"Clairemont," a smooth male voice was saying. "Clairemont. Clairemont. Claire. Montie."

Unfortunately, it's rare that I have trouble remembering where I am when I wake up. I had no trouble today. Fangs digging through my muscles . . . I remembered that very well.

"Iverson," the voice continued. "Iverson."

I opened my eyes to glare at the predator from the club. "Good morning," he said. He was turning my driver's license over in his fingers.

It was still morning? Hurrah. He was going through my wallet? Better and better.

I ignored the intrusive male in favor of my surroundings. Let's see, I was lying on a wooden floor. In a bedroom. The bedroom was sparse, just white walls and a twin bed. It smelled like mildew.

Great, well the floor was probably the cleanest spot here. If it had been washed since his last girl on the floor.

Things could be worse—I could be in the bed. He hadn't even taken off my jacket or shoes. I would have woken up if he'd removed the former. I liked cold weather during the day. At night, I slept in a mound of pillows and blankets. The bed here only had a thin excuse for a comforter. Yuck.

I must have been out of it.

Ah, I see you're awake, humor.

"Are you one of Gerard's?" my kidnapper asked. He was leaning against the side of the bed, almost sitting but upright enough that he probably intended to look intimidating. He stopped spinning my license and peered down at me.

He was pretty, I'll say that. Late teens with an angular face and long-lashed boyish eyes. His sleeveless tank top told me that yes, he was as muscular as I'd worried. And I wasn't usually scared of muscles. I had five brothers.

Yeah, you heard me. Five. You bet I could wrestle half of them to the ground. Their existence was why I never saw much point in dressing up. Someone was always going to throw mud at me or accidentally break my fancy hair clip, so why bother?

I turned away from the dumb teenage probable-vampire (I was ninety-nine percent certain and until then I'd lie to myself) only to find that my neck was killing me. Killing. Me. My back hadn't fared so well from the floor. I'd known that already.

My hands flew to my neck to get an idea of which muscle was having a hissy fit. They encountered a huge, crusty scab. I hissed.

My kidnapper shifted almost awkwardly. "I couldn't risk catching you somewhere where there were cameras. You should have just told me you were one of Gerard's. No way would I bite a youngblood willingly. Do you know what would happen if I'd drained you?" He shuddered.

I snorted. That was the stupidest thing anyone had ever told me first thing in the morning . . . although he seemed completely sincere. "Gerard" scared him. He didn't want to hurt "one of Gerard's" . . . ugh, what had contemporary fiction done to me? Was this revenge for reading those romanticized portrayals?

The scab covering half of my neck didn't feel wet. My jacket and shirt were stuck to my skin, though. I'd lost a lot of blood, and not just because he'd felt thirsty. Which I hope he hadn't, what with those two unconscious girls.

"You should have left me alone," I said. Ouch, my throat hurt on the inside, too. My poor vocal cords. "Gerard is going to come for me." I winced—owwww—and took a deeper breath. "Show me the way out and I won't tell him that you bit me."

He bit me! I hadn't been bitten since my brothers were toddlers. Most of them were older than me, too, so it wasn't like I was talking about a mere year or two here.