"The only way I can." What he meant, Max knew, was he couldn't elaborate because Carrie is within earshot.

"Give her a curfew." Not that Max didn't trust Carrie, but she had major boundary issues where her old sire was concerned. "I'll talk to you later."

"Yeah. Goodbye, Max."

Inside, Bella was still in the bathroom. Max went to the door and knocked softly. "Are you okay in there?"

Her answer may have been muffled by the door, but he still heard the tears in her voice. "I need to be alone."

The hell she did. "Carrie thought some ginger ale would help. Do you want me to go out and get you some? I mean, I've got time to kill. It's not going to be light for at least six hours."

"No. I will be fine. I just need to get myself…under control." There was a hesitant sniffle.

He leaned his forehead against the door. Part of him wanted to order her to stop being such a big baby. Another part wanted badly to comfort her. She wasn't a fragile, wilting flower. She was Bella, the ice princess, the stone cold assassin, the hottest, sexiest, meanest woman he'd ever had the great good fortune to fuck. She hadn't cried when he'd stitched up her slashed leg sans local anesthetic in Nathan's living room. Something had to be seriously bothering her to create such a reaction, and he had a feeling he knew exactly what that something was.

She didn't like being helpless. More specifically, she didn't like being helped.

Max knew the feeling well. People who spent their lives—or afterlives, as the case may be—alone liked to believe they were islands unto themselves. If they needed someone once, they might need someone again, and that someone might not be there a second time. Max had been through that pain. From the way she was acting, he knew Bella had, too.

Still, he couldn't leave her crying on the bathroom floor. "Do you want anything out of your bag? Pajamas or anything?"

Stupid thing to ask. All the question did was bring painfully arousing memories to mind. Bella didn't wear pajamas. It was almost unbelievable that she wore underwear.

"I do not have any." She gave another sniff. "May I borrow your shirt?"

Max threw a glance to his duffel bag on the bed. "Yeah, I'll get you one."

"No. May I have the one you are wearing?" she requested, timidly, if she could manage such a humble state.

He plucked the fabric between his thumb and forefinger and pulled it away from his chest, frowning at it. She was sick, he reminded himself, so it wasn't his place to argue. "Yeah, sure."

The door opened a crack as he peeled the garment over his head. Bella's naked arm snaked out to grab it, and the door closed again.