Except… she didn't really feel like a stranger.

His surgeon's hand went to her throat, and as she sank down into the seat of the chair. As time stretched out languidly, uncurling like a lazy dog on a hazy summer night, her eyes never left his, and he didn't look away either.

That word came back to him: Mine.

Except which one was he thinking of? Butch or her?

Her, he realized. It was the female across the room who was bringing that word out of him.

Butch shifted, his legs brushing against V's through the blankets. With a stab of guilt, V recalled the times he'd imagined himself with Butch, imagined the two of them lying as they were now, imagined them… well, healing wasn't the half of it. Strange, though. Now that it was happening, V wasn't thinking anything sexual toward Butch. No… the sexual drive and the bonding word were directed toward the silent human woman across the room, the one who was clearly shocked.

Maybe she couldn't handle two men being together? Not that he and Butch were ever going to be.

For some ridiculous fucking reason, V said to her, "He is my best friend."

She seemed surprised that he'd offered any explanation. Which made two of them.

Jane couldn't take her eyes off the bed. The patient and Red Sox were glowing together, a soft light emanating from their bodies, and something was happening between them, some kind of exchange. Jesus, that sweet smell was fading, wasn't it.

And best friends? She looked at the patient's hand buried in Red Sox's hair and the way those heavy arms held the man close. Sure they were buddies, but how much further than that did it go?

After God only knew how long, Red Sox let out a long sigh and lifted his head. With their faces separated by a mere matter of inches, Jane braced herself. She had no problem with men being together, but for some insane reason she didn't want to see her patient kiss his friend. Or anybody else.

"Are you okay?" Red Sox asked.

The patient's voice was low and soft. "Yeah. Tired."

"I'll bet." Red Sox got up off the bed in a lithe move. Holy hell, he looked as if he'd spent a month at a spa. His color was back to normal, and his eyes were unclouded and alert. And that air of malevolence was gone.

The patient repositioned himself on his back. Then rolled to his side with a wince. Then tried his back again. His legs scissored under the covers the whole time, as if he were trying to outrun whatever feeling was in his body.

"You in pain?" Red Sox asked. When there was no response, the guy looked over his shoulder at her. "Can you help him, Doc?"

She wanted to say no. She wanted to throw out a couple of curse words and demand to be released again. And she wanted kick this member of the Red Sox Nation in the balls for making her patient sicker by whatever just happened.

The Hippocratic oath got her up and moving to the duffels. "Depends on what you brought me."

She dug around and found a Walgreens-load of just about every pain med available. And all of it was straight out of Big Pharma packages, so they clearly had sources on the inside of a hospital: The drugs were sealed up in such a way that they hadn't passed very far through the black market. Hell, these guys probably were the black market.

To make sure she hadn't missed any options, she looked in the second bag… and found her favorite pair of yoga sweats… and the rest of the things she'd packed to go down to Manhattan for the Columbia interview.

They'd been to her home. These bastards had been in her home.

"We had to take your car back," Red Sox explained. "And figured you'd appreciate some fresh clothes. These were ready to go."

They'd driven her Audi, walked through her rooms, been through her shit.

Jane stood up and kicked the duffel across the room. As her clothes spilled out onto the floor, she shoved her hand into her pocket and gripped the razor, ready to go for Red Sox's throat.

The patient's voice was strong. "Apologize."

She wheeled around and glared at the bed. "For what? You take me against my w-"

"Not you. Him."

Red Sox's voice was contrite as he spoke up fast. "I'm sorry we went through your house. Just trying to make this easier on you."

"Easier? No offense, but fuck off with your apology. You know, people are going to miss me. The police will be looking for me."

"We took care of all that, even the appointment in Manhattan. We found the train tickets and the interview itinerary. They no longer expect you."

Rage made her lose her voice for a moment. "How dare you."

"They were quite content to reschedule when they heard you were sick." As if this was supposed to make it right.

Jane opened her mouth, ready to have at him, when it dawned on her that she was wholly at their mercy. So antagonizing her captors was probably not a smart move.

With a curse, she looked at the patient. "When are you going to let me go?"

"As soon as I'm on my feet."

She studied his face, from the goatee to the diamond eyes to the tats at his temple. On instinct she said, "Give me your word. Swear on the life I gave back to you. You will let me go unharmed."

He didn't hesitate. Not even to take a breath. "On my honor and the blood in my veins, you'll be free as soon as I'm well."

Berating herself and them, she took her hand from her pocket, bent down, and grabbed a vial of Demerol out of the bigger duffel. "There aren't any syringes."

"I've got some." Red Sox came over and held a sterile pack out. When she tried to take it from him, he kept a grip on the thing. "I know you'll use this wisely."

"Wisely?" She snapped the syringe out of his hand. "No, I'm going to poke him in the eye with it. Because that's what they trained me to do in medical school."

Bending down again, she fished around in the duffel and found a pair of latex gloves, an alcohol towelette packet, and some gauze and packing to change the chest dressing.

Although she'd given the patient prophylactic antibiotics through his IV before surgery, so his risk of infection was low, she asked, "Can you get antibiotics as well?"

"Anything you need."

Yeah, they were definitely hooked up with a hospital. "I might want some Ciprofloxacin or maybe some Amoxicillin. Depends on what's going on under that surgical packing."

She put the needle and the vial and the other supplies on the bedside table, snapped on the gloves, and tore open the foiled square.

"Hold up for a second, Doc," Red Sox said.

"Excuse me?"

Red Sox's eyes fixed on her like a pair of gun sights. "With all due respect, I need to stress that if you harm him intentionally, I will kill you with my bare hands. In spite of the fact that you're a woman."

As a shot of terror stiffened her spine, a growling sound filled the bedroom, the kind a mastiff made before it attacked.

They both looked down at the patient in shock.

His upper lip was peeled back and those sharp front teeth were twice the size they'd been before. "No one touches her. I don't care what she does or to whom."

Red Sox frowned as if his buddy had lost his marbles. "You know our agreement, roommate. I keep you safe until you can do it yourself. You don't like it? Get your ass healed up and then you can worry about her."

"No one."

There was a moment of silence; then Red Sox looked back and forth between Jane and the patient like he was recalibrating a law of physics-and having trouble with the math.

Jane jumped in, feeling the need to calm them down to a rolling boil. "Okay, okay. Let's cut the macho-shithead posturing, shall we?" The two of them looked at her in surprise and seemed even more astounded as she elbowed Red Sox out of the way. "If you're going to be here, unplug the aggression. You're not helping him." She glared at the patient. "And you-you just relax."