She could feel him trembling. The hand that gripped her shook violently. And he began to slowly press downward as if he had to use her to prop himself up.

Jenna watched him take in the sofa, the stained coffee table, John, and their abandoned dinner.

Relief softened his features as he swayed. “We made it out? I got us out?”

Before she or John could ask out of what, Richart looked around again. “Where is Ami?”

Jenna felt the sharp glance John sent her. “Who is Ami?” she asked.

His frown returned, as did the alarm. “What?”

“I don’t know who Ami is, Richart. You just . . . appeared . . . out of nowhere. Alone.”

“She wasn’t with me? I left her there?”

John stepped forward. “Left her where? Who’s Ami? What the hell is going on?”

Richart began to mumble in French again.

Jenna gave him a little shake. “Richart!”

“I must go back,” he said, face stricken. He released his hold on Jenna and, breaking her own, staggered away two steps.

When he listed to one side, Jenna hurried forward to steady him.

He pushed her away. “Don’t touch me,” he wheezed. “I’ll take you with me.”

“What?”

John grabbed her by the shoulders and drew her back.

Richart reached beneath his coat and drew out two very lethal looking daggers.

John swore.

Richart squeezed his eyes closed, so wobbly on his feet the faintest breath of wind would have knocked him on his ass.

As Jenna stared at him, his form began to fade, becoming translucent. Her breath caught. She could actually see the other side of the room through him.

“What the . . . ?” John whispered.

Then Richart became solid again. He opened his eyes, saw them, and growled with frustration. Stumbling a couple of steps to the left, he thrust out an arm and pressed a bloody fist against the wall until he could regain his balance, then straightened. He squeezed his eyes shut, brow crinkling with concentration. Again his form began to fade, becoming phantomlike.

“Mom . . .” John said. “Are you seeing this?”

Jenna didn’t have to look up at him to know he was as freaked out as she was. “Yes.”

Once more, Richart’s form solidified. He opened his eyes, spoke vehemently in French, then lurched forward. His knees buckled. Losing his battle with gravity, he crashed through her coffee table, reducing it to large splinters as he hit the floor hard.

Her heart now lodged in her throat, Jenna jerked away from John and knelt at Richart’s side. “Richart?”

Rolling onto his back, he stared up at her with unfocused eyes. “I left . . . her there,” he whispered, those eyes—dilated she could see now—filling with moisture.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, combing his damp hair back from his face.

He shook his head. “I left her. They’ll . . . kill her.” A tear slid down his temple. His weapons thunked to the floor as his hands went limp. “They’ll”—his eyes closed—“tear her . . . apart.”

As Jenna watched in horror, he sighed. Then his chest rose no more. “Richart?”

Nothing.

Burying her hands in his bloody shirt, she shook him. “Richart?”

No response.

“Richart!”

John knelt by her side. “Mom . . .”

Unable to speak past the lump in her throat, she shoved her fingers against Richart’s throat above his carotid artery. Seconds ticked by, passing as slowly as hours. Her vision wavered as tears filled her eyes and spilled over her lashes. “I can’t feel a pulse.” Her breath hitched. “I can’t feel a pulse!”

John shoved her hand away and pressed two fingers against Richart’s neck.

She gripped Richart’s arm. “There’s nothing.”

“Shh.” He lowered his ear to Richart’s chest.

“He’s—”

“Shh!”

This wasn’t happening.

Whatever the hell this was, it wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be!

“John—”

“Quiet!” her son ordered harshly.

Jenna stared at Richart’s face. How could he have come to mean so much to her in such a short time? The thought of losing him . . .

More tears welled.

“I’ve got a pulse,” John blurted, face pinched as he sat up.

“What?”

“He’s alive.”

Jenna rose onto her knees, hope a frightening force that lent her strength despite her trembling. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. It’s slow as hell, but it’s there.”

Elation filled her, rendering her weak again. “We have to call nine-one-one.”

He caught her wrist and stopped her before she could rise and lunge for the phone. “And tell them what? That your vampire boyfriend needs medical attention?”

And there it was. The V-word she had been trying her damnedest to avoid.

“There are no such things as vampires.”

“Proof of their existence is currently passed out on our living room floor.”

“He isn’t a vampire,” she denied.

“His eyes glowed and he had fangs.”

“But he doesn’t now!”

“Exactly. Fake fangs don’t retract into your gums. Glowing contact lenses don’t have an on/off switch.”

She stared at her son, wanting to cling to denial a little longer.

“And humans don’t have pulses so slow as to be virtually undetectable,” he pronounced.

“But he ate food.”

“Maybe vampires can eat food in real life.”

“Do you realize—”

“Yes! I realize how ludicrous that sounds, Mom, but . . . !” He drew in a deep breath. “Look, I don’t know what the hell he is, but I do know what he isn’t: human. And since the news hasn’t been filled with vampire reports, I’m guessing he’s been keeping it a secret.”

He had certainly been keeping it a secret from her.

“Well, we can’t just leave him here,” she said. He was wounded, badly, judging by all of the blood. He needed help.

“If you’re asking me what we should do . . .” He shook his head. “As your son, my first instinct is to protect you by waiting for the sun to rise and shoving his ass out the door.”

“John!”

“Don’t worry. My second inclination—again because you’re my mom and I know you care about him—is to do what I can to help him. Let’s put him to bed and see if we can do anything about his wounds.”

Jenna gave John a quick hug. “I love you.”

He hugged her back. “I love you, too. I just hope we aren’t making a huge mistake.”

They stood. John kicked the daggers away from Richart’s hands.

“Put him in my room,” Jenna instructed.

Offering no protest, John bent down, hoisted Richart over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and straightened. “Holy crap he’s heavy.” He staggered toward the hallway.

Jenna ducked past them and hurried into her bedroom.

Grabbing the old, timeworn blanket at the foot of the bed, she threw it over the covers to protect them a bit from the blood. She stared as John deposited Richart’s limp form on the bed.

Had Richart not canceled, she likely would have spent tonight making love with a vampire.

“Mom?”

Get it together. “Right.” Moving forward, she tugged off Richart’s boots.

John removed the long coat, then Jenna started on the buttons that ran down the front of Richart’s black shirt. When she reached the last one and parted the material, both she and John gasped.

Richart’s torso was a sticky red. His shoulder did indeed sport a bullet hole. The rest of him . . .

Puncture wounds, deep cuts, and gashes that must have been carved by blades as sharp as Richart’s daggers marred much of his form.

“We don’t even have what we need to bandage those, let alone close them,” John said.

“Whatever we need, go buy it,” Jenna told him.

“I don’t want to leave you here alone with him.”

Jenna met his gaze. “We’ve been alone together nearly every night this week and he hasn’t harmed me. Do it. I’ll be fine.”

“What if he wakes up, wanting blood? You go. I’ll—”

“John.” Her tone offered no compromise.

He nodded, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, and left the room.

A couple of minutes later, he returned, wearing a fresh sweatshirt, jacket, and jeans. He handed her a canister of pepper spray and one of Richart’s daggers. “If he threatens you, hit him with the pepper spray, then carve him up.”

Lovely.

Jenna took the weapons and kissed John on the cheek. “Hurry.”

Nodding, he left the room. A moment later, the front door closed.

And Jenna was left alone with the vampire she loved.

Jenna glanced at the clock for the hundredth time since John had left.