That day spun by like a dream, shifting and hazy. Eliana slept, but when she awoke after dark she was still exhausted, staggering when she stood from the bed. Her body felt bruised and broken, and her heart felt like a little cold lump of coal inside her chest.

She went to Mel first, but she remained unchanged from when she’d last seen her hours before—pale skin and a faint heartbeat and almost imperceptible breathing. It was a miracle she was still hanging on, but life clung to her like a lover clings to a parting beloved, returning again and again for one final kiss before leaving for good.

She called Alexi; her people were safe. Bettina and Fabi had led seventeen to the Tabernacle; the rest had sided with Silas and stayed.

Seventeen of twenty-four. Better than she dared hope. Good thing Alexi’s place was big.

She told him she’d see him soon and then rang off and sat staring at the wall, at a loss what to do next. Eat, she supposed, though she had no appetite. Food seemed like an unnecessary luxury somehow, and eating selfish. How could she eat now? How could she eat ever again?

Then she was ashamed for feeling sorry for herself. She had people who were relying on her. She had to be strong for them. She would be.

She dragged herself out of the room and down the hallway. At the top of the stairs she found a room obviously decorated by a man. The size of the television alone would have been enough proof, but everything else was utterly masculine, too. Angular leather furniture, a glass and metal coffee table, no plants or bric-a-brac a woman might have used to soften the starkness of all that charcoal gray and black of the chairs and sofas and walls. At the far end of the long room was an open door to a kitchen, with a dining room beyond.

And in a chair in the dining room sat Demetrius, perfectly still, staring down at a cell phone that lay on the table in front of him between his spread hands.

She swallowed, steadying herself, and stood straight. She took a step forward into the room, and at that moment, the cell phone in front of him rang.

But he’d noticed her movement. A fleeting look crossed his face, pain or something darker, she couldn’t tell because it was quickly extinguished as he abruptly stood, ignoring the shrilly ringing phone and focusing all his attention on her.

A flash of déjà vu jolted through her. She saw him in a million fleeting memories, doing this exact thing. No matter what he’d been doing, no matter with whom, he always stood whenever she entered a room. Always. The realization made her chest constrict.

The phone continued to ring. Neither one of them made another move.

Whoever was calling was persistent, because her nerves were pulled to near-breaking when the ringing finally stopped. The sudden silence was deafening.

“You look tired,” he finally said. His gaze moved over her face to her hair, which she hadn’t bothered to comb and stuck up in crazy tufts over her head.

She didn’t have the energy to feel defensive. “I slept.”

His look narrowed. “When was the last time you ate?”

She thought about it and then shrugged. “Don’t know.”

He pointed to the chair across from him. “Sit.”

“Demetrius—”

“Eliana,” he said in a tone that indicated he wasn’t tolerating any lip, “sit.”

She sat.

“Good. Now stay.”

Her lips tightened. Stay? Like a dog? But she kept her mouth shut.

Cabinets opened and closed, the refrigerator opened and closed, the microwave hummed and chimed, liquid was poured into a glass. She didn’t see any of it because she didn’t turn around to look because she was staying—as instructed—put.

When he gently set the plate in front of her and she looked down, all her irritation vanished and she felt…she felt…gratitude. And wonder. Roasted chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, buttered green beans—she’d been expecting a frozen dinner, a few pieces of meat slapped between slices of bread.

“What’s this?”

She looked up at him, but he’d turned away so she couldn’t see his face. “There wasn’t any food here. Had to go out and get some.”

She looked back at the plate, perplexed. “You…cooked?”

His low chuckle drew her eyes to him again. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest, one corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement. “You sound surprised.”

“I am surprised. Since when do you cook?”

His face darkened. He glanced away. “Since I needed a hobby. To keep me from—to pass the time.”

There was so much more to that, she felt it all underneath the simple words. But he glanced back at her, and his face had cleared.

“You should taste my sweet potato pie. It’s killer.”

Her mouth opened. It closed. It opened again and she said, with feeling, “Wow.”

He gave her a true smile then, one that lit his face and his eyes and brought out a dimple in his cheek. She had to look away because she thought she’d never seen him look so beautiful. Tattoos and piercings and acres of muscles and a glower able to freeze lava that he wore more often than not and still he was always the most beautiful thing to her, masculine and strong and real.

She looked at the plate and was appalled to find it swimming in the moisture that had gathered in her eyes. He set silverware down and a glass of white wine and then sat beside her. She knew without looking his eyes were on her, intent.

“Eat,” he said softly.

It’s a terrible feeling, trying not to cry, pretending everything is okay and getting your face and body to cooperate. She almost had it together, too. Her hands were steady when she reached for the glass and her face was composed, but there was too much damn water in her eyes and a single tear spilled over and tracked down her cheek. She swallowed the wine she’d poured into her mouth anyway and set the glass back down, pretending like that bastard tear hadn’t escaped, but of course he saw it. Of course he did. He was right there.

His voice so, so gentle, D said, “It’s only food.”

“No, it’s not,” she whispered. She didn’t dare look at him. “You cooked for me.” She said it again, emphasizing each word. “You. Cooked. For me.”

“Well,” he murmured, laughter in his voice, “had I known this would be your reaction, I would have done it years ago.” He reached out and brushed his thumb over her cheek, wiping away the tear she’d tried so hard not to let fall.

She looked up at him then, and let everything go. It all showed on her face, everything she felt for him, all the anguish and confusion and pain and longing, and she knew he saw every nuance, every spark and hope and the bottomless depth of her despair because his breath caught and his smile vanished and when he looked back at her it was with sudden fierce intensity burning in his eyes.

“I…I…” She couldn’t get it out, but it didn’t matter.

“I know,” he whispered, vehemently. “I already know.”

“I’m so sorry.” Her voice was barely audible, and his face was so close and she thought he might kiss her. And she wanted it, she could die with how much she wanted it, but he exhaled, a heavy, doleful expulsion of air, and she knew he wouldn’t.

He withdrew. He stood up. He walked to the doorway and paused, then said quietly, “Eat.”

He watched her until she took the first few bites. Then, satisfied, he turned and moved away, and it was all she could do not to throw the plate of food against the wall in frustration.

But she didn’t, because as it turned out, she was really hungry.

And damn, but the man could cook.

Money—a lot of it—is bulky.

Only so many stacks of bills can fit into suitcases, and only so many suitcases can fit in the back of a truck. Right about now, Caesar was wishing they’d rented a bigger truck.