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scabbed.
    Shaking off the unusual healing injuries as
adrenaline-induced delusions, Sam pulled out a pair of shears and cut away his
shirt. God, he looked half-starved despite the air of power that surrounded
him. The man's ribs showed plainly through his skin, which was covered with
contusions from where those men had kicked and beaten him.
    "What the hell were you doing back there?" She
spoke softly, talking more to herself than him since he was out cold, anyway.
"You should be in worse shape than you are, if you ask me."
    Gently palpating his chest and abdomen, Sam felt for broken
bones or evidence of internal damage, shaking her head.
    "And why didn't you want me to help you? What? Was this
some kind of gang thing? You look too old to be in a gang." She studied
his face. He looked maybe 29 at the oldest. His shoulder-length, black hair
appeared silky soft, and he had what looked like a few days of growth along the
sharp angle of his jaw and across his chin and upper lip. It was a comely look.
Sam had always been a sucker for a man with facial hair, especially when it was
as manicured as this guy's was.
    His face looked angelic now that his eyes were closed.
Earlier, in the parking garage, when his eyes had been open, Sam had seen a
lifetime of pain in their depths, a suffering that ran deeper than the beating
he had just endured. It was a look she had seen in the eyes of some of the
older soldiers she had treated in the Army, and it made her wonder what this
guy had been through to hurt so deeply.
    Biting her lip, she resisted the urge to run her fingers
through his hair to see if it was as soft as it looked. But she did trace the
tips of her fingers over his forehead then turned her hand so the backs of her
fingers brushed down his cheek. Something about this mysterious man made her
want to comfort him.
    Suddenly she yanked her hand away. "Stop it, Sam. This
isn't time for Florence Nightingale Syndrome." This guy was dangerous.
Hell, why else would five thugs want to beat the crap out of him? He must have
done something terrible to make them retaliate like that.
    A nasty scrape on the man's shoulder seeped blood and he had
numerous, angry lashes on both forearms which looked relatively fresh.
    She sucked in her breath and frowned. "What the hell
are those from?" There was no way those men in the parking garage had done
that to him. His clothes hadn't been ripped, for starters, and they had been
beating him, not knifing him. She had seen cuttings in the Army, and that's
what this looked like. If she was a betting woman, she would lay down a hundred
that this guy was cutting himself, which meant he was even more fucked up than
she thought.
    Sam looked more closely at Mr. Out-Cold's face and sighed.
With a shake of her head, she grabbed an antiseptic wipe from her kit.
"What have you been doing to yourself, Mister?" She ripped open the
wipe's wrapper and the faint smell of alcohol permeated the air. "You're a
troubled one, aren't you? Let's get you fixed up so I can be rid of you. You
kind of freak me out."
    As she touched the antiseptic wipe to the jagged scrape on
the man's shoulder, the man's eyes shot open wide, his entire body contracting
violently as he growled – growled? Yes, he growled as his head snapped around.
    Animalistic, navy blue eyes met hers, full of fear and
something else, something dark.
    The rest happened so fast, Sam didn't have time to react.
His unbelievably strong hands latched onto her arm, pulled her wrist to his
mouth, and then fangs – Fangs? – pierced her skin as he bit her.
    * * *
    Micah had been in a semi-lucid state, aware of everything
going on around him but unable to rouse himself. He had felt the woman cut off
his shirt, had felt her sure, confident hands ranging his chest and torso
before her gentle fingers caressed his face. She had talked to him, too. Well,
not really to him, but sort of. Her voice was smooth and low, sultry. He just
wanted her to keep talking. The sound of her