...Richard’s eyelids snapped open, his ears deafened by the thundering of his own heartbeat. Since the change, waking always ambushed him this way, the abrupt shift from not-there to painfully present like a tiger leaping on him from a tree limb above his head. Only when he had been gravely wounded or had neglected his feedings too long did the hard edges of waking soften to something more normal.

He hated it, that moment of doubt, wondering, once again, if he woke up secure. A few deep breaths calmed his heart. He lay still, taking stock. Bedroom. Yes. Which one? Sarasota…Portland…no, Ithaca. The house in the hills. A life stirred out in the hallway, a heart that beat to a familiar rhythm.

Confusion furrowed his brow. William? No, of course not…Josh. He smiled at the memory of those skilled hands on his skin, the ferocious, consuming need the little hunter exuded when aroused. God, what fire lay under the sarcastic exterior, what depths of tender passion roiled in that hard-muscled, compact body…

Wait. A second heart beat alongside the first outside his door, faster than the first, most likely out of fear.

Sorrow and rage welled up in his chest. Why had he been so quick to trust? To fall headfirst into the hunter’s trap of seduction? Now Josh had help. They waited for him to emerge. A man like that would want him awake and alert, of that he was certain. The revenge-mongers never want to take you in your sleep.

Fog-silent, he rose and eased to the steel door of his room. The hinges, hung on the inside, meant no one could get in with a screwdriver. The heavy bolt ensured that it would take a blowtorch and a good deal of effort to break in at all.

Richard slid his back against the wall beside the door, in case of missiles aimed at his bedroom. Without exposing himself to any would-be assassin’s line of sight, he shot the bolt open and flung the door wide.

No crossbow bolts flew. No shots rang out. No hunters raced through the doorway screaming for blood.

“Dude?” Josh’s voice floated to him from the hallway, tense and wary. “You’re, ah, kinda growling. You have a bad dream or something?”

Richard kept his voice low, but failed to keep the threat out of his tone. “Who’s out there with you?”

Josh said something half-audible. He almost sounded embarrassed.

“Kat?” Richard snarled. “Who is Kat?”

“No, not Kat. A cat. She was hanging around your porch and she looked kinda hungry…”

A quick dart of his head around the doorframe confirmed what Richard’s sense of smell would have told him if he had been calmer. The second heart beat so fast because it was felis catus, a little gray shorthair with eyes wide as saucers. Cat. Josh. No other scents lingered in the house.

He passed a hand over his face and came out to lean against the wall facing Josh. “Sorry.”

Josh snorted and put the startled cat down. “Not exactly all sunshine and flowers when he first wakes up, is he, Miss Kitty?” She raced down the stairs, tail fluffed like a bottlebrush. “I was just coming to kiss you good morning. Or good afternoon. Or whatever.”

“You were?”

“Yeah. You said six hours.”

Richard cleared his throat, as much a habit when he was uncomfortable as to clear the last remnants of growl from his speech. “I did. I didn’t think…I’m out of the habit of having company when I wake. Maybe best to give me some room until I’m accustomed to another life in the house again.”

“Got it.” Josh held up his hands with a crooked grin. “Some guys need their space first thing. Not a morning person. Hey, it’s cool. But you could’ve told me you have a case of raving paranoia.”

A weak chuckle got past Richard’s chagrin. “I think, my dear, that I have reason to be paranoid. It keeps one’s head attached to one’s neck.”

“Yeah. Nice head, too.” Josh had the audacity to wink at him before he swaggered after the cat.