“What do you need?” Mikhail demanded softly.

“My instrument tray,” she answered, not looking at him, not even turning her head. Her entire focus was on calming Jacques.

“Your surgery is barbaric. I’ll call our healer.” He sent the imperious mental summons immediately.

“He’ll be dead by then. Damn you, get out of here if you won’t help me,” Shea snapped furiously. “I can’t fight both of you, and I’m not going to let him die because you don’t like my methods.”

Cautiously, so as not to arouse Jacques’ wrath, Mikhail shoved the tray across the floor. It slid within a few inches of Shea’s hand.

Jacques never once took his eyes from the two men, staring at them with hatred and the dark promise of retaliation. When Shea moved, he mirrored her movements as if he knew before she did what she was going to do, so that his larger frame continuously shielded her from the others even as it crushed her against the wall.

“Get me fresh soil.” Shea’s voice was hoarse, but authoritative. She kept her every movement slow and cautious, to avoid alarming Jacques.

Byron shrugged and reluctantly did her bidding, his eyes meeting Mikhail’s across the room. It was clear Byron believed that Jacques presented a real danger to all of them.

Shea coughed several times, her throat swollen under the clear imprint of Mikhail’s fingers. Slowly rising to kneel beside Jacques, keeping her hands steady, her concentration total, she used tiny clamps and stitches to meticulously repair his reopened wound. It was slow, tedious work, and she fought to maintain her mental link with him as she sutured, dividing her mind between maintaining a constant tranquil, soothing touch to hold him to her and ensuring he did not bleed out. Jacques was a seething cauldron of violent emotions. His eyes, hard and watchful, never left the other two males. Once he lifted his hand, brushed aside her silky hair, his fingertips feathering over the bruise on her temple where he had knocked her against the wall. When his hand fell away, Shea was afraid he took with it her last link to him.

She packed the wound with soil and saliva and straightened slowly. “You need blood, Jacques.” She said it softly, gently, an invitation. He had to survive, had to live. Every cell in her body demanded it.

He did not take his soulless eyes from Mikhail and Byron. She had never seen such relentless hatred in anyone’s gaze before. He neither looked at her nor acknowledged her efforts. Not once did a hint of pain show on his face.

“My blood is ancient, powerful,” Mikhail said softly. “I will give him mine.” He glided closer with fluid grace, no sudden moves to alarm Jacques.

Shea felt Jacques’ savage triumph, felt him gathering his strength. Before Mikhail was within striking distance she flung herself between them. “No! He’ll kill you, he intends to—”

Jacques’ grip was terrifying, slamming her back down to his side, his fist in her hair. His fury was a tangible thing. His eyes holding Mikhail’s, he bent his dark head and sank his teeth into the side of Shea’s neck.

“Don’t!” Byron rushed forward, but Mikhail stopped him with a raised hand, his black gaze locked with Jacques’.

White-hot heat, a burning brand. Shea understood Jacques was furious at her interference, and this display was to tempt the others to intercede, to draw them within his cruel reach. She lay perfectly still, accepting of his violent nature. He was so close to complete madness that one false move would send him careening over the edge. She was tired anyway, and sore, every part of her aching. Her lashes drifted down, a heavy lethargy stealing over her. She would easily trade her life for Jacques’. He wasn’t taking anything from her she wasn’t willing to give.

“You’re killing her, Jacques,” Mikhail said quietly. “Is that what you want?” He stood there motionless, his black eyes watchful, thoughtful.

“Stop him,” Byron grated between his teeth. “He’s taking too much blood. He’s deliberately hurting her.”

Mikhail’s cool black eyes swept over Byron just once, but it was enough of a command, enough of a warning. Byron shook his head but remained silent.

“He will not kill her,” Mikhail said in his same quiet voice. “He is waiting for one of us to try to stop him. It is the two of us he intends to kill. He thinks to draw us to him. He will not take the chance of leaving her side, so we will not be idiotic enough to go near him. He will not harm her. Go outside. While you are out there, find something to repair the door. I will follow you.”

Byron went reluctantly, waited on the porch for Mikhail to join him. “You are taking a chance with her life, Mikhail. She is no vampiress, and he is clearly abusing her. She cannot afford such blood loss. Jacques was my friend, but what is in that cottage is no longer one of us. He recognizes neither of us. You cannot control him. No one can.”

“She can. He has not turned. He is injured, sick.” Mikhail said it softly, his black-velvet voice certain. Furious, Byron turned away. “I should have taken the woman.”

“Make no mistake, Byron, as weak as he is, Jacques is still extremely formidable. Before his disappearance he spent many years studying. The last years he hunted. With his mind so damaged, he is more beast than man, a predator, but with the intelligence and cunning of a learned one. And you were not paying attention in there. Whoever the female is, she is fighting to save him at great cost to herself. I believe she has chosen.”

“The ritual has not been completed. She has not lain with him. We would know,” Byron said stubbornly and began to pace restlessly. “There are many of us without a woman, and yet you allow this risk.”

“There is only one lifemate. She obviously belongs with Jacques.”

“We do not know that. If he were not your brother...” Byron began.

A low snarl stopped him. “I see no reason for you to question my judgment in this matter, Byron. I have had more than one brother, and I have never let fraternity stand in the way of what is just or right.”

“It was Gregori who hunted your other brother,” Byron pointed out.

Mikhail turned his head slowly, black eyes catching the whip of lightning cracking across the sky. “At my order.”

Chapter Seven

Jacques sat on the floor, aware of the wall at his back, the woman lying so still in his arms. Dark, violent emotions swirled; his body shook with the need to kill his enemies. A ribbon of sanity moved through his mind, caught his attention. Both intruders had been familiar to him. Someone he knew and trusted.A silent snarl revealed his sharp fangs. Betrayers sometimes ran in packs.They thought him weak, but he was faster than all but the ancient ones. He had honed his fighting skills, his mental powers. They would not torture and kill his woman.

Shea.Hername was a soft, clear breeze blowing gently through his mind. Shea .A single candle leapt into flame, a light to guide him through the layers of black fury. He felt her then, small and slender in the circle of his arms. Her skin was soft, her hair, against his bare chest, like skeins of silk. He dropped his chin to the top of her head and rubbed gently, tenderly. It took a few moments before he realized her body was limp, cold, nearly lifeless, laboring for blood.

An anguished cry broke from him. He pulled her head back, saw the bruises and torn flesh at her throat. Shea, do not leave me!The plea was wrenched from his heart. Had he done this? The fingerprints were not his, but the ripped flesh? Had he done this to her?

A ripple of unease ran through the very land, the ground shifting, rolling. Donot leave me, Shea.Jacques tore at his wrist with his teeth, trickled life-giving fluid into her mouth. Come on, little red hair, try.His life force ran down her throat. He stroked the swollen column, forcing her to swallow. You cannot leave me in darkness.He could not remember attacking her, yet somehow, his heart in his throat, Jacques knew he had done this. He was insane.