, there were several witnesses that saw him go into the bathroom with a young woman." The reporter glanced down at an index card. "Lily Winifred Shaw remains at large, suspect in the possible murder. If you know anything about this woman,"—a photo of me, a fucking photo, flashed onto the screen—"authorities recommend calling this number."

Bile clawed up my throat. I was going to throw up. It was going to hurt, but—no. I took a deep breath, then another, and another, trying to calm my roiling stomach.

My body went numb—completely numb. Muscle tremors came afterward as I started to shake. Daniel Burgos was dead, and I was the last person seen with him.

"Oh, fuck!" I cried, forcing myself to move.

The covers were ripped away. I glanced down at myself—barefoot, dressed in a pair of leggings and a different T-shirt than earlier. I gathered my strength, ready to raise hell.

The door was unlocked. I left my room, wandering through the manor. I opened doors, peeking into bedrooms, sitting rooms, and bathrooms. I went floor by floor.

Laurent looked up when I barged into his office, though he didn't appear surprised. There wasn't a single shard of emotion in his empty expression. "Miss Shaw, you should be rest—"

"You lied to me," I snarled, letting my anger, my sense of betrayal, color my words. He glanced down at his laptop, then calmly shut it before looking back up at me. "You fucking lied to me, Laurent. You killed Daniel. I asked and you told me not to—"

"Daniel Burgos was a liability," he explained, like he would to a child. There was zero remorse.

"You killed him. And now I'm wanted as a suspect in his murder."

"An inconvenience, yes." The look he paid me, with those handsome, otherworldly features, said everything. I was utterly insignificant to him. A fly he wanted to swat away.

"Are you kidding me?" My teeth ground together. "That's it? That's all you have to say, you heartless asshole? You could have—I don't know—used some kind of vampire magic on him, or something. You didn't have to kill him."

"What is it, Miss Shaw, that you wish to hear?"

I gaped at him. "I don't know. An apology might be a start. My credibility is at stake—I'm enrolled in BU's Ph.D program in the fall—"

I cut myself off. A new realization sank in. Oh, my God. Oh my fucking God. The air whooshed out of my lungs, taking my strength with it. My neck throbbed. I placed a hand over the bandage, as if to sooth the pain.

Laurent's eyes darted over me, a measure of softness creeping into them. Then it vanished like it hadn't been there.

"Return to your rooms, Miss Shaw."

"What—no! This isn't...you expect me to just...?"

Just...what? What did I honestly think would happen, in confronting him? Laurent was a vampire. Not just any vampire. He was the head of House Sarkas.

My stomach sank.

He stared at me, expression unyielding. I opened my mouth again, then closed it.

This morning, I'd been brutally attacked. I'd had my throat ripped open. I'd seen Laurent rip the heart out of that same vampire. Rip her heart out. Shove his hand in and pull it free like he was gardening, like it was a noxious weed that needed eradicating. He'd done it so casually, so effortlessly...

An embarrassed flush crept across my cheeks. I swallowed, backing up a step. Then another.

"Good night, Miss Shaw." His voice was low, his expression almost...curious. Like he was wondering what my thoughts were.

I turned on my heel and fled.

Back in my rooms, I shut off the TV. Despite my exhaustion, my pain, I began to pace. An abrupt knock cut me short. My muscles tensed, coiled tight, ready to spring. "Who is it?"

"Vittorio, Miss Shaw."

"Oh. Uhm. Come in?"

There was a hesitation, then the door swung open, revealing the driver—or whatever he actually was. Vittorio swept into the room, his lean frame dressed in a pair of slacks, black button down rolled to his elbows, and sleek dress shoes. He was striking, though not necessarily handsome. His nose, I noticed, was slightly bent.

"Don't vampires have healing abilities?" I blurted, then snapped my mouth shut.

"Indeed. We do." He hesitated and then, "Your dinner, Miss Shaw. If you are hungry?" He glanced about, then strode to the table and set down the tray. I smelled it almost immediately, the fragrance filling the room. My eyes took in the silver platter cover, glass of wine, and a basket covered with a white cloth. My stomach chose that moment to rumble. When was the last time I'd eaten? The cucumber sandwiches. "Was that you?"

"Pardon, Miss Shaw?" He took another step back, staring at me. I could discern nothing from his neutral expression.

"The tea sandwiches," I clarified. He hesitated, then nodded. "And this?" He nodded again, placing his hands casually behind his back. "They were...they were really good, actually," I found myself saying.

"Most excellent." His calm voice didn't match his words.

"And this?" I gestured towards the tray.

"Seared salmon in a beurre blanc, wild rice, and yellow squash." My mouth fell open. "If it is not to your liking, Miss Shaw, I would be happy to prepare—"

"No. I mean, it sounds delicious. I just—I didn't think—do vampires eat normal food."

