Slowly.
Lucan had given in to the leverage not because of any friendship or particular loyalty to the former aristocrat. It had been more . . . about the sacrifice the male had been willing to make in that moment when it had counted most. Long before, Kane’s beloved female had been killed, and he had been framed for her murder—which was how he’d ended up in prison. That he had seen fit to destroy himself so that two others could find for their lives what he had not only been cheated of but cursed with imprisonment for, had put the “noble” in “nobility” as far as Lucan had been concerned.
In the horrible confines of the prison camp and the cold, heartless fight for survival they were all locked in, it had seemed like the kind of gesture that had to be honored.
And now they were here, with Kane just hanging on in the subterranean storage room, some internal life force inside of him too stubborn to let him die. Due to their biology, vampires healed without scars unless there was salt involved, and did so faster than humans ever could, but that didn’t mean they were immortal.
Lucan had no regrets except for Kane’s suffering. After all, it felt good to have a principle that you didn’t have to be ashamed of when you were falling asleep. But God, it was hard to feel like a hero considering the state the male was in.
Down at the end of the corridor, he took the stairs one floor lower—and entered the sleeping area. He was surprised there wasn’t a guard front and center, but then he caught movement as someone stepped out of the shadows. There was a pause. Then the male figure disappeared again.
Always watching. Always waiting.
Cursing to himself, he stared down the hundred or so rows of berths, thinking about all the prisoners wedged in like they were objects, rather than living beings. As his anger stirred, he started walking again, crossing through the pools of lights thrown by the ceiling fixtures. The vertical, four-by-eight-foot cubicles were stacked three up from the floor, all of them open at the one end, endless pairs of feet, shod and unshod, facing out into the space. Ladders were mounted to the right of each opening, and the snoring was muffled, but pervasive.
As he breathed in, the density of scents was nearly overwhelming, but there was also that fresh pine smell from the fact that it had all been newly built up, just like the work rooms, the Executioner’s wall and private quarters, and the other security provisions. The construction had been done before the relocation by God only knew who, and he had to admit, it had all been thought through.
Too bad it was positively inhumane.
His assigned space wasn’t far from the stairwell, and he’d always been glad he’d managed to get a top, rather than a bottom or middle berth. Ascending the ladder, he slid into his slot, crossed his feet at the ankles, and folded his arms over his chest.
He wanted to go to Rio, but he couldn’t risk being followed.
And putting her right in the hands of the Executioner.
As the dim snoring got on his nerves and everything felt itchy, he decided it was too bad he didn’t have that old cassette player anymore. His sole possession had been destroyed during the collapse, and he missed the thing, even though he’d had only one tape.
Duran Duran had had other hit singles in addition to “Hungry Like the Wolf.”
They’d had one called “Rio.”
Hadn’t they.
Just as Rio turned away from the bed, the patient spoke up. “Lucan will take care of you.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Actually, I . . . I am on my own—”
“He saved me not only when he didn’t have to, but at great peril to himself. You can trust him.” The patient’s tone got more strident. “And that is why you, Apex, shall ensure no harm comes unto her. She is Lucan’s.”
Rio braced herself for an inner, private rager in her head about how women, especially women like her, were not anyone’s pseudo possessions. But when she just felt a little warm spot in the center of her chest, she wondered when in the hell she’d regressed into 1950s traditional sex roles.
Then again, maybe she just had a low-level staph infection from having an open wound on the back of her head.
That’s right, she thought. The flush was probably just bacteria in her bloodstream making her run a slight fever.
“Apex?” the patient demanded.
After a moment, the other man let out a grudging mmrumph sound. Which, all things considered, could have meant anything from “yes, I’ll chill on the whole murder thing” to “what are you going to do to stop me from that bed you’re in”—although when the patient nodded a little, it appeared that, at least between the pair of men, the translation was acceptable as an agreement.
“Do not endanger yourselves—”
Coughing cut the patient off, to the point where Rio worried there would be nothing to treat by the time they got back. But then those lungs seemed to settle.
“Come on,” Apex said grimly.
When Rio went to pull back the curtain, he clapped a hand on her forearm. “I go first. Always.”
His voice was soft. His eyes were like a pair of assault rifles.
“You can lead on,” she drawled. “But I’m not going to yes-sir you, so I wouldn’t hold your breath for that one.”
Apex’s brows rose. And then he I-go-first-always’d out into the open area. As Rio stepped through, too, she— Something came down over her head, something soft, like a massive cobweb—and she immediately fought against the flapping, now-heavy weight.
“Stop it,” Apex snapped. “We have to mask your scent.”
“What?”
There was a tug, and then everything settled off her shoulders. Looking down at herself, she said, “The nurse’s uniform?”
“That one was used for the last bed change and is on the way to the laundry.”
Explains the stains, she thought.
Apex went over and opened the drawer of a desk that was right out of a secretary’s office from 1980. When he came back, he started rubbing her down.