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Xhex’s bare-naked body was curled up on the sheets.

As the room was flooded with illumination, her hand tightened on the gun that lay flat on the mattress and was pointed at the door.

She didn’t have the strength to lift either her head or the weapon, but he was highly confident she could pull that trigger.

Raising up his arms and showing his palms, he stepped to the side and kicked the door shut to protect her.

Her voice was barely a whisper. “John . . .”

A single, bloodred tear pooled in the eye he could see and he watched it slowly ease over the bridge of her nose and drop onto the pillow.

Her hand retreated from the weapon and went to her face, moving inch by inch, as if it took all she had in her to draw it upward. She covered herself the only way she was able, her shield of palm and fingers hiding her tears from him.

She was marked all over with welts and bruises in various stages of healing and she’d lost so much weight, her bones seemed about to break through her flesh. Her skin was gray instead of a healthy pink and her natural scent was nearly nonexistent.

She was dying.

The horror of it all weakened his knees to the point that he listed and had to catch himself back against the door.

But even as he wobbled, his mind kicked into gear. Doc Jane needed to come look at her and Xhex needed to feed.

They didn’t have a lot of time left.

If she was going to live, he was going to have to take charge here.

John ripped off his leather jacket and yanked up his sleeve as he headed to her. The first thing he did was gently cover her nakedness by folding the top sheet across her. The second was shoving his cocked wrist right up to her mouth . . . and waiting for her instincts to take over.

Her mind might not want him, but her body was not going to be able to resist what he had to offer.

Survival always won out over matters of the heart. He was living proof of it.

TWENTY-TWO

Xhex felt a soft brush across her shoulder and hip as John drew the sheet around her.

From behind the shelter of her hand, she inhaled and all she smelled was good, clean, healthy male . . . and the scent stirred hunger deep in her gut, her appetite and needs waking from their slumber with a roar.

And that was before John put his wrist up so close she could kiss it.

Her symphath instincts snaked out and read his emotions.

Calm and purposeful. Utterly tight in the head and the heart: John was going to save her ass if it was the last thing he did.

“John . . .” she whispered.

The problem with this situation . . . well, one of them . . . was that he wasn’t alone in knowing how close to death she was.

Her anger at Lash had been a sustenance while she’d been jailed and abused, and she’d thought it would have kept her going outside as well. But the instant she’d made that call to Rehv, all her energy had drained out of her and left her nothing but a heartbeat. And not much of one at that.

John moved his wrist even closer . . . so that his skin brushed against her mouth.

Her fangs elongated in a sluggish push at the same time her heart hiccuped like it wasn’t working right.

She had a choice in this quiet, charged moment: Take his vein and stick around. Deny him and die in front of him in the next hour or so. Because he was going nowhere.

Moving her hand from her face, she shifted her eyes to him. He was as beautiful as always, his face the kind of thing females dreamed of.

Lifting her palm, she reached up to him.

Surprise flared in his eyes and then he bent down so that her hand landed against his warm cheek. The effort of keeping her arm elevated proved to be too much, but as her fingers trembled, he put his own palm over hers, holding it in place.

His deep blue eyes were a kind of heaven, the color like that of a warm, darkening sky.

She had a decision to make here. Take his vein or . . .

As she couldn’t find the energy to finish the thought, she felt as though she’d lost herself: going by the fact that she appeared to be conscious, she guessed she was alive—and yet she wasn’t in her own skin. Her fight was long