I knew, I knew, that the James Blackwood I'd met was not the real face of the vampire. But I had met him, and he wasn't too scary. He didn't have minions. And he was using Amber without her knowledge or permission, turning her into his slave: a woman who left her child alone in a house with a ghost and an almost stranger. I couldn't help Amber with her ghost… maybe I'd even made it worse. But I could help her with the vampire.

"All right," I said. "I'd rather have to" — I nearly choked on the next word—"obey you than listen to him."

He watched me for a heartbeat. "All right," he agreed.

HE PULLED OVER AT A REST AREA. THERE WAS A ROW OF semis parked for the night, but the lot for cars was empty. He unbuckled and walked between the front seats to the back. I followed him slowly.

He sat on the bench seat in the back and patted the seat beside him. When I hesitated, he said, "You don't have to do this. I'm not going to force you."

If I didn't have Stefan to interfere, Blackwood probably could make me do whatever he wanted. I'd have no way to help Amber.

Of course, if Marsilia killed me first, I wouldn't have to worry about any of it.

"Am I putting Adam and his pack in more danger?" I asked.

Stefan did me the courtesy of considering it, though I could smell his eagerness: he smelled like a wolf hot on the trail of something tasty. If I ran, I wondered, would he be compelled to chase me the way a werewolf would have?

I stared at him and reminded myself that I'd known him a long time. He'd never made any move he thought would harm me. This was Stefan, not some nameless hunter.

"I don't see how," he told me. "Adam won't like it, I'm sure. Witness his reaction when I called you by accident. But he's a practical man. He knows all about desperate choices."

I sat down beside him, all too conscious of the cool temperature of his body, cooler, I thought than usual. I was glad to know that this would help him, too. I was really, really tired of causing all my friends nothing but grief.

He brushed my hair away from my neck, and I caught his hand.

"What about the wrist?" The last time he'd bitten my wrist.

He shook his head. "It's more painful. Too many nerves near the surface." He looked at me. "Do you trust me?"

"I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't."

"Okay. I'm going to restrain you a little because if you jerk while I'm still at your neck, you might make me cut through the wrong thing and you could bleed to death." He didn't pressure me, just sat on the plush bench seat as if he could stay there the rest of my life.

"How?" I said.

"I'll have you fold your arms over your stomach, and I'll hold them there."

I did a panic check, but Tim had never restrained me that way. I tried not to think about how he'd held me down and was only moderately successful.

"Go up to the front of the van," Stefan said. "The keys are in the ignition. You'll have to drive yourself home because I can't stay here. I have to hunt now. I'll—"

I wrapped my arms around myself and leaned against him. "Okay, do it."

His arm came slowly around my shoulders and over my right arm. When I stayed put, he put his hand over my arms in such a way that I couldn't free myself.

"All right?" He asked calmly, as if need hadn't turned his eyes jewel-bright, like Christmas lights in the dark van.

"All right," I said.

His teeth must have been razor-sharp because I didn't feel them slice through skin, only the cool dampness of his mouth. Only when he began to draw blood did it start to hurt.

Who feeds at my table?

The roar in my head made me panic as Stefan's bite had not. But I held very still, like a mouse when it first notices the cat. If you don't move, it might not attack.

The steady draw of Stefan's mouth faltered for an instant. Then he resumed feeding, patting my knee with his free hand. It shouldn't have comforted me, but it did. He'd heard the scary monster, too, and he wasn't running.

After a while, the ache deepened into pain—and the now-wordless roar of anger echoing in my head grew muffled. I started to feel cold, as if it wasn't just blood he was taking, but all the warmth in my body. Then his mouth moved, and he laved the wounds with his tongue.

"If you looked into a mirror," he whispered, "you would not see my marks. He wanted you to see what he'd done."

I shivered helplessly, and he lifted me to his lap. He was warm, hot to my cold skin. He lifted me a little and pulled a folding knife out of his pocket. He used the knife and sliced down his wrist like you're supposed to if you want to do suicide right.

"I thought the wrist was too painful," I managed through my sluggish thoughts and vibrating jaw.

"For you," he said. "Drink, Mercy. And shut up." A faint smile crossed his face, then he leaned his head back so I couldn't see his expression anymore.

Maybe it should have bothered me more. Maybe if this had been a normal night, it would have. But useless squeamishness was beyond me. I've hunted as a coyote for most of my life, and she never stopped to cook her food. The taste of blood was nothing new or horrible to me, not when it was Stefan's blood—and he wasn't dying or in pain or anything.

I put my lips against his wrist and closed my mouth over the cut. Stefan made a noise—it didn't sound like pain. He put his free hand on my head lightly and then lifted it off as if he didn't want to coerce me even that much. This was my choice freely made.

His blood didn't taste like rabbit or mouse. It was more bitter—and somehow sweeter at the same time.

Mostly it was hot, sizzling hot, and I was cold. I drank as the cut under my tongue slowly closed. And I remembered this taste. Like eating at McDonald's twice in a day and ordering the same meal. I had a momentary flash of memory, just Blackwood's voice in my ears.

I didn't remember what he'd said or what he'd done, but brief memory of the sound had me curled up on the bench seat, my forehead on Stefan's thigh while I cried. Stefan pulled his wrist away and used his other hand to pet my head lightly.

"Mercy," he said gently. "He won't do that again. Not now. You are mine. He can't fog your mind or force you to do anything."

With my voice muffled by the fabric of his jeans, I said, "Does this mean you can read my mind?"

He laughed a little. "Only while you drink. That isn't my gift. Your secrets are safe." His laugh washed away Blackwood's voice.

I lifted up my head. "I'm glad I don't remember more of what he did," I told Stefan. But I thought that my desire to see Blackwood's body burn like Andre's might have a more personal reason than just what he was doing to Amber.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

I took a breath and evaluated myself. "Awesome. Like I could run from here to the Tri-Cities faster than the van could take us."

He laughed. "I don't think that's true… unless we get a flat tire."

He stood up and he looked better than I'd seen him since… since before he'd landed on the floor of my living room looking like something that had been buried a hundred years. I got up and had to sit down again.

"Balance," he said. "It's a little like being drunk. That'll fade fast, but I'd better drive us home."

I should have felt terrible. Some small voice was yammering that I should have checked with my Alpha before doing anything this… permanent.

But I felt fine, better than fine—and it wasn't just the vampire's blood. I felt truly in control of my life for the first time since Tim's assault. Which was pretty funny under the circumstances.

But I'd made the decision to put myself in Stefan's power.

"Stefan?" I watched the reflectors on the side of the road pass by.

"Hmm."

"Did anyone talk to you about the thing someone painted on the door of my shop?" I'd kept forgetting to ask him about it—though subsequent events had made it more obvious that it had been some sort of threat from Marsilia.