David was a fellow immortal, Darnell his Second. And, as luck would have it, they lived only an hour away.

“David can’t help you. He and Darnell are here in Texas with me.”

That gave him pause. Whereas Roland had lived centuries, David had lived millennia. The second-oldest immortal, David enjoyed powers that only Seth’s exceeded.

Sending for David was tantamount to calling in the big guns.

“David is with you?”

“Yes.”

Forcing his fingers to do his bidding, Roland picked up the receiver and brought it to his ear.

Sarah started to protest but quieted when he touched her shoulder in a silent bid for leniency.

“What kind of situation are we talking, Seth? Do you need my help?”

“No, David and I can handle it.”

“Are you sure? I can put this on hold and be there in a few hours.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I would prefer that you remain there and see what you can uncover.”

“All right.”

Sarah pursed her lips, raised one dark eyebrow, and looked pointedly at the phone.

Returning the receiver to its cradle, Roland switched back to speakerphone.

Sarah couldn’t believe the man had just offered to fly to Texas to aid his boss, who clearly was also a good friend, when he sat before her covered in blood and ravaged by wounds that would make anyone with a weaker stomach than hers vomit.

That was loyalty. That was dedication.

Two qualities that seemed regrettably rare nowadays.

She studied Roland curiously. If he had opened the telephone conversation by saying, Hey, Seth, do me a favor and tell this woman I really am a CIA agent, she would have remained skeptical. But Seth had confirmed his status as an undercover agent—as well as the length of time he had been working this case—with no verbal hints from Roland, so she was inclined to believe him.

Besides, foolish though it may be, she wanted to believe him.

The fingers of one of his hands still rested on her shoulder, the spike carefully angled away from her face.

How could he stand it? How could he bear such horrific wounds so casually? So stoically? And what exactly did he plan to do about them if he didn’t intend to call 911?

“Who else can I call?” Roland asked. His words carried a British accent.

“Marcus.” Seth’s accent wasn’t as easy to identify.

Roland’s forehead, speckled with blood, crinkled in a frown. “How is that going to help me? Marcus is in Houston.”

“Not anymore. I transferred him to North Carolina last month. He’s staying just outside of Greensboro.”

“He is?”

The news seemed to please him.

Sarah peeled back the towel she held to his stomach, relieved to see that the stab wounds no longer bled. On the outside. Was he bleeding internally?

“Who is his Second?”

“What’s a Second?” she whispered.

Roland lowered his voice. “It’s like a partner whose sole duty is to watch your back throughout your investigation.”

“Oh.” Where had Roland’s Second been this morning? It didn’t look as though anyone had been watching his back. Other than her. And she had just stumbled onto the scene.

“Marcus doesn’t have a Second,” Seth said. “And before you say anything, he wasn’t assigned one because Marcus is dangerous to be around right now. You simply refused one because you’re antisocial.”

Roland scowled. “I’m not antisocial. I just want to be left alone.”

Sarah must have made some sound of amusement, because Roland met her gaze, then smiled sheepishly.

Her heart gave a little flutter.

Even with his face smeared with blood and dirt, he was attractive.

Then he frowned. “Wait. What makes you think Marcus is dangerous?”

“His behavior has grown erratic of late. I’m afraid any Second I place with him will quickly end up dead. Lisette is still in the area, though, and has a very competent Second. Would you prefer to call her?”

“No, just give me Marcus’s number.”

Sarah released her hold on the towel and picked up the pen and small tablet she kept on the coffee table. As Seth dictated the number, she wrote it down with Marcus’s name beside it.

Roland thanked Seth. “Don’t forget to call me if you need reinforcements.”

“Don’t worry about me. Just see what you can find out. And keep Sarah safe.”

Sarah’s stomach sank. Keep her safe?

Roland pressed the speakerphone button to hang up.

Her gaze met his.

The truth lay in his troubled, dark brown eyes.

“He thinks they’re going to come after me for helping you, doesn’t he?”

She thought she caught a flash of guilt before he looked away, down at his stomach, then at his hand.

When he spoke, his voice was hushed, weary. “Sarah, would you please clean these spikes up for me so I can remove them?”

Swallowing hard, she nodded and rose.

As Roland stood, the white towel loosened and started to fall. She hastily grabbed it and resecured the ends at his narrow waist.

“Thank you.”

Again Sarah nodded and led him over to the kitchen sink.

