Читать книгу Dark Lover - Бренда Джойс, Brenda Joyce - Страница 10

“WHAT ARE YOU going to do with this?” Kit asked, keeping her voice low.

It was late. The party was breaking up. Sam had watched Maclean for the past few hours as he drank and eyed several pretty women, keeping mostly to himself. He was clearly a loner, no surprise there. Nick had ordered her to keep him in her sights—and because she knew he was going to steal the page sooner, not later, she intended to do just that. She had just followed him down to the building’s lobby.

Sam took her messenger bag, loaded with her favorite toys, from Kit. “Thanks.”

“I don’t like this,” Kit said, glancing past her at Maclean.

He had a woman on each arm—both tall, young and beautiful—and clearly, he meant to take them home for a very private house party.

Sam didn’t care who he slept with. All she cared about was stopping his offense with her defense. She intended to be on him like glue. He was not going to get into that vault without her.

Sam and Kit still stood beneath the building’s canopy. He glanced over his shoulder at her, clearly offering an invitation. Sam shook her head, smiling coolly. He seemed to sigh and then stepped into the street to hail a cab.

“Are you upset? What happened tonight?”

“Nothing happened. He’s just a jerk, but he’s about to take a big fall. I’ll see you tomorrow. If I’m late, it’s because I’m on Maclean. No pun intended.”

“I think he’s dangerous, even if his power is white.”

Sam actually laughed. “No kidding. What are you going to do?”

“There are a few guests left. I’m going back upstairs. Maybe Hemmer will notice me and show me the vault. I’ll try to chat with him.”

“Hey, Kit? Work it and he’ll notice you.” It never ceased to amaze her how modest Kit was. Sam suspected she was celibate, but they never discussed it. She nodded now as Kit slipped back into the lobby. Then she glanced at Central Park West.

Tons of cabs were heading uptown and every one was full. Nothing was heading downtown. Considering how late it was, that was odd—most should be empty.

As the two girls with Maclean whispered and giggled, both high and drunk, Sam felt a chill slither down her spine. She tensed, instantly searching the area for a sign of impending violence. Maclean must have felt it, too, because he had dropped his arm and was looking past the traffic.

And Sam saw the couple on the park side of the street, running, five cloaked figures in pursuit.

Burnings were creeping up on the proportion of murders committed both in the city and globally. A recent study released by Interpol showed that almost 20% of all the murders committed last year had been burnings. Burning the Innocent alive had become a huge “gang” sport. The perpetrators weren’t entirely human—they were possessed by evil, and commonly referred to as subs. The press had dubbed the crimes witch burnings, because the subs wore cloaks and the burnings were so medieval in nature.

Five cloaked teens chasing a couple meant one thing. Sam was already running across the street, holding the short stiletto that had been hidden in her right high heel.

Running in high heels sucked, but she wasn’t about to be deterred. Sam caught one boy from behind, who screamed as he was seized. He tried to stab her with his knife and she cut his throat just as two of his friends leapt at her.

Sam dropped her messenger bag and used the side of her hand to deliver a fatal blow to boy number two’s throat. He dropped like a rock. At the same time, his buddy stabbed her, the blade of his knife grazing her arm and then cutting across her rib cage.

It hurt. And she didn’t like being hurt. Pissed, she gave him a flying front kick, which sent him backward across the street. She knelt, taking her .38 from the bag. As she did, the boy got up, his face a mask of possessed fury. She glimpsed Ian standing on the street corner. He was calmly watching her take on a pack of evil kids.

Her fury knew no bounds. Couldn’t he get rid of one of the subs for her, at least?

She felt someone behind her. Sam whirled, firing as the girl landed on her, her face hairy. Wolflike claws dug into her body. Sam fired again and again. It took a while to kill the shape-shifting girl. The half woman finally fell dead to the ground at her feet.

“Arrgh!”

Sam turned but before she could shoot the fourth possessed teen, he had kicked the gun from her hand. His rage, combined with the evil, made him terribly powerful. Off balance, she landed hard on her ass as he tackled her, his hands going around her throat. He started choking her, intent on strangling her to death.

This would be a great time for Maclean to butt in, she somehow thought. But he didn’t. Sam jammed her knuckle into the boy’s carotid artery; as he choked, she took the dagger from the garter on her thigh and imbedded it in his chest. Instantly he collapsed on her. She shoved him off, and then knelt over him to see if he was alive.

