Page 53

Eric

E ric woke violently, his eyes opening in a panic to stare at an unfamiliar ceiling, his hands already moving along his body to check for injuries.

He remembered pain. So much pain. His last conscious memory was of thinking he’d been literally burning alive, from the inside out. He was half-afraid all his hands were going to encounter was a shriveled, charred husk.

But what skin he could reach with his fingers felt intact. And he didn’t actually hurt now. Like, at all.

He was in a bed, he was pretty sure. It certainly felt soft enough underneath him, not like the firm massage table at all.

But it sure as shit didn’t feel like his own bed (the sheets were way too silky, for one), which was why he was having trouble taking his eyes off the ceiling to look around.

Because he really wasn’t sure he was going to like what he saw.

He might completely freak the fuck out, actually.

“You’re awake.”

Eric shot up with a start, turning at the same time to see him at his bedside, massive book in hand.

“ You ,” Eric spat out, fingers clenching in the absurdly soft sheets.

The Bond villain or masseur or whatever the fuck he was arched a brow at Eric’s vehemence.

“That’s right, I never did introduce myself properly,” Psycho said with a polite, insincere smile, as if he hadn’t been literally eating Eric alive just a few—had it been minutes?

Hours? Days ?—well, some amount of time ago.

“My name is Wolfgang Volker, but you may call me Wolfe.”

And that really confirmed it: he even had a Bond villain name. On top of that, he’d exchanged his black loungewear for some absurd maroon crushed-velvet suit. Total villain attire. And he wanted to be on a first-name basis? “I’ll call you the fucker that bit me.”

The polite smile turned into a sly, self-satisfied smirk. “Mm. Yes. And how delicious you were.”

“Um.” Well, what was Eric supposed to say to that? Except the obvious. “It hurt,” he accused, mortified to note that his voice came out petulant again, like that of a child getting an unexpected shot at the doctor.

“It wasn’t the bite that hurt you but the transformation.”

“Transformation, what—?” But Eric dropped the question, distracted. There was that bergamot scent again, stronger than before, and so weirdly appealing.

Smells good , Eric thought. And something, some…presence…inside him, rumbled its agreement.

What. The. Fuck?

Eric stiffened, trying to figure out what exactly was going on in his own brain. His own body. He felt oddly compelled to follow that scent. To bury his face in it. To…lick the source?

No, that was fucking crazy.

He barely dared to inhale as he watched the villainous fucker—Wolfe, and if he wasn’t lying, the name certainly suited him—cock his head, clearly clocking Eric’s change in body language. “Do you feel it?” he asked, the picture of mild, academic curiosity.

“Feel what?” Eric asked warily.

“The new part of your being.” And yeah, the guy’s general expression may have been mild, but his light-brown eyes were filled with a weirdly intense gleam. “The inner beast awakening.”

Eric tried to laugh it off, but his throat only made a strange, strangled sound. “That sounds like some werewolf shit.”

“I’m afraid not.” Wolfe’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “The shedding alone would be a nightmare.”

Eric refused to find that funny. He pointed an accusatory finger. “You had fangs . Like a vampire.”

“Yes. Quite like a vampire.” The tiny, amused smile Wolfe gave him made Eric want to smack him. Or… He didn’t know what else.

Again, licking was a possibility.

No. Jesus, what was wrong with him?

He pressed a palm hard to his forehead, trying to will his brain back into sense. “Okay, I get it.”

“Do you?”

“Mm-hmm. Yep. I had a psychotic break.”

“Did you?” Wolfe set his massive book on the bedside table, lacing his fingers over one crossed knee, like some TV psychiatrist. “And do you have a history of delusions?”

Eric shot him a savage look. “No.”

“Hallucinations?” Wolfe asked. Eric shook his head, and Wolfe clucked his tongue. “Come now, Eric. You’re a doctor. You know better.”

A strange jolt of electricity ran through Eric when Wolfe used his given name.

He was always— always —Dr. Monroe in this town.

If someone liked him, or tolerated him especially well, he was just Monroe.

But no one called him Eric. No one except his mother, and she didn’t usually say it with any sort of fondness.

And no, Eric didn’t have any history of delusions or hallucinations, but his mind clearly wasn’t in the right place if he was focused on the man who kidnapped him using his first name all nicely.

“We don’t have much time,” Wolfe said, scooting his chair even closer.

And Eric should be nervous about that, right?

This guy had attacked him. Drank his blood, even, if Eric’s memory was to be believed.

