Page 121 of Let Sleeping Vampires Lie

“What happened?” he asked.

“Later,” I said. “We need to get him upstairs.”

Isra took one look at Con’s chest, at the way his ribs shifted under the fabric with each shallow breath, and nodded.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s take him to your suite.”

We moved.

Two clan members helped push the gurney. Marcus kept the case held tight to his body. I walked beside them, one hand on Con’s shoulder, as if I could keep his soul anchored through contact alone.

Raven fell into step on my other side. Her fingers brushed mine briefly, a silent reassurance.

The halls of Shadow Bone swallowed us. Familiar portraits and relics blurred past as we headed to the floor where my rooms were located.

Once inside my suite, the energy shifted.

This was my space.

My bed. My weapons. My carefully maintained illusion of privacy.

Now it was a battlefield again.

We transferred Con from the gurney to the bed. He barely helped. His eyes rolled back as we shifted his weight, jaw clenched so tight I feared he would crack teeth.

When he settled against the pillows, he exhaled a broken sound that cut straight through me.

The mattress took his weight without protest. The dark sheets, still rumpled from earlier, now soaked up new stains.

Isra stood at the foot of the bed, arms folded, face carved in harsh lines.

Raven moved to the side, her gaze taking in every wound with clinical precision. She had seen worse. That did not mean she felt it less.

“Broken ribs,” she said quietly. “Possibly a puncture. Certainly internal bruising. He needs blood.”

“We have bags,” someone said from the doorway. “Edward sent a cooler.”

I had not even noticed Edward in the hall. Of course he had anticipated this. He understood how quickly a fight could go wrong.

“Bring them,” I said.

One of the clan runners hurried in with a cooler, set it beside the nightstand, and opened the lid. Inside, several units of stored blood glowed under the cold pale light.

Con turned his head slightly, nostrils flaring.

“Do it,” Raven said.

I hesitated.

All our earlier conversations about blood and bonds and consent echoed in my skull. About what his blood might do to me. About what my blood might do to him. About the schemes of men like his father.

These bags were neutral. Donors he did not know, stored and cataloged. They posed no threat beyond the usual.

No artificial bonds. No unintended chains.

“Fine,” I said.

I grabbed a bag, warmed it quickly between my hands, then pierced the top and guided the spout to his lips.