"Indeed, Miss Shaw." He lifted an unamused brow. "But our tastes are quite refined, as you can imagine." A small laugh burst from my chest. I could absolutely imagine. "I wasn't sure if you'd prefer wine, or another cocktail. That came from Master Laurent's collection. There is more left in the bottle, if you wish—what, may I ask, is that look for?"

I schooled my features and strode across the room, lifting the plate cover. The scent of cream and fish and rice smacked me in the face, accompanied by the herbs he'd used. I loved cooking, but my measly finances never afforded anything this nice. Something straight from a multi-star dining menu.

"This is probably going to be the nicest meal I've ever had." I replaced the cover and turned, only to find that same, arched brow, lifted. "Do you do all the cooking?"

"I have served House Sarkas for a very long time—yes. Along with a number of other duties."

My forehead furrowed. "Are you like...a servant or something?"

He huffed, affronted. "Miss Shaw, that is an outdated term, one that suggests a low status." He hesitated. "I suppose if you must assign a comparison, a butler might be more apt? Though, even that doesn't quite cover everything."

"Oh..." I managed.

"Have you need of anything else?" He took another step back, obviously impatient to remove himself from my presence. I swallowed but ignored the thought.

"It's not, like, poisoned or anything?" I asked. I was mostly joking.

His look of disgust turned to indifference. "No, Miss Shaw. I assure you, it is perfectly fine. Anything else?"

"No, thank you."

He gave a nod, then disappeared, closing the door behind him.

Okay, maybe I should have kept the poison comment to myself. Especially if he'd gone to all this work to prepare such a fine meal for me. I could only wait another moment before dropping into a chair at the table. I began uncovering my food, like opening a precious gift. The basket held warm bread. I lifted a crust of it to my face and inhaled. It was homemade, soft on the inside but crusty on the outside.

Had he baked this just for me?

I dismissed the thought. Why would I warrant that kind of effort? This was probably something he'd made for Laurent, leftovers perhaps, and scrounged up when it came time to feed me.

Even still, I wasn't going to let that sour my experience. There'd been a time when food was scarce. When I'd gone days without anything to eat. I knew how to accept what was given to me. Accept it and be grateful.

I began shoveling food into my mouth, groaning. It was good, so good. The squash medallions, perfectly seared, with a hint of butter. I inhaled everything on my plate, using the bread to sop up the remaining sauce, before sighing with contentment, my body going limp. The wine, I savored, sipping it until it was gone. It went a long way to take the edge off my pain.

I was tempted to take Vittorio up on his offer for more, but at that moment, a fresh wave of fatigue fell over me. It was all I could do to keep my eyelids open. I groaned—I wouldn't be a lazy slob, especially on the off chance that Vittorio had actually made this for me. So, I replaced everything onto the tray and carried it downstairs.

I found the kitchen after wandering about. It was state-of-the-art, with stainless steel appliances, an industrial grade cook stove, and miles of granite countertops. A giant island stood in the middle, home to an elegant, multi-tiered fruit basket.

Vittorio looked up, caught off guard.

"Miss Shaw? Is something wrong?"

"Oh, no. I just..." I trailed off, walking over to the sink.

"Place them there," he said, brow furrowed. "I'll take care of them."

"But I can—"

"I will manage the dishes, Miss Shaw." His tone was sharp.

"Okay," I said, setting the tray beside the sink. "It was really good, by the way. Delicious, actually. Thank you. I thought about having more wine, but I think I'm going to pass out." He didn't say anything. I looked at where he stood, eying him. "Are you...making bread?" He tipped his head in answer. His hands were covered in flower, submerged in a ball of dough. There was something about his casual stance—"You like cooking and baking, don't you?"

"I enjoy it, yes. Will that be all, Miss Shaw?"

"Well, since you ask..." A mischievous grin came over my lips. He arched an eyebrow. "How are you with sweets and such?"

He tutted. "That you should even ask—"

"I would kill for a cinnamon roll," I admitted. "The gooey kind, you know? With frosting?" His mouth twitched. "Not, like, immediately. But...maybe when you've got nothing better to do, and feel like baking something?"

"Duly noted, Miss Shaw. Anything else?"

I shook my head, backing from the room. "Thank you, Vittorio."

"My pleasure. Good night." If I wasn't mistaken, his voice had somewhat softened towards me by the end of our conversation. That made a small smile play with my lips.

I walked back through the manor, satiated, exhausted. When I returned to my room, it wasn't quite eight p.m. My eyes were already fluttering closed. I managed to make it to the bathroom, forgoing a shower—I wasn't sure about my bandage—before collapsing into bed. All I could do was take a couple more painkillers before my eyes closed for good, whisking me into a deep sleep.