He was. She dug her cell phone out of her tiny purse and dialed not 911, but CDA. Their medical center was as clandestine as the rest of the agency. Known as Five, it was in constant use. Bringing subs into a regular E.R. was a bad idea. The non-ordinary—and many at CDA were NO—could not seek treatment in a public hospital, either. The press would start to figure things out. Full-blooded demons disintegrated if left untouched within moments of their destruction, so they were rarely an issue. Five was for the very special.

That done, she closed her phone and looked at the bodies on the street. Four dead kids, all of whom had once been normal. It was routine by now. These possessed kids were mostly runaways, and they were easy prey for evil.

She looked at the boy who was still alive. “Try not to die. With a little help from the gods, we might get you back to your family.” She spoke without emotion. Compassion was a bad idea, she’d learned that long ago. If she started caring about who lived and who died, she’d be the one winding up dead, really soon.

He spat at her, mostly blood.

“Are you all right?” It was the woman who had been fleeing the subs.

The man with her knelt beside Sam. “Jesus, are you a cop? I’ve never seen anything like what you did! You saved me and my wife!”

Sam smiled grimly. She looked past the couple at Maclean.

He stood on the corner, hands in his tuxedo pockets, regarding her thoughtfully. Their gazes locked. He hadn’t lifted a single finger to help her. The anger burned.

“Should we call 911?” the woman asked worriedly.

“I’m fine,” Sam said. As she started to stand, the woman’s husband grasped her arm to steady her.

“You’re hurt,” he said with concern.

Sam looked at her bloody arm and the slashes in the bodice of her red dress. She’d been nicked on her bicep and her rib cage. It burned a lot, but she was almost certain the cuts were superficial. “Par for the course. Why don’t you two go home? Have a brandy on me. I’m a Fed.” The Bureau was her cover. “I’ll take care of this.”

“We can’t possibly leave you,” the man said firmly.

His wife nodded in agreement, beginning to cry. “She’s so brave,” she said to her husband. “I was so scared.”

He put his arm around her and turned away, whispering to her. They were in their forties, Sam thought, and it crossed her mind that they really loved each other. Sweet. She looked at Maclean again. What a frigging selfish jerk.

The sirens from CDA’s mismarked ambulance could be heard. Maclean sauntered toward her. Sam glanced at Hemmer’s house and saw that his two dates had vanished. Of course they had. Bimbos were usually chickens.

“Impressive,” he said, his glance going to the tattered bodice of her dress.

“Gee, I’m so glad you enjoyed the show.” She turned her back on him and knelt, gathering up her weapons and piling them into her messenger bag. She was bloody, bruised, stabbed and dirty, and he didn’t have one hair out of place! He had watched the entire attack. What kind of superpowered hero was he? It was unbelievable. Even an antihero would have cut in.

She stood up. “Thanks for all the help.”

He shrugged. “Yer a tough girl. Ye hardly needed my help.”

“Like you’d have bothered.”

“I want ye in my bed, not dead.”

“You have a great way of romancin’ a gal,” Sam snarled.

He smiled. “Every man likes to watch a good fight. Maybe I should help ye next time. Or maybe I’ll be your next target.” His eyes gleamed.

Sam had the instant notion that he’d love for her to fight him with everything she had. “Don’t worry. The day is rapidly approaching.”

His answer was to touch her.

Sam tensed as the back of his hand skimmed the bottom of her breast. He lifted the shreds of her red dress where it had been cut. She inhaled. In spite of the pain, desire was instantaneous and acute. She knew he kept his hand pressed against her breast on purpose.

His gaze was almost silver before he lowered his lashes and dropped the tatters of silk. “Ye need to take care of the cuts.”

“This isn’t the Middle Ages. No one dies from a few scrapes here,” she snapped, but she was trembling and rigid with tension. Damn his sex appeal.

His mouth curled, this time unpleasantly. “An’ I know it very well, Samantha. I live here, remember? Not in that barbaric time.”

She bristled. “It’s Sam. And don’t worry, no one would ever peg you as a medieval barbarian, Maclean. Just a selfish jerk.” Had he been defensive? She thought so, and she couldn’t imagine why.

