Roland—not what one would expect of a crotchety old fart—stepped aside and motioned for them to enter. An inch or so taller than Marcus, he bore the same deep brown eyes and raven hair all gifted ones and immortals boasted. His shoulders, clad in a plain, gray T-shirt, were as broad and muscular as Marcus’s, his hair much shorter. His face, admittedly handsome, remained impassive as he watched them enter.
The interior of the home was bright and cheerful, sparsely furnished and decorated with modern paintings and large flourishing plants.
Ami didn’t know why, but most immortals tended to be minimalists, their homes lacking all of the excess furniture and froufrou items pricey designers tended to cram their masterpiece rooms with on home decorating shows.
“Hi, Marcus,” a woman in the living room called. As petite as Ami, she possessed long brown hair and sparkling hazel eyes. Extremely unusual for a gifted one or immortal.
She approached with a smile, her small feet bare. She wore white, blue, and black-striped pajama bottoms and a white tank top. Her wavy hair was dry at the ends and damp closer to her head.
“Hi, Ami. I’m Sarah. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” Ami responded. Sarah seemed very kind and approachable—the polar opposite of her husband.
“Marcus, put her over here on the sofa where she’ll be more comfortable.”
Marcus lowered Ami onto a comfy dark leather sofa. New tears sprang to her eyes when he scraped the puncture wound under her arm, and she hastily blinked them back, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
Remorse swept across his handsome, though blood-speckled visage. “Roland?”
Marcus’s friend and mentor approached. “What happened?” he asked. “Was my training so lax that you were unable to sneak up on a lowly vampire without his hearing you and calling in reinforcements?”
“Your training,” Marcus drawled, “didn’t allow for the possibility of new Seconds phoning you as you approached the vampires to inform you that the vamps would summon reinforcements if they heard you coming.”
Roland turned a disapproving glare on Ami.
Ami scowled. “It wasn’t me.”
Marcus frowned at Roland. “Not Ami. She’s perfect. The best Second I’ve ever had. I meant Sheldon, Richart’s new Second.”
Sarah groaned and rolled her eyes.
Roland grimaced. “Sheldon is pretty green.”
Ami’s pulse picked up nervously when Roland knelt beside the sofa, far too close for her peace of mind. She damned the fear the monsters had instilled in her when the older immortal hesitated and Marcus moved closer and took her hand.
They must have heard her quickening heartbeat.
Roland’s face and voice softened. “I won’t hurt you, Ami. I’m just going to heal you with my hands. You’ll feel a tingling warmth, then the pain will disappear.”
Surprised by his gentle demeanor, she nodded.
Sarah moved to stand behind the sofa and smiled down at her. “The first time he healed me I thought he was holding a heating pad to my head.”
Marcus smoothed Ami’s hair back from her face. “Turn onto your side, so he can tend the stab wound first.”
Roland would realize there was more than one puncture wound as soon as he touched her. Then Marcus would want to know why she hadn’t mentioned the other and, worse, would discern how much the two wounds he had tended had already shrunk. She needed to get him out of the room.
“Marcus, would you please get me a drink of water?”
When Sarah opened her mouth to offer to fetch it, Ami gave her a quick look.
Marcus didn’t seem to notice, just squeezed her hand and said, “Sure. I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t hurry,” she admonished. “You need your strength to recover from your own wounds.”
He nodded and left the room at mortal speed.
As soon as he was gone, she turned onto her side, drew her shirt up, and yanked down the bandage, revealing both wounds.
Sarah gasped.
Roland muttered a curse and covered the wounds with gentle hands. As Sarah had suggested, heat blossomed as though he instead held a heating pad against her. The agony swiftly eased, then vanished completely as both wounds knitted themselves back together, leaving no sign that they had ever existed other than the dried blood.
Marcus returned with a glass of water as Roland turned his attention to the gash in her hamstring.
“Feeling better?” he asked, kneeling beside Roland and handing her the glass of water.
Ami rolled onto her stomach, giving Roland better access to the back of her thigh, and leaned up enough to sip some water. “Yes.”
Marcus placed a light hand on her back, his eyes on the cut Roland healed.
Relief loosened the knot in Marcus’s shoulders when Roland removed his hand and revealed unblemished flesh.
“Don’t relax yet,” Roland warned. “I’m not finished.”
