“You did? When?”

“Couple of days ago,” he said. “Figured it would be better where I could get to it, since I’m the one who’s usually getting bandaged. Look under the sink.”

Eve did, and hauled out a big white metal box marked with a red cross. She opened it up and pulled out supplies. “Shirt off.”

“You only love me for my abs.”

“Shut up, loser. Shirt off.”

With a glance toward Claire, Shane pulled it over his head and tossed it on the breakfast table next to him. Claire took the shirt to the sink, where she rinsed it in cold water, watching as Shane’s blood tinted the water light pink. She didn’t like to watch what Eve was doing; seeing the damage that Shane put himself through made her feel sick and frail, because he’d done it—as always—for other people. For her, and Eve.

“Done,” Eve pronounced a few minutes later. “You’d better not bleed all over my nice clean bandages, or I’ll stick a sale price on you and put you on the corner for the next neck-muncher.”

“You’re such a bitch,” Shane said. “Thanks.”

She gave him an air kiss and a wink. “Like most girls wouldn’t line up to play nurse with you. Right.”

Claire felt an unwelcome, completely surprising surge of jealousy. Eve? No, it was just Eve’s usual teasing. Nothing else, right? She wasn’t—she wouldn’t. She just wouldn’t.

Claire wrung out the shirt until her hands ached, then pressed it between two towels to try to get it as dry as possible. She handed it to Shane while Eve was busy putting the unused supplies back in the box, and helped him drag the damp fabric over his head and down his chest. She couldn’t help but let her fingers brush down his skin, and to be honest, she didn’t really try. In fact, she might have moved a little more slowly than she should have.

“Feels good,” Shane said, very quietly, in her ear. “You okay?”

Claire nodded. He touched her lightly under the chin to lift it, and studied her face closely.

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re okay.” He brushed her lips with his and looked past her at the kitchen door as it opened.

Michael, with Claire’s parents in tow. The knot in Claire’s chest, the one tied tight around her heart, eased a couple of precious notches.

Her parents looked . . . blank. Frowning, as if they’d forgotten something important. When her mother’s eyes focused on her, Claire dredged up a smile.

“Weren’t we going to have dinner?” her mother asked. “It’s getting very late, isn’t it? Were you going to cook, or—”

“No,” Michael said. “We’ll go out.” He grabbed his car keys from the hook next to the door. “All of us.”

There weren’t a lot of choices for late-night dining in Morganville for those who weren’t of the fanged persuasion, but there were a few places near the campus, most notably a twenty-four-hour diner. They ended up in an uncomfortable bunch around a table, the four of them plus Claire’s parents, after an even more uncomfortably close ride in Michael’s big vampire-tinted car.

The hamburgers were good, but Claire couldn’t concentrate on the taste. She was too busy watching the people outside the diner. Some were college students, laughing in groups in the parking lot, ignoring the occasional pale-looking strangers walking nearby. Claire was reminded of videos of lions pacing along with antelopes as they grazed, waiting for one or two to fall behind.

She wanted to warn those kids, and she couldn’t. The gold bracelet on her wrist made sure of that.

Michael, predictably, had to bear the brunt of parental conversation. He was just better at it, and he had a soothing kind of presence that made everything seem . . . normal. Claire’s parents didn’t exactly remember what had happened back at the house; more of Mr. Bishop’s influence, Claire was sure. She hated that he’d messed with their heads, but in a way she was relieved, too. One less thing to have to worry about.

Her dad’s attitude with Shane was enough.

“So,” Dad said, as he pretended to concentrate on his pot roast, “how old are you again, son?”

“Eighteen, sir,” Shane said, in his most blandly polite voice. They’d been over this. Repeatedly.

“You know my daughter’s only—”

“Almost seventeen, yes sir, I know.”

Dad frowned more deeply. “Sixteen, and sheltered. I don’t like her living in a house with a bunch of hormone-crazy teenagers—no offense, I’m sure you mean to do right, but I was young myself once. Now that we’re in town, with a place of our own, it’s probably better that Claire move in with us.”

Claire had not been expecting that. Not at all. “Dad! You don’t trust me?”

“Honey, it’s not about trusting you. It’s about trusting the two adult men you’re living with. Especially one I can see you’re getting very close to, even though you know that’s not very smart.”

Fury burst open inside of her, and all she could see beyond the haze of red was Shane, standing between her and Eve, defending their lives while putting his own at risk.

Shane, turning away from her time after time because he was better—better by far—than she was at self-control.

Claire sucked in a deep breath and was about to let it out in a torrent of words, at top volume, when Shane’s hand came down over hers and gripped it.

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re right about that. You don’t know me, and what you do know you probably don’t much like. I’m not really parent friendly. Not like Michael.” Shane jerked his chin at Michael, who was trying to shake his head no, don’t do it. “I think maybe you’re right. Maybe it would be better if Claire moved back in with you for a while. Give you a chance to get to know all of us, especially me.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Claire whispered fiercely. She didn’t care that Dad could probably hear, and Michael certainly could. “I don’t want to go anywhere!”

“Claire, he’s right. You’d be safer there. Our house isn’t exactly a fortress, in case what happened today didn’t sink in yet,” Shane replied. “Hell, between strangers cruising in and out, my dad’s threat to come back and finish what he started—”

Claire threw down her fork. “Wait just a minute. You’re telling me it’s for my own good, is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Michael? Jump in anytime!”

Michael held up his hands in surrender. He’d had enough, and Claire couldn’t really blame him.

Eve, though, cleared her throat and waded right into the conversational swamp. “Mr. Danvers, honest, Claire’s perfectly fine with us. We all look after her, and Shane’s not the kind of guy who’d take advantage—”

“Wouldn’t say that,” Shane said, way too mildly. “I’m exactly that kind of guy, really.”

Eve sent him a dirty look. “—and besides, he knows we’d both kill him if he tried. But he wouldn’t do it. Claire’s fine where she is. And she’s happy, too.”

“Yes,” Claire agreed. “I’m happy, Dad.”

Michael still hadn’t spoken. He was, instead, watching Claire’s father with a strange kind of intensity; at first she thought, He’s trying to put some kind of vampire whammy on him, but then she changed her mind. It was more like Michael was honestly puzzled, and trying to figure out what to say next.

Her father hadn’t heard a word that anyone had said. “I want you to move home, Claire, and that’s that. I don’t want you staying in that house anymore. End of discussion.”

Her mother wasn’t talking, which was unusual, too; she just stirred her coffee slowly and tried to look interested in the food on the plate in front of her.

Claire opened her mouth to shoot back a heated, not very respectful reply, but Michael shook his head and put his hand over hers. “Don’t waste your breath,” he said. “This isn’t their idea. Bishop planted the suggestion.”

“What? Why would he do that?”

“No idea. Maybe he wants us separated. Maybe he just likes messing with people. Maybe he wants to piss off Amelie. But the important thing is, I don’t think you ought to let this get to you—”