The white ambulance from Five careened around the intersection, marked as Cornell Presbyterian. Sam dismissed her speculation about Maclean, watching as the agency paramedics leapt out. Then she glanced at Maclean again. He seemed to be noticing that his conquests for the evening were gone.

“You don’t need them,” Sam said. She stepped into the street, aware now that one of her spike heels was gone. Cursing, she flagged down a cab. She seized the door handle and looked at Ian as she opened it. “Get in, Maclean.”

His eyes widened.

She kept her mind blank. “I want to see your digs.”

A slow, hot smile began. He slid into the cab and Sam slid in with him. She shut the door. As he leaned forward to tell the driver where they were going, she reached into her bag. “1101 Park Avenue,” he said.

Sam snapped the handcuff on his wrist. He started, his gaze slamming to hers as she snapped its mate on her own wrist. She smiled at him. “This should be fun.”

SHE HAD JUST handcuffed herself to him.

He started to laugh, amused. Did she think to dismay him? He’d been lusting for her since he’d first seen her. He would never get over her face. Those striking features, those amazing eyes and that cropped platinum-blond hair. He looked forward to the day she rubbed her face over every inch of his body…

He raised his wrist and said, “All ye had to do was tell me, Sam. I’d have brought the handcuffs myself.”

“We stay together tonight,” she said coolly.

But he didn’t hear. As he tugged gently on the handcuffs, his gut churned, the sensation sickening. They were speeding up Central Park West, but the old, stately apartment buildings started to swim in his vision. They became dark ominous shadows…

He could not have a flashback now.

But he recognized the shadows—the small, tight walls of a cellar. The iron on his wrist was attached to one wall. They’d left him in there, like that, for months. His only company had been the rats. He’d been nine years old.

“What’s wrong, Maclean?”

“What’s wrong, Ian? Are you afraid of the dark? The rats? Me?”

He stared up at the demon who had captured him. The demon who had killed him, and then brought him back to life so he could be tortured. Used.

Soft evil laughter sounded.

And although he hadn’t used his voice in months, not since the beginning when he’d screamed and screamed for help, he begged. “Please let me out. Please. I’ll do whatever ye wish.”

“Good, because I have so many uses for a pretty boy like you,” his grandfather said.

“Maclean?”

He’d lived with horror and pain—and abject fear—for sixty-six years. But he heard Sam Rose, and somehow, he looked at her.

He was sweating.

“What’s wrong with you?” Her vivid blue gaze moved over him. “Hot flash?”

Her mockery brought him firmly back to the present and the taxicab they shared. He looked back at her and shook his wrist, so the handcuff wriggled between them. “Of course I’m hot. We’re shackled together.”

For one more moment she stared. He was fairly certain she did not believe the excuse he’d just made. He didn’t care what she believed. He was aware that she thought him selfish and a user—and she was right. He had one and only one interest in her.

Pleasure was an escape. He never had flashbacks during sex.

The first time he had seen Sam Rose, she had been crossing the street in Oban, Scotland, causing male pedestrians to trip and stare. Traffic had come to a screeching stop. His mouth had gone dry and he’d become as hard as a two-by-four. He’d known then and there that he’d have her. No woman had ever denied him. He’d been honest when he said he always got what he wanted.

He’d felt her warrior power instantly and that had added to her allure and appeal. Most of the women he used were rich and bored, the highlight of their day a trip to Cartier. Now he knew even more about her. She was a powerful Slayer. The highlight of her day was a bloody fight with the devil. He would never forget the sight of her battling the possessed teens in her little red dress and spike heels just moments ago—fighting as he’d never seen a woman fight before. She’d taken down the five possessed teens effortlessly. And she had not been afraid. He’d have felt it. Evil did not frighten her.

It frightened everyone else.

It frightened him.

He hid beneath a pile of towels, trying to make himself as small as he could. His grandfather had returned and he had guests—and he was calling for him. Fear made him sick. He lost control of his bladder. He was throwing up. He knew what they’d do to him. They were bored and he’d be the evening’s sport—until they went to hunt the Innocent on the streets. There was nowhere to hide and they wouldn’t let him die. He’d heard Moray telling his captors that he must be kept alive—at all costs.