Brows drawing together, Marcus looked to Ami, who avoided his gaze by drinking more water, then to Roland, whose eyes glowed faintly with anger.
“There’s a lot of bruising, both external and internal,” his friend announced grimly. “Some hemorrhaging, too.” Roland drew the back of Ami’s shirt up almost all the way to her neck.
Fury flooded Marcus. Just like last time, vivid bruises had formed, appearing days old and painting her pale flesh in large, ugly smudges.
Roland began at her shoulders and drew his hands down her narrow back, erasing the fearsome wounds. “Would you please turn onto your back again, Ami?” he asked.
Marcus lifted his hand, let it hover above her as she rolled over, then settled it on her shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She nibbled her lower lip. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“You didn’t want to worry me?” he repeated, voice rising.
“Not any more than you already were,” she confirmed.
“You could have died, Ami!”
“No. It … it isn’t that bad,” she protested and looked to Roland.
“Yes, it is,” he corrected her.
Her lips tightened in annoyance as she narrowed her eyes.
Roland drew her shirt up to just beneath her breasts.
Her stomach was as black and blue and—in some places—puffy as her back. Marcus wondered if she might suffer some illness that made bruises form so quickly. Seth hadn’t seemed concerned about it, but … it didn’t seem right. Normal.
Roland flattened his palms on her stomach.
Ami flinched.
His anger draining away, Marcus shifted, sat on the floor, and leaned in close to settle his chin on the cushion, inches away from her ear. He curled one arm around her head, playing with her hair, and stroked the other up and down her bloodstained arm.
She turned her head, her nose nearly brushing his.
“A little bed rest?” he murmured, repeating her earlier claim that that was all she needed.
She raised her forearm and brushed the back of her hand against his shoulder. “If I’m too much trouble, you’ll want to be rid of me.”
“Don’t count on it. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.” Two weeks with her and he wasn’t sure what he’d do without her. Didn’t want to know what he’d do without her. Her companionship. Her laughter and teasing. Her incredible fighting skills, always at the ready when he needed her.
A stray thought occurred. “How did you know I was in trouble?” She had shown up at precisely the right moment, when vampires were converging on him from all sides, and she had done the same thing a week earlier.
Marcus didn’t believe in coincidences.
“I had a copy of the map Reordon sent you, knew the garages you would be checking and the route you would take.”
“And, what, followed me on a hunch?”
“Perhaps she thought you needed a babysitter,” Roland drawled, his voice strained.
Marcus hadn’t asked Roland if he had suffered any wounds himself that night. If he had and had not yet recovered, the wounds he healed on Ami would open on his own flesh as his energy faltered.
Guilt stilled Marcus’s tongue and prevented him from dealing Roland a scathing retort.
“Don’t hit me,” Roland said.
Still fondling Ami’s hair, Marcus raised an eyebrow. “For suggesting I need a sitter?”
“No, for this. I do it with good intentions.” He looked up at Sarah. “Don’t you hit me either, wife.”
Her eyebrows rose.
Appearing genuinely wary, Roland raised Ami’s shirt above her full breasts, scarcely concealed beneath a tan bra.
Face flushing a deep red, Ami hastily tried to tug her shirt down again.
Marcus reached over to stay her. Severe bruising covered most of her chest around and beneath her heart, indicating significant internal bleeding.
Had she come so close to death then? Had her heart been damaged? How had she continued to remain upright? To fight? What had happened to her in the past that would allow her to endure such wounds so placidly?
“Let him heal you,” he entreated softly.
She stilled.
Sarah shifted restively behind the sofa. “Roland, do you need to feed first?”
“No. I’m fine, love.”
Though she clearly doubted his words, Sarah offered no further protest as he rested a palm over Ami’s heart.
Marcus suppressed the urge to coldcock his friend. He wanted no one’s hands on Ami’s breasts but his own. And his hands had never even touched Ami’s breasts. Except in his fantasies.
The horrible bruising on her chest began to fade and shrink, leaving healthy, alabaster skin behind. When Roland removed his hand, her body was once more perfect in every way.
“Thank you, Roland,” Marcus said, offering him his arm.
Roland grasped it with a weary smile. “Anytime, my friend.”
Sarah circled the sofa and took Roland’s other arm. “Let’s go get some blood in you.”
Roland nodded. As he rose, he staggered a little. Marcus held on to his arm until he regained his balance.
