"Yeah. I was hoping it wasn't you. Killing two bosses in less than a year might have looked bad."

Hargrove didn't dignify that with a response. One of his assistants ran into the room, looking frantic, and he sighed. "Get some sleep," he ordered, and left.

I'd planned on staying awake and maybe prying a few more specifics out of the orderlies, but my body had a different idea. I woke up what felt like only a few minutes later, but it must have been longer because a florist shop had exploded in my room. There had to be thirty bouquets, most of them roses. The place was so stuffed that it took me a moment to notice Cyrus, asleep on the chair.

He was curled up in a dark bundle under a blanket, a tuft of hair sticking out the top, and I couldn't stop the smile that spread over my face. I hated finding things like that charming, but when it was Cyrus I couldn't seem to help it. I tugged slightly at the blanket and it slipped enough for me to see his face. My grin faded.

He looked like shit. There was several days' worth of scraggly brown beard on his cheeks, dark circles under the fan of his eyelashes and he was pale underneath his tan. He was snoring, a low, almost soothing rumble, like distant thunder.

I spied a half-eaten box of chocolates beside him with my name on the card, and my stomach rumbled. Halfway through the caramels, he woke up and sat there for a minute, blinking at me. "I could have them bring breakfast, if you're up for it," he finally said.

I shrugged. "This is good."

"It's not very nutritious."

"It has nuts." I gave him the hairy eyeball. "You finally bring me candy and you eat all the creams."

"You hate creams."

"Only those nasty coconut—" I had to break off because his mouth was on mine and he was kissing me, hard and thorough, like he never ever wanted to stop.

"How could you do that?" he demanded sometime later, voice low and urgent. His hands encircled my upper arms, but he used only the lightest pressure, like he was afraid I would break. This time it didn't make me angry, because for once I thought he might be right.

"The doc said I'll be fine. It's not as bad as it looks."

Cyrus wasn't buying it this time. "You have a concussion, a knife wound in your shoulder, and a bullet in your ribs! If you hadn't twisted at the last minute, he'd have shot you through the heart!"

I sighed. I should have known Sedgewick would talk. Bastard. "But he didn't. I'm fine—or I will be."

"Until the next time you tie me up and go after a group of crazed mercenaries on your own!"

"It was one woman, and she wasn't—"

"You didn't know that!" Cyrus said with his best you infuriate me glare. "When I woke up in those damn restraints and realized you might be off getting killed and I couldn't do shit about it—"

"It's my job." But while that was true, it wasn't the point, and we both knew it. "And you're… I couldn't risk you," I added awkwardly.

"Run that by me again?"

"You have to understand…" I trailed off, watching emotions chase themselves across his face: worry, fear, and then something a lot more desperate. It was obvious that he didn't understand. "You're not dispensable," I finally said. "You're one of only two indispensable people in my life. You have to know that."

"Then make sure I'm in your life," he said, sounding strangled. "No more lies, no more leaving me behind."

"If you agree to stop treating me with kid gloves."

"When do I do that?"

"All the time! You act like you think I'm breakable!"

"Give me one example!"

"Every time we…" I glanced at the thin partition posing as a door and decided not to risk it. "You know."

He looked blank for a minute, and then incredulous. "This is not about our sex life!"

"Not so loud!" I hissed. "And yes, it is. Because if you're almost too afraid to touch me, what reason do I have to believe you wouldn't take a bullet for me?"

"Because I'm not stupid?"

"I'm being serious."

"So am I!"

"You mean you wouldn't jump in front of a bullet for me?"

"With your shields? I'd be more likely to jump behind you!"

"Then why aren't you… more intense… when we're together?"

He groaned. "Because I was trying to give you what you wanted!"

"Why would you think—?"

"What part of your life isn't intense, Lia?" he demanded. "You're kicked around, beaten up, stabbed, shot, and almost spelled to death on a regular basis! I thought you might want something a little different from me." His hands left my arms to explore my shoulders, my neck, my cheek. "I thought you might have had enough of the bad kind of intense—" A hand dropped to my breast and I sucked in a breath, " — that you might want this kind for a change. The good kind."

I pressed my face against his sleep-warm neck. "Okay, then," I whispered. Suddenly, this was feeling pretty damn intense, too.

Cyrus pulled my mouth to his, and his hands came up to clutch my face and for a moment, everything lurched—my stomach, the room, the world. And then I was kissing him back greedily. His fingers tightened on the back of my neck, drawing me close, and his mouth tasted like chocolate and dark promise and every holiday I'd never enjoyed until now.

"All right. That's enough!" I looked up to see three grinning orderlies and a glowering Sedgewick. "I said five minutes, not five hours," he snapped.

"She was asleep most of the time," Cyrus protested.

"As she should be. She needs to recover."

"He's not bothering me," I said.

"I could tell. Out!"

Cyrus grinned down at me. "Read the card," he mouthed, and left.

I waited until the room was clear, then pulled the heart-shaped box over and slipped the card out from under the bright red bow. It had one line: Next time, you get tied up.

I grinned and ate my chocolate. I was looking forward to it.

Chicago, June 1937

Hanging around this alley gave me the creeps because it looked exactly like the one where I'd seen a man gunned down in front of me. That had been shortly before my own murder.

The man in front of me tonight was my partner, Charles Escott, who was unaware of my thoughts while we waited for his client to show. I didn't like the meeting place, but the client had insisted, and Escott had to earn a living. At least he'd invited me along to watch his back. Too often he ignored risks and bulled ahead on his own, which was damned annoying when it wasn't scaring the hell out of me.

The air was muggy to the point of settling down in your lungs and forgetting to pay rent. I had no need to breathe regularly anymore, but still found the heaviness uncomfortable in this hot, windless place. A car cruised by, briefly visible in the alley opening. The faint wash of light from its headlamps allowed Escott to see my face.

"Stop worrying, old man," he said, speaking quietly, knowing I could hear. "Miss Weaver just wants to be careful."

That would be Miss Mabel Weaver, his prospective client, who was late. She'd made the appointment hours ago when the sun was up and I lay dreamless and, for all other purposes, dead in the basement under Escort's kitchen.

Yeah, dead. I'm undead now, the way Bram Stoker defined it, but don't ask me to turn into a bat. He got that wrong, among other things.

I moved closer so Escort could hear. "Careful? Wanting to meet you in a dark alley is nuts."

"Less so than wanting to meet you."

He had a point, but Miss Weaver didn't know I was a vampire, so it didn't count. "Charles, this has to be a setup. Someone with a grudge paid some pippin to get you here. They figured you wouldn't be suspicious if a dame called asking for help."