He prayed to his father, begging him to hear him, begging him to come rescue him.

The door opened and the lights in the bathroom came on.

He was sweating and sick now. His gut was so tight, he thought it might explode. He reminded himself that he was not a captive child now and that Sam Rose wasn’t evil. He wasn’t helplessly shackled and chained. Monsters weren’t waiting to devour him, his grandfather’s guests weren’t waiting to rip him apart. This was a game. And she was going to wind up in his bed, beneath his body, and he’d be the one pounding into her. He was not a prisoner now. He was a free man—wealthy, powerful and in control of his life.

She jerked hard on the handcuffs. “If you leap into that vault, you will be taking me with you.”

He had no idea if a pair of handcuffs would keep her with him during a leap. He didn’t need to use that power to get into Hemmer’s vault. He could open locks and dismantle alarms with his mind, but Sam already knew that. If he needed to leap to get inside, he didn’t think he’d have the courage to do so. Pain still terrified him.

Ian turned to stare out of the taxi’s window. He refused to go back into the past now.

“What is it? I happen to know firsthand that one person with the power to leap can bring another along. Handcuffs might do the trick.”

Somehow he smiled at her. “Really? An’ who gave ye the ride?”

Her gaze widened, focused on his. It was far too searching, too direct. He wasn’t good at reading minds. The power came and went. Sometimes it was sketchy, as if there was static in the telepathy. Sometimes it was perfect. But he didn’t need the power to know that she was determined to stop him from stealing the page.

“Nick brought me back with him. We were looking for Brie when your father took her hostage,” she finally said.

He was staring out of the window at Central Park now. So she’d gone back in time—good for her. Then she knew how excruciating leaping through time was.

“You do plan on leaping into the vault, don’t you?”

He wanted to tell her to shut up.

He turned to look at her instead. “Why leap when I can walk inside?”

She smiled. “Good point.”

He’d never let her know that he feared pain, much less the evil causing it. From the moment his demon grandfather had abducted him when he was nine years old, taking him from medieval Scotland to the modern world, he had learned what evil really was. Evil enjoyed fear and pain, and inflicted both at will. Evil lusted for sex, power and death. He’d been kept a prisoner for sixty-six years. And evil had been merciless with him.

At first, he’d thought to escape. At first, he’d thought he would be rescued. Within months, maybe a year, he’d lost hope and wanted to die.

“Do you have an ounce of courage, Ian? Oh, I forgot—your father is a coward, too.”

He tried to fight to free himself but it was impossible. Tears of rage and helplessness streamed. “He’s a hero—good, not evil—like ye!”

“He is evil now, as evil as I am!Yes, your father has fallen to the darkness, Ian.” He laughed. “You are the means I will use to destroy your father. You do remember that, don’t you? It’s the only reason I am bothering to keep you alive…”

He was released. “My father will kill you,” he cried.

“No, I will destroy him. Then you will be freed—and allowed to grow up. And you will live with the guilt, the pain and all these memories—until the gods let you die.”

He flinched as he was caressed…

To this day, he didn’t know how anyone, much less a boy, could have survived what they’d done to him: the rape, the torture, the sick games.

Ian turned to look out of the window, away from Sam, who was clearly trying to guess his thoughts. He had been powerless as a captive, but he had control now. He had wealth. He did as he chose, when he chose—and no one and nothing could or would ever stop him. Anyone who thought to get in his way would pay.

Control meant everything to him. It was a matter of life and death—it was a matter of survival. It was even a matter of sanity.

He had spent most of his life in submission. He would do as he damned pleased now.

He had spent most of his life in pain. He intended to spend the rest of his life in pleasure.

He glanced at the woman seated beside him in the cab. Sam Rose was as fearless as he was not. If she knew his secrets, she might not be so hot for him. But she’d never know the truth. No one ever would.

“What’s got you glowering? Talk about a mood swing.”

“Read my mind.” He managed a smile that felt nasty. But he knew what he needed to get the bitter taste out of his mouth, his gut and his soul.

“You haven’t taught me.”

“Then come here.” He patted his lap.

“No deal.” She smiled coolly at him.

He laid his hand on her hard thigh, his fingertips against her sex. Just barely, he waggled them, pressing the steel cuff into her abdomen. “Have ye ever thought to ask me to take ye into the vault again—nicely?”

