Sara awoke with a start and one hell of a headache. At first she thought she had a hangover. She squinted at the stark white ceiling, in particular a beautiful plaster medallion in the shape of a sunburst. A shot of unease moved through her as she realized she was not looking at the ceiling in her apartment.

She sat up and glimpsed only wood floors, white bed linens, and the dark cast of evening light before fireworks exploded inside her head. Red. Gold. Bam. Pow. She sucked air through her teeth, draped her arm over her eyes, and moaned.

Where am I?

After a moment, her head cleared and she lowered her arm, blinked against the pale light of a bedside lamp. The room was large with an incredibly high ceiling that was trimmed in stark white dentil molding. There was a white fireplace against one wall, arched windows on the other, and an alcove beyond. For a second, Sara's heart jumped into her throat and she wondered where she was-- if she was still in New York. She turned to the windows and through the darkness saw a cut of the city skyline through the room's corner view.

Not a hospital room. She was in a bed in someone's house. How did she get here?

Who brought her--

She stopped, her mind quick-dropping images that took her a moment to comprehend. Then, like a river breaking free of its rocky restraints, the memory rushed through her. As she touched her face, felt the swollen flesh beneath her fingertips, she winced. She remembered it all and her heart picked up speed. The man on her floor, the phone, Tom in her apartment, Tom's pissed-off expression and ready fist . . .

Oh God. What if Tom brought her here?

She looked around for a phone, saw none. Where was her cell?

Don't panic, Sara. Just get the hell out of here.

Whipping back the bedspread, she eased herself off the mattress. Her head felt like a stone balloon, bloated and heavy. She was missing her coat and gloves, but she spotted her shoes on the floor beside the bed. They were huddled neatly together, and she slipped them on. She had to get herself to the hospital, or to the police--somewhere safe.

She stood. Her legs felt boneless and impossible to control as she stumbled across the room to the windows. No way out. No fire escape. She turned and headed for the door. Gritting her teeth against the waves of nausea, she gripped the handle and turned the knob. When she found it unlocked, her heart jumped with the small victory and she pulled the door wide and staggered through it.

The hallway was long and wide. There was artwork on the walls, rugs on the floors, antiques and modern sculptures balancing on masculine console tables. From the small bit she could see, the place seemed lavish, museumesque. Where was she?

Brownstone? Warehouse? It couldn't be Tom's place; he didn't fit here. Besides, he'd described his apartment as a "one-room shitbox."

She looked left, then right, down the impossibly long hallway. She saw it. A staircase. It had to lead to a way out. Though her head throbbed against her skull, she forced herself to walk. Just a few steps, she told herself. But soon her head was spinning and she had to grip the wall for support.

Get downstairs, outside in the air where you can breathe--

She heard something. At first she thought it was her heart knocking in her chest.

But the sound was coming closer.

Someone was coming up the stairs.

Tom.

Her heart swelled in terror and she suppressed the scream that hovered in her throat. She may have been hurt and wobbling around like a drunk, but she wasn't about to let him get her. She whipped around, tried to run down the other length of hall. Her face pulsed and dizziness whirled through her again. A few feet past the room from which she'd just escaped, she lost her footing and fell against a small table, crying out in pain as the edge of the wood stabbed into her hip. Tears pricked her eyes. She heard him coming down the hall and panic flooded her senses. She wasn't going to die this way! Fuck no--

unable to run or to fight, in a strange house, by some stalker ex-patient.

Clawing at the wood, she pushed herself to her hands and knees. She had to get out of here, get back to the hospital. Gray. He had no one to help him but her . . .

"Goddamn Nicholas. All he had to do was hold on to that human long enough to clean his mind."

Sara stilled. The voice coming from the stairs was male, but it wasn't Tom. Who--

"Nicholas said there were police in the area." Another voice. Female this time.

"He did the right thing holding back."

Sara started to crawl, her left side hugging the wall. Maybe these people were working with Tom, or for him. Her breath was shallow and dense as she inched forward.

If she could just get to a room with a fire escape . . .

"Oh, shit," the man said, his tone full of panic. "She's out of bed."

Quick, heavy footfalls echoed down the hall, and in seconds, Sara felt hands on her--large, male hands. And she was being lifted.

"No!" she uttered fiercely, struggling like a cat in the man's arms.

"Please don't fight, Dr. Donohue," he said, his tone gentle. "You'll injure yourself further."

"Let me go!"

"Sara, please."

His voice suddenly registered in her consciousness. She turned and, through her blurred vision, saw who held her.

It was him. The man outside her apartment, the one she'd helped.

Beneath long black lashes, his scarlet eyes implored her. "Sara ..."

"You won't hurt me," she said.

He shook his head. "Never."

"I don't want to die," she said, completely spent now.

"And you won't," he said as he carried her back into the bedroom. "I will not allow it."