He was so polite … in a gruff sort of way. It just made all of this seem that much more surreal.

Turning on the cold tap, she picked up the hand sprayer and began to carefully rinse the dirt, roots, and other crud off the long, pointed length of metal protruding from the back of his right hand.

It just couldn’t be real. Any of it.

The violent struggle that had left this man staked to the ground in the field.

Her knocking two men unconscious with a shovel.

The frantic race for shelter.

His refusal of medical attention.

Finding out the sickos who had done this to him would now be after her.

It was all a bad dream, right? One of those really nasty nightmares in which you knew you were dreaming and needed to wake up, but couldn’t?

Roland sucked in a breath through clenched teeth when the cool water made contact with his wound.

“Should I pour alcohol or witch hazel on it to disinfect it?” she asked, reluctant to hurt him more.

Adam’s apple bobbing, he shook his head. “Soap and water will do.”

Sarah obligingly poured dish liquid onto her hands and lathered up the spike.

Its surface wasn’t smooth as she had thought. Rather, it abraded her skin like coarse-grained sandpaper, making it sting.

As soon as she finished rinsing the spike clean and turned off the water, Roland grabbed the horizontal bar wedged against his palm and tensed.

“Wait!” she practically shouted.

He looked at her, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

Stomach clenching, she stared up at him with pleading eyes. “There’s a clinic just fifteen miles away from here. I can—”

He started to pull. Lips drawing back from his teeth in a grimace, he emitted a long, bestial growl that made the hair on the back of her neck rise.

Sarah clapped her hands over her mouth to suppress a horrified cry.

When the spike slid free, crimson liquid began to pour from the large puncture wound left behind, dripping into the sink.

Unrolling several sections of paper towel, she folded them and wrapped them tightly around and around his hand.

“That’s fine,” he said hoarsely, holding the makeshift bandage in place with his thumb. “Now the other one.”

Turning the cold water on again, she began to rinse the second spike. The first, still wet with Roland’s blood, lay in the sink, where he had dropped it.

Her hands started to quake. The rest of her followed suit until her whole body trembled so violently Sarah thought she might shatter.

After shutting off the tap, she reeled off several more sections of paper towel and watched him remove the last spike.

The tendons on his neck stood out. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Yet Roland made no sound as the metal came free.

Sarah blinked back tears as she wrapped his hand.

He hadn’t wanted to upset her. She didn’t know how she knew it, but she did. He had seen how removing the first spike had shaken her and hadn’t wanted to make it worse, so he had borne the pain silently.

Agony radiating from seemingly every cell in his body, Roland stared at Sarah’s bent head. He could see her shaking, the rapid movement of her long lashes as she fought back tears.

She had been such a trouper about all of this. Strong. Fearless. Doing anything he asked of her no matter how difficult.

To see her suffering now with that glimmer of moisture on her pale cheeks tore at his fossilized heart.

Staring at her helplessly, he found himself at a loss as to how he might comfort her. He couldn’t remember ever being confronted by a weeping woman. At least not one he knew or gave a damn about. Certainly not one who had helped him at such great risk to herself.

A sniffle escaped her as she finished wrapping his hand.

Unable to bear it, Roland reached out, tore off another paper towel, and, ignoring the sting of it, wiped as much of the blood and dirt from his chest as he could. After tossing the soiled paper towel into the sink, he hesitated briefly, then drew Sarah close, wrapped his arms around her, and awkwardly patted her back.

“Don’t hurt your hands,” she cautioned, her voice warbling slightly as she rested her face against his chest and slid her arms around his waist.

Unbelievable. Even as her tears dampened his skin, she looked out for him.

Him. A total stranger.

“I’m more concerned about you than my hands,” he admitted.

“I’m okay,” she said. “It’s just been a very … nerve-racking morning.”

Roland held her tighter. “And it isn’t even 7 a.m.”

She groaned. “That’s just not right.”

Closing his eyes, he rested his chin atop her hair and let his senses feast upon her. Her scent was a pleasant blend of woman, baby powder, and sunscreen. Her warm body, pressed to his, seemed fragile in comparison to his own bulk and strength.

Though thin, she was by no means built like the emaciated models and actresses other men inexplicably preferred. The breasts brushing his chest and interfering with his ability to moderate his pulse were enticingly full, her waist tiny, her hips nicely rounded, her thighs slender, but not sticklike in the worn sweatpants that hugged them.