And he was in unimaginable pain.

Cyrus woke at sunup. Mouse lay curled at his side, a rare smile on her sleeping face. Whatever she dreamed of, he hated the thought of waking her.

He rose as carefully as he could to avoid disturbing her, and walked to the bathroom. He closed the door, then thought of the monsters lurking upstairs, and opened it a crack so he could hear them if they came down. Though he was sure his counterthreat had made an impact with the leader, he knew from experience a deal with a vampire was really no deal at all.

He drew a bath, hoping the thunder of water in the tub wouldn’t wake Mouse. She deserved to sleep. Every moment she slept was a moment she didn’t have to think of their dire situation.

Though he knew she had a name, he couldn’t bear to think of her as “Stacey.” Certainly not “Stacey Pickles.” He made a face at that. She deserved a better name than Mouse, but it fit her, and he couldn’t think of a better one.

He slipped into the water and slid down to submerge his head. Though he’d always enjoyed the sensation of being completely enveloped by water, he couldn’t stand it now. His mortal lungs cried for air and every faint noise seemed sinister. He sat up, gasping for breath.

He was surprised to see Mouse jump back from the tub. He hadn’t heard her come in, and his lack of awareness frightened him. “You scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. She still wore the T-shirt she’d slept in, her skinny legs jutting from beneath the short hem, which afforded her little modesty. “I heard you get up. I didn’t want to be alone.”

He leaned into the curved end of the tub and let his arm drape over the side. “It’s okay.”

She took a tentative step forward. “The door was open. I didn’t know you were—”

“I don’t mind.” He liked having her close. At least then he knew she was safe.

Her eyes darted from his naked form beneath the water to the floor as she moved to kneel beside the tub. When he reached out and lazily stroked her hair with his damp hand, she blurted, “Today is my birthday.”

“Really?” He didn’t know why he was so interested. Captivity was doing strange things to him. “How old are you?”

She nodded earnestly and leaned against the tub as though it were his living flesh. “Nineteen.”

“Nineteen, and you’re—” He’d meant to comment on her purity, then realized the comment would be crude. It wouldn’t have bothered him with anyone else, another dangerous distinction he chose to ignore. “You’re nineteen?”

“How old are you?” She looked up at him with terrifyingly earnest eyes.