Claimed by Cammie Eicher

car.”
    Creed said nothing, although his foot went down heavier on the gas.
    “I don’t mean mine,” Chiana added. “Yours. I’m about ready to take a bite out of you right now.”
    “Look under the seat. There might be another energy bar.”
    “I’m not eating any more granola crap. I want real food.”
    Silence reigned as they rolled down the dark road. He was pissed again, Chiana figured, but she didn’t care. A woman had to eat.
    “That crap Doc shoves in me speeds up my metabolism like crazy,” she said. “If I don’t refuel pretty soon, I’m going to implode.”
    She wasn’t surprised when he kept driving as if he’d never heard her. She leaned against the door and watched the mile markers go by. Her head felt like it was going to explode, and her arms ached. She knew from experience that her heart would begin to pound, her breathing would speed up and her blood pressure would skyrocket. She’d learned the symptoms as a kid, when Doc was still perfecting the serum.
    “Seriously,” she said ten miles later, “my body’s feeding on itself. I need some help here.”
    Chiana decided she must have sounded desperate, because he took the next exit and headed for the only set of neon lights still lit. Creed parked at the side of the building and cut the engine. She shoved open her door and took off for the double doors that led into the convenience store and adjacent cafe.
    Before she could reach for the wide door handle, Creed’s hand came down heavily on her arm.
    “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
    His voice was rough.
    “Getting some food.” She tried to shake off his hand, but his grip tightened.
    “Or maybe setting yourself up to get snatched.”
    “You know, I’m getting sick of this me Tarzan, you Jane stuff.”
    Creed pulled her to face him, his free hand seizing her other arm. The shadows cast by the artificial lighting added menace to his features.
    “When you’re with what’s-his-name, you can call the shots. Make him cluck like a chicken or put a saddle on him and ride him like a pony. Don’t know what you do, don’t care. We’re not partners. I’m the boss; you do what I say.
    “I’m telling you that you’re going to stick to me like glue, or you are going to be one very sorry woman. Understand?”
    Hunger and pain driving her, Chiana snapped back.
    “Yes, lord and master. Now how about you quit making a scene before the clerk calls the cops?”
     
    Glancing toward the wide window by the door, Creed saw a young woman staring at them. Taking a deep breath, he dropped his hands and wrapped an arm around Chiana’s waist. Her ragged breathing and shaking spiked a new worry. Carlyle had given her a second shot. What if he’d overdosed her?
    He grabbed the door and helped her to the first booth he saw. She collapsed into the seat, huddling into herself. He sat across from her, his concern growing.
    “Is she all right?”
    A young woman in a t-shirt that read Kountry Kitchen stood at the end of the booth, order pad in hand, staring at the two of them.
    “She’s diabetic,” Creed lied. “I need to get some food in her right away.”
    “Orange juice and graham crackers. My grandpa’s got low sugar and that’s what we give him.”
    The waitress turned and headed toward a door marked employees only. Creed hoped what she brought back would tide Chiana over until she got something more substantial in her system.
    “You still with me?” he asked Chiana, reaching out to feel her pulse at her wrist. Her skin was pale and clammy, and she seemed on the verge of unconsciousness. He moved to the seat beside her, ready to catch her if she fainted. Although there were only a handful of people in the store and restaurant combined, he didn’t want to attract attention.
    She was still with him when the waitress returned with a large glass of orange juice and a handful of graham crackers on a plate. He stuck a straw in the glass and brought it to Chiana’s lips. To his