Free Eternal Hunger by Laura Wright

Mear’s excitement over his new pet. “To give to the cause, without any quid pro quo.”
    There was a pause, then a whisper of “Sir, he does need something.”
    Chuckling softly, Ethan moved closer to the human, stood eye to eye with him, and asked, “What is it you want, Tom Trainer? What are you so willing to give your life for? Because, make no mistake, once you stepped into this little world of mine and offered your body to Mear, your life became mine to command.”
    Baby brown eyes flickered up, found Ethan’s calculated glare. He whispered something unintelligible.
    “Speak up, human!” Ethan demanded. “I can barely hear you.”
    “A woman,” Tom said.
    “Ah,” Ethan drawled, eyebrows lifted. “You will make Mear jealous.”
    “Not to fuck,” Tom said in an almost violent tone. “To hurt, to bleed, to kill.”
    “She has rejected you,” Ethan said as if he gave a shit.
    “Yes.” Emotionally amped up now, Tom continued his tirade. “She must die. She and that fanged animal who was with her.”
    Ethan’s gaze shot to Mear’s. “What is this?”
    “My friend claims that his love for the woman was interrupted by a vampire, Commander. A vampire with burning tattoos on his face.”
    Ethan stilled, a cold fear rolling through him. “Tattoos on his face ? Are you certain?”
    “Yes . . . Commander,” Tom managed. “On both cheeks. They looked like something a branding iron would do.”
    Was it possible? Ethan wondered, alarmed. A descendant of the Breeding Male close by? And if so, what did it mean for Ethan’s plan, his new Order?
    Unwilling to show his unease over the news the human had brought with him, Ethan regarded Tom with a cold smile. “You know that there are fanged animals here?”
    Tom paled. “Not like that one.”
    No, not like that one. Ethan’s gaze bore down on Tom. “All right, human, you will drink from Mear, you will gain in strength, and your female will die at your hand. In return, you belong to me—you will fight for me.” Ethan closed his eyes and pulled air into his nostrils. “Now tell me more about this singed paven .”

10
    H aving run all the way from SoHo, Sara could barely catch her breath as she burst through the back door of Walter Wynn Hospital. She spied the empty stairwell and took the steps two at a time until she reached the fourth floor. Dizzy, her heart throbbing inside her chest, she collapsed on the top step and put her head between her knees.
    Breathe.
    Try to get some oxygen into the rational part of your brain.
    Maybe she should’ve gone straight to the cops, or found a hotel room and slept for the five hours her body was begging for. But no, she’d searched Alexander Roman’s second floor for an unlocked window and when she’d found one she’d destroyed the screen, climbed down the rickety-ass fire escape, and run to the one place she was utterly tethered to, the one place she was sure to find her sanity.
    Grabbing on to the railing, she pulled herself up and plodded over to the door, opened it wide. The psych unit was active, like a Starbucks at eight a.m. Afternoon visiting hours were in full swing, and families and loved ones were being buzzed into one ward or another, depending on the age of the patient. Just a month ago, Sara’s mother had been part of that crowd, in New York on one of her biyearly visits, and just like the rest of them, she’d worn a hopeful expression on the way in, praying she’d find her son changed, healed. It was not an uncommon occurrence to leave disappointed.
    Sara tried to slip past the nurse’s station, heading straight for the door to the adult ward, and had her hand on the keypad when a voice called out, “What happened to you?”
    Feigning nonchalance, Sara glanced back at Claire, the main reception nurse, and shrugged. “Tripped on the stairs going into my apartment. Ice was pretty slick this morning.”
    Claire looked concerned. “Did you get checked out by ER?”
    “Yep. All good.” Eager to