The thought made me feel sick to my stomach.
“So, how close are you to figuring me out?” I asked, as my blood filled the second vial. “I mean, you may as well stick a tap straight into my vein so you can draw more on demand. Like at a bar.”
Carver chuckled again. “We’re not drinking your blood. We’re studying it.”
“Maybe you should be studying how to prevent infection, rather than how to succeed at it, if making more like me is illegal.” But I felt bad for saying that before the words had even faded into silence between us. I knew damn well that Carver wasn’t trying to make more strays.
He disconnected the second vial and set it aside. “The only way to prevent infection is to prevent violent contact between humans and shifters. But that’s a job for psychologists and enforcers, not doctors.”
I thought about that while he removed the needle from my arm, covered the hole in my flesh with a bandage, and untied the tourniquet. Dr. Carver, I decided, was one of the good guys.
While he packed up his supplies and refilled his coffee mug, I wandered out of the kitchen and through the dining room, studying the framed photographs covering one long wall of the Di Carlos’ most formal—and ceramic-angel-free—space. They rarely used the dining room, even though at least four of the territory’s six live-in enforcers were present at every dinner.
I’d decided early on in my confinement that the room’s lack of use was due to the faces staring at the diners from the wall. One face in particular.
“Who is she?”
I spun, startled by the unexpected yet familiar voice, to find a stranger standing behind me, leaning against the doorway. My gaze caught on him and stuck there, and for a moment, I could only stare at him with my mouth hanging open, like most of the toms around here look at me. His strong features and piercing eyes were unfamiliar—an unsettling rarity over the past two months—but one whiff of his scent provided his identity.
Stray.
Titus Alexander.
Why had no one told me the stray Alpha wasgorgeous?
I glanced around the dining room, expecting to find one of the Southeast enforcers acting as escort for the guest. Bert Di Carloneverleft me alone with strange toms, and this was the strangest—and prettiest—one I’d ever met.
Titus didn’t wear dark clothes like an enforcer—intended to hide the inevitable bloodstains. He wore a suit, like the older generation of Alphas.
Yet he wore his suitnothinglike the older generation of Alphas.
His steel-colored jacket exactly matched the shade of his eyes, and the material lay perfectly against every artfully sculpted plane and angle of his body. That suit hadn’t come off a rack. Every stitch and fold was designed specifically for the man wearing it.
“Um…” I blinked, then tore my gaze away from him. I could feel my cheeks warming.
My hesitance seemed to amuse him, which only made my face burn hotter.
“Sara Di Carlo,” I mumbled, forcing my focus back to the photo at the center of the arrangement on the wall. Like most tabbies, she’d been the youngest of her siblings, after a long line of sons.
The stray extended one hand toward me; he thought I was introducing myself.
“Not me. That was Sara.” I gestured at the framed photo. “I’m Robyn.” When I clasped my hands behind me, declining his handshake, he withdrew his hand, yet somehow made the motion look…cool.
“Robyn Sheffield, the only American female stray.” He inhaled subtly, confirming my identity with a whiff of my scent. “I’m Titus Alexander. The only stray Alpha. It seems we’re both somewhat anomalous around here.” His smile kindles an intimate fire deep inside me, and I scramble to put out the flames. I donotlike Alphas.
“Marc Ramos is a stray Alpha,” I inform him. Though the truth is that Marc is his wife’s co-Alpha. The council would never let him run a Pride on his own.
His smile falters. “Yes. Of course.” He clears his throat and refocuses on the photograph. “What happened to Sara?”
“She died. She and Abby—” And Faythe Sanders, the only female Alpha. “—um…ran into some trouble several years ago. Sara never made it home.” I turned to point at another picture of a young man with beautiful blue eyes, just like his sister’s. “Anthony died trying to get justice for her.”
“The kidnapping.” Titus nodded solemnly. “I heard about that.”
“Abby told you?” I frowned. Abbynevertalked about whatever happened to her at the hands of those rogues.
“No.” The realization that he’d said too much seemed to hit him all at once, and he shifted his weight onto one foot.
“Jace,” I guessed.