She struck his hand away, but he’d felt the thick pulse there, beneath the flimsy dress. “I can tell you’re amused by the handcuffs, but we’ll see who has the last laugh.”

“Ye can have the last laugh,” he murmured, staring at her classic profile. “I’ll even give it to ye.”

“This is a business arrangement, but I’ll help you into a cold shower,” she said.

He was finally, thoroughly diverted. “The sooner, the better,” he said swiftly. “Will ye wash my back? Or will ye cuff me to my bed an’ watch me while I…sleep?”

For one moment, their gazes met, and he was certain she knew exactly what he’d be doing while she watched. “Your mind is one track. What a surprise. I’ll be on the other side of the glass when you shower and guess what? I have no interest watching you do anything.”

“Liar,” he taunted.

He thought she flushed.

“We’re handcuffed to one another,” he said softly. “What do ye expect me to think of?”

“Pay the driver,” she said tersely, as the taxi came to a stop in front of his new town house. “By the way, why did you decide on New York City?”

He handed the driver a bill and told him to keep the change. She was on the curb side and he leaned over her to open the door, pressing her back into the seat. “I moved here so I could screw ye.”

“Yeah, right. Good luck,” she said, slipping out of the cab and away from his body. “In case you haven’t noticed, Maclean, you don’t intimidate me one single bit.”

“Then I’ll have to change that.”

The taxi drove off and she said slowly, “I can’t imagine you with a bimbo for more than two minutes, except, of course, for sex.”

She seemed to understand him and he smiled. “Even bimbos have their uses.”

She shook her head.

“Don’t ye use yer boy toys?” he asked softly. It crossed his mind that, when it came to sex, they were alike. It was late enough that no one was on the street as he went to the front door of the turn-of-the-century building and keyed in the door code. Sam stood close behind him, due to the cuffs. He’d left the lights on in the entry foyer, which had double ceilings. As he closed the door he glanced at her bleeding arm, and then at the torn dress. She seemed to be indifferent to the gash on her ribs.

He wondered if she’d even cried out a single time in pain, during the leap she’d endured.

Sam was eyeing the almost microscopic cameras that were angled at the front doors and noting the cameras in the entry hall. She hadn’t missed the cameras outside, either. He waited. She glanced at him and said, “High tech, huh?”

His security system was state-of-the-art. It was not aimed at burglars. But he didn’t owe her any explanations. She was now taking in his furnishings, which were mostly antiques. She put her messenger bag on an Irish library table from the seventeenth century. Even the chandelier above them was from fifteenth-century France. Only the rugs were new—or fairly new. Above the front door was a pair of genuine sixteenth-century swords. “Interesting choice of décor for a modern playboy,” Sam said. Her gaze was sharp. “Come to think of it, your mansion on Loch Awe is as old world.”

“I like old things,” he said. That was true. He hated his time—the sixteenth century—and had chosen not to live there, but he was oddly compulsive about collecting antiques and artifacts, which made no sense. His father had once told him that a part of him yearned for the past. That was bullshit. And he didn’t want to think about Aidan and his wife, Brie, now. “Yer bleedin’all over my twenty-five-thousand-dollar rug.”

“Sorry. I’ll get you a new one—in the twenty-second century, when I’m rich and famous.”

He tugged on the cuff and she came forward, tripping in the broken sandals. He caught her by her hips, which were hard and muscular beneath his hands. He was already in overdrive. Sex would push the last of his memories away. Why wait? “Do ye want to tend the wound?” he asked softly.

“Not if it means letting you out of my sight.” She seized his wrists but didn’t step back. “What, no butler to wait on us?”

“Gerard is sleeping at this hour.” He pulled her closer, and her eyes calmly met his as she came into contact with his huge arousal. “Afraid to be alone with that?”

She took a breath. “I’m never afraid. Hey, I have a great idea. Call Gerard and have him arrange some evening entertainment for you…before you explode.”

He grinned. “Will ye watch?”

“I’m not leaving,” she said flippantly.

He thought about performing for her—again. But that wasn’t what his body was screaming for. He tightened his grasp on her, wedging her against a hall table.

“Don’t think it,” she murmured.

“I can’t think of anything else. Especially with yer body shackled to mine an’ quiverin’ so hotly.”