And yet some part of Eric—that weird, new, rumbly presence in him especially—wanted him even closer than that.

That same weird part of him felt like they should be…

touching, even. Like, maybe touching a whole lot.

His dick twitched at the thought. Don’t you fucking dare , he ordered it.

“Very soon,” Wolfe continued, either oblivious or uncaring of Eric’s internal dilemma, “some…friends of mine are going to be checking in on you. They might try to convince you to leave. They might perhaps tell you I’m a psychopath.”

Now Eric did laugh, a dry, humorless chuckle. He didn’t need anybody to tell him this guy was a psychopath. The evidence spoke clearly enough. “That sounds about right. Are you even a real massage therapist?”

Wolfe pursed his lips, either in displeasure or to repress a smile. “I can tell you truthfully I did not intend to turn you so…suddenly. My beast would not cooperate.”

Eric’s brain skipped right over the “beast” part of that.

He’d been kidnapped by a delusional psychopath; that was fine.

Well, not fine. Terrible, actually. But said psychopath was allowing potential rescuers to come visit Eric, so maybe he wasn’t completely set on this abduction being a permanent thing.

Only…the way Wolfe had phrased that. “But you did intend to…turn me? At some point?” Eric asked. He figured “turning” must be code for kidnapping. Just a regular, ordinary kidnapping. Nothing strange or paranormal going on over here, folks.

And what about the blood drinking? And the burning feeling? And this new, weird presence in your brain, the one that’s very pro-licking when it comes to said kidnapper? Eric ignored those thoughts. Those were bad, unhelpful thoughts. He was a rational person. He was a doctor , goddamn it.

Wolfe leaned forward, and it took everything in Eric to resist swaying toward him in turn. “We are bonded, you and I.”

“Because you…turned me?” Eric kept his spine stick-fucking-straight, not giving an inch to that ridiculous urge to be closer.

Wolfe gave a single sharp shake of his head. “I turned you because we are bonded. Made for each other. Destined by fate.”

See? That was some stalker, kidnapper, psycho, serial killer shit.

And Eric really needed to get his fight-or-flight response on board.

His body was way too weirdly relaxed for the situation he was in.

“Are you going to hurt me again?” he asked, hoping to jog his own brain into realizing that was an incredibly likely scenario and to be afraid, be very afraid.

But Wolfe shook his head again. “Never. You are…precious to me.”

Of all the confusing things Eric had heard these past ten minutes, that was the most confusing of all. Eric had never been precious to anyone before. That probably proved more than anything that this man was delusional as all hell.

So why did Eric want to crawl into his lap?

Maybe…maybe if they just held hands for a second?

But Eric was saved from his own unhinged self by the distinct chime of a doorbell.

Fierce annoyance and a hint of anger crossed Wolfe’s face, quick as lightning, before they faded in an instant, his expression back to placid neutral.

There. That was why Eric should be frightened, right? This guy may have seemed all calm and collected on the outside, but he clearly had hidden depths.

But Eric still couldn’t find the right emotions for it. It was like some lizard brain part of him felt safe in this guy’s presence. Despite the biting, the delusions, and the apparent kidnapping.

Which only served to prove that Eric’s brain couldn’t be trusted right now.

Wolfe rose from his chair in one smooth motion. “I need to answer that.”

Eric waved a hand. “Go right ahead.”

“Remember,” Wolfe said, pausing at the door, “I will never harm you. And I would rip every limb off any creature who tried.”

Eric stared. Was that supposed to be comforting?

As soon as Wolfe left, Eric scrambled out of the bed, noting peripherally he was wearing some weird robe. But at least he had his underwear on underneath. He crossed over to the room’s largest window, checking to see how wide it would open.

Because if Wolfe was willing to let someone convince Eric to leave? Perfect.

But either way, Eric was getting the fuck out of there.

Eric’s rescuer was not who he’d been expecting.

“Little King?” Dressed in street clothes—jeans and a hoodie, with some sort of messenger bag across his chest—dark-brown curls in a messy halo around his head, there was King’s little brother, Danny, an ER nurse Eric knew peripherally from around the hospital.

A good-looking kid, although Eric had never personally hit on him, not wanting to get clocked in the face by an overprotective Gabe if his advances were unwelcome.

“Hi, Dr. Monroe.” Danny’s smile was kind, maybe a little sad. He definitely didn’t look as panicked as he rightly should, considering the situation.

Eric shut the window he’d been fiddling with. It wasn’t going to open wide enough for him to fit through anyway. “You’re here to get me out?”