“You can’t think of anything else, whether we’re shackled together or not.”

He decided not to answer. Instead, he slid his hand down her hip.

She went still, inhaling. “Make a pass at your own risk.”

He smiled. It was hard to restrain himself. He wanted to put his hand between her thighs; he wanted to turn her around and bend her over the table and just do it, finally. She knew. And she wouldn’t object very much. Her words were sharp and caustic, but her tone was thick, those violet-blue eyes smoldering. He could feel her pulse slamming beneath her skin. He could feel her desire building; he could feel the urgency and need.

It almost matched his.

“Why are ye so strong, so brave?” He touched the bloody, crusting tatters of the jersey dress, her left breast brushing his hand, and felt her flinch.

“I’m a Slayer, Maclean.”

“Are ye ever afraid?”

She stared into his eyes. “Not for myself.”

For one moment, he forgot how much he hurt. Admiration swept through him, maybe for the first time. “Then who do ye fear for?”

She wet her lips. “My sister. Brie. Allie…”

Her breast was heavy on the back of his hand. He pressed upward. Her gasp had nothing to do with pain from the gash on her ribs. “How much does it hurt?” he whispered, sliding his hand over to cup her breast.

“What are you, a high-testosterone version of Florence Nightingale?”

He took her bodice in his hands and snapped it down below her breasts.

She inhaled.

His mouth became dry. Very slowly, he looked up into her eyes. “We can tend yer cuts, if ye really wish to, or ye can turn around and let me have ye on this table, from behind, the way I like it.”

Her grasp on his wrists tightened.

He shifted and pushed the weight of his entire arousal against her thigh. “Turn around, Sam.”

She looked down at what was between them. “As good as that looks and feels, no thanks.”

She would resist him still. He reluctantly looked past her bare breasts, her nipples taut, at the open, bleeding knife wound. She wasn’t immortal. She should take care of the cut. He looked up. “Are ye sure? Because I can pleasure ye right now…more than ye’ve ever been pleasured, Sam.”

“I’d rather pleasure myself.”

“Ouch,” he said, but he grinned. He was going to enjoy the hunt. Their gazes held, hers warm but fierce. His hands were positively itching, and he finally let go of her bodice. He knew he’d pay, but he cupped her bare breasts anyway.

Her single spike heel bore into his instep. He released her, cursing.

“Hands off,” she warned. She jerked the dress up.

“Maybe ye should have thought twice about handcuffin’ us together.”

“If you didn’t have the power to leap, I’d handcuff you to the wall,” she snapped. “No, to the bed—but alone. I’ll bet that would torture you.”

He tensed, but hid it. Images flashed. He was hiding beneath the bed. Then he was on it, chained…He forced a smile. “Ye ken we’ll have to sleep together? Bathe together? Use the bathroom together?” His tone was shaky.

She’d noticed. “I can handle it, Maclean. So let’s go. It’s almost one-thirty. I need to clean up and then I’m putting you to bed.”

He stared at her, the need even worse. He had to escape the past. “I’m no gentleman.”

“No kidding. But you’re not a rapist, either.”

He jerked away from her. “Ye don’t know me at all.”

She stared, her messenger bag now in hand. “Is that a warning? Because I’m pretty sure seduction is your MO. Let’s go,” she added sharply. “It’s late and I need a couple of hours of sleep. After all, I am mortal. And just a reminder—if you leap into that vault, I’m coming with you. I’m a really light sleeper.”

The flashback was gone. He started down the hall toward the elevator. “Do ye really think to sleep beside me like a sister?”

“Actually, my plan is to take the floor.”

“How could I live with myself if I let ye sleep on the cold, hard floor when we can share the big, warm bed?” He batted his lashes at her and went past the elevator to a staircase at the end of the hall. He used the elevator often, but didn’t feel up to it now. He was afraid of what would happen in that tight space, after so many flashbacks. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, Ian tensed, suddenly disturbed, but not by his past.

He felt evil. It was close by—inside his home. He hadn’t checked his security alerts when he’d come in.

Pausing, he glanced at Sam. She was still and alert, having felt it, too. She showed no fear, just a soldier’s tension. Briefly, for the second time, he had the oddest feeling of admiration for her.

Sam seized his shoulder. “You have company, and it’s not the welcoming kind.”

His gut churned with fear, a reflex he could not control. It didn’t matter. He started upstairs, almost running.

“Maclean?”

He fought the fear, breathing hard. He wasn’t nine years old now. He relished the impending encounter. And then there was only rage, so much so that he did not hear her.

He had been expecting this predator, but he’d been so intent on Sam Rose, he’d forgotten to put himself on guard. He was prepared now.

“Ye stay back,” he said quietly. It was an order. And as he spoke, he used his powers to unlock the handcuffs, which instantly dropped off his wrist.

“I thought you might be able to do that,” Sam said.

The anger began to build, impossibly. He was a man—nearly immortal, with the kinds of powers only those who followed the gods should have. He hated demons, every single one of them, just as he hated the mixed bloods and all evil. He started forward furiously. Sam followed, the steel-toothed Frisbee in her hand. “Ye leave it to me,” he warned her.

“Wow, what a change of heart!”

His library faced them on the next landing. The demon sitting on his brocade sofa there leapt to his feet, his handsome face registering surprise. Then, slowly, he smiled. “This must be a mistake. I’m awaiting a student of mine. He said he needed to see me. Are you Liam’s father?” he said smoothly.

“There is no mistake,” Ian said softly. “You were right to wait—for me.”

The demon stared. “What the hell is this?” he demanded, his eyes burning. “Is this some kind of game?”

“Aye, it’s a game,” Ian murmured, trembling with pentup rage now. The memories flooded him. There was so much pain and fear. “There is no Liam, John. There’s only me.”

“You have power. So what are you, a vigilante? I’ll play.” The demon laughed at him.

Sam made a sound.

Ian had forgotten her presence. He felt his mouth curl as he started forward. “Come and get what you deserve, John,” he murmured. There was no feeling now, not even rage, just determination.

The demon’s smile faltered as Ian paused before him. “You share our desires, don’t you? Somehow you’re tainted. I can feel it.”

“Share this,” Ian said softly. The blade had been strapped to his wrist, beneath his sleeve. He thrust it deep into John’s heart.

But John had seen the movement, and as the blade went deep into his chest, his red-black energy blazed. Ian had known the blast would come and he withstood it, yanking the dagger out and impaling him again. He heard Sam cry out as the black power threw her back into the hall, but he couldn’t care, not now.

This was his revenge.

Alive and enraged, John blasted him again.

It hurt. The pain engulfed him and infuriated him even more, and he tackled the demon and wrestled him to the floor. He seized the dagger, jerked it free of flesh and bone, and sent it back into the bloody heart again. The demon’s red eyes blazed and rolled backward, becoming lifeless.

Ian knew it and didn’t care. He stabbed him again…and again. He would never hide under his bed again, never hide in the closet, never feel pain or fear or shame…John deserved to die for all that he had done, for all those days, weeks, months and years of shocks and cords and prods and the ripping apart and the final submission. Now he recalled every atrocious act. Now he recalled the fear and the pain, merely repressed and buried deep. For fear and pain were who and what he was. But most of all, he recalled the loss of his humanity and sanity, which he would never have again. Sweat and tears blinded him as he raised the knife again.

“He’s dead.”

He heard her but couldn’t stop, even though he realized that the demon was dead, his eyes entirely sightless now, his bloody and mangled body unmoving and still. He buried the knife to the hilt and it quivered in John’s chest.

“Ian. He’s dead.” She clasped his shoulders from behind but merely held him that way, instead of attempting to pull him off.

He became vaguely aware of her grasp. He let go of the knife. Slick with blood, it stood up gruesomely in John’s chest.

“Ian?” she asked very cautiously.

He was panting uncontrollably, straddling the corpse, wiping the moisture from his face, too late realizing it was tears, not sweat, and his hands were covered with blood. He remembered it all.

The pain threatened to kill him.

He turned away and vomited violently.

He didn’t know how long he remained there, on his hands and knees, the tears sliding helplessly down his face. But by the time he sat up, the demon was half gone, his physical presence rapidly disintegrating, leaving a glowing wake of what looked like embers behind. And a terrible silence filled the library.

Comprehension began. Sam Rose had just witnessed his insanity.

He inhaled, seeking composure. Aghast, he launched himself to his feet. To his surprise and relief, she was gone.

He reeled and used a bookcase to steady himself. The relief vanished. She’d been present and had seen what no one had ever seen, except for Gerard. And she might even be smart enough to figure out the truth…

At the wet bar, he washed his hands, wiped the last drops of moisture from his face, dried his hands. As he poured a huge scotch, he heard her returning to the room. Tensing—wishing she’d gone home—he looked up.

She stood in the doorway in her bloody red dress, her expression somber. Her blue eyes were wide and trained on him.

He did not see pity or compassion on her face, for which he was thankful. He’d kill her if she dared to pity him.

He was so tired. He hated this fucking miserable life. “Leave.”

She started.

He slowly smiled, hoping she would stay so he could take his rage out on her. He’d do to her what they’d done to him and enjoy it. “Ye really should take warning. My mood is foul.”

She didn’t move. “No kidding.”

She wasn’t afraid; she was being sarcastic. Briefly he was amazed.

She glanced at the mostly disintegrated corpse. “Remind me not to piss you off too much.”

There was more control. Not a lot of it, but more. He didn’t want to hurt her or torture her—he wanted her in his bed, catering to his every damnable desire. But he did not trust himself.

When he felt like this, he was careful to stay away from women, from humans, from the Innocent. “Go away. Before I do what I want to do.”

“If you think that tantrum scared me, you’re wrong.” But she wasn’t mocking now. Her tone was thoughtful. “You could give lessons in payback.” She slowly approached.

He jumped into her mind. She wanted to comprehend him. She wanted to know why he had acted as he had, why he had mauled the demon to death. She wanted to know if he was okay?

He was fine. He might be crazy, but he had the bank accounts, cars and homes to prove he was okay. This was his life! And none of it was her affair or anyone else’s! His secrets were just that. His life was just that—a dirty, dark secret.

The rage returned and he crossed the room, seizing her wrist hard. The average woman would have protested; she did not. Her gaze slammed to him. “Don’t even think of manhandling me. I’ll kill you,” she warned.

“Try!” He relished the fight.

She saw it and backed down. “Whatever he did to you, I’m not a part of it.”

The rage blinded him. “He did nothin’ to me!”

“Yeah, and that’s why you hacked him apart after he was dead.”

He pulled her up against his hard, explosive body. “An’ how will you stop me from hurtin’ ye?” As adept at martial arts as she was, as powerful as she was, he was stronger—she didn’t have half the powers he had. To make certain she understood that, he whirled her around and pushed her hard against the bookcase. Then he leaned into her, the position sexually aggressive, dominant and threatening. “Can ye really stop me now?” he taunted, pulsing against her buttocks.

She had become still. He delved deeply into her mind and couldn’t find a single shred of fear. In spite of his rage, he was amazed. Instead, she calmly debated the worst scenario—his raping her and her killing him for it, one way or another. And in that moment, he knew she’d succeed or die trying.

He didn’t want her dead.

Some of the anger receded. He had his entire body pressed against hers, from knee to shoulder, his mouth against her ear and the tendrils of hair curling there. As they stood that way, with only two layers of fabric between them, the anger shifted again, this time into an awareness of her body, what it offered him and how desperate he was for escape.

“Sam,” he said harshly, tightening his arms around her waist. As desire and lust took over, he felt her response in her heavy breathing and quivering body.

He closed his eyes, ashamed. For threatening her sexually, as if he’d learned how to behave from his tormentors, and for her having witnessed him in such a maniacal moment. It was hard to breathe. There was so much pressure now. In a moment, there could be so much pleasure, so much relief. “Sam.”

Her ribs rose and fell heavily now, beneath his grasp. He raised his arms until her heavy breasts rode them. “Dinna move,” he said, reaching down. He freed himself and pushed between her legs, the jersey dress entangling with his length.

She gasped at the contact and grasped his hands. “Damn you.”

He moved his mouth against her ear, using his tongue. She trembled violently. “I’m not one of them. Give me permission. I want ye, Sam.”

For one heartbeat, when she didn’t move or answer, he thought she would submit. But then she turned around—and jammed her knee into his groin.

Shocked, he gasped as pain flooded him, clutching himself.

“Never means never,” she cried. “And I won’t be a warm body to make you feel better.”