Sharon Ashwood - Unchained

“Yes.”

He launched a lightning barrage of moves, driving her back. She parried each one, even managed to strike the bell-shaped guard of his weapon. The slight lift of his eyebrows told her she’d done better than he expected. Ha!

“So what is your name?”

“Reynard.”

Snarky bastard. He slid his blade under hers, then thrust up. Ashe sprang back, the shock of his sword against hers hard enough to make her arm tingle.

“Good footwork,” he said.

“Did ballet as a kid.”

She managed to drive him back a step or two. He kept his sword arm lower than Roberto did, wasting no energy until the last possible moment. Reynard never hinted at his next move. It was like fencing with a brick wall. Gimme an opening, dammit!

Finally, he lunged. She countered, following with a combination she’d practiced endlessly. Not fancy, not stylish, but by-the-book aggressive. Reynard melted back. She thrust. He disappeared to the side, letting her momentum carry her forward, then kicked her feet out from under her.

Ashe fell to her hands and knees, just managing to let the épée drop before she landed on it. “What the hell?”

He grabbed her by the upper arm, dragging her back to her feet. “Classic mistake. You assumed I would fight fair.”

Ashe flushed furiously. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He pushed the sunglasses onto his head and set his épée against the wall. “Do you take me for Sir Gala-had? When I’m fighting for my life, I bloody well cheat when I have to. If I didn’t, I would have died a hundred years ago. I’m not going to end up blood on your hands. I don’t need a nursemaid.”

Ashe felt her cheeks burn. Her instinct was to make him pay for what he’d just done, but he had a point. She’d misjudged him yet again.

He pulled her closer. “I’m not a relic from a chivalric age gone by. I’m about getting results. Sometimes it’s right to let the beast out. We both know that.”

She could smell the warmth of him, clean and male. The strength of his grip was fearsome, and yet oddly comforting. They had matched wits and weapons, and this time he had won. On a primitive level, that made him worth that first inch of trust.

“Okay. Whatever.”

At that point, he should have let go of her arm. He didn’t, and she didn’t pull away, but their eyes did not meet. Instead, he took her other shoulder, pushing her back against the mirrored wall. The smooth, cold surface felt good against her hot skin. Sweat trickled between her breasts, tickling her.

“Look at me,” he said. His voice was low, and cracked with emotion. “I’m like you. A fighter.”

Instead, Ashe looked away. Reynard exhaled slowly. She could feel the movement, hear the subtle shift of cloth over muscle. He stood too close. Ashe felt invaded, as if his body were a cage around her. She could feel her breath reflected off his cheek. Against his enormous strength, there was nothing she could do. If she pushed, he would push back.

He was only half playing, and that was a turn-on. There was no telling what he’d do next.

Sadness welled up inside her, an ache for both of them. He was a man without a future, and she couldn’t afford the emotional wrench that entailed. She was done with that kind of risk. No more tragedies.

And yet, there he was, pressed against her, hot and real. Suddenly those complexities, that risk, melted like steam from a mirror. Just for a moment, I can have him. Just for this minute.

She ran her lips along the clean angle of his jaw, feeling his breath ruffle her hair. She reached the tender spot where the jaw met the neck, and felt the fine trembling in his body. He was reining himself in, keeping them just this side of propriety.

“Close your eyes,” she whispered, and pulled off the sunglasses, hooking them in the hip pocket of her shorts. Without them, he seemed vulnerable, his eyelids so pale she could see the network of faint veins.

She kissed them, finding a tenderness she’d rarely possessed for a man. Maybe it was because he was so strong, or because he had nearly bled to death in her arms before. Strong. Weak. She couldn’t tell. Reynard was completely off her usual radar.

His hand crept up her side, finding her breast, cupping it. His lips parted, angled, and then suddenly he was devouring her, crushing her mouth under his. There was nothing gentle in it. Pure need. Pure hunger too long denied. Her back pressed into the mirror from the bruising embrace, the ridge of her bra digging into flesh.

A quick wing beat of fear pulsed in her belly, and then she gave herself to the kiss. He tasted and smelled of man, dark and musky. She traced the strong bones of his face beneath her fingers, felt the liquid movement of muscle in his chest.

Instinctively, her legs parted, making room for him. She could feel his hardness against her, fanning embers low in her body. She began to ache in all her female places. This was what she always wanted. No compromise. No holds barred.

Tears welled in her eyes. Sadness. Joy. Loneliness. Her throat ached with them.

He ran his teeth along the arch of her ear, teasing with bites just this side of pain. Unexpected pleasure melted her inside, like the madness of a sudden spring thaw.

Fingers traced the scar across her stomach, and the one that curled up her back. Loving them. Honoring them. He wasn’t afraid of who she was.

Breath escaped her in a moan. She wanted to roar in triumph, like a jungle cat finally finding a worthy mate. But it wasn’t that easy. Reynard wasn’t hers to keep. He wouldn’t be anybody’s unless they found the demon thief.

And then he would go back to his prison. Success meant separation; failure equaled death. Either way was the inevitable good-bye. Oh, Goddess.

Ashe planted her hands against Reynard’s chest and eased him back an inch or two. “I told you never to kiss me again.”

“Good thing I didn’t listen.”

She raked a loose strand of hair from her eyes, using the gesture to wipe away tears. “We have work to do.”

He squinted at her, blinking against the sun. He had that did-I-do-something-wrong? expression men got when they were shut down midseduction. She unhooked the sunglasses from her pocket and pushed them back onto his nose.

“If we’re going to partner up, I need your mind on the job.”

His mouth quirked. “Partner?”

Invisible, Miru-kai watched the fire demon they called Mac. The prince bit his nail, wondering whether to proceed. He had several gambits in mind, but were any of them clever enough to achieve what he wanted? You of them clever enough to achieve what he wanted? You never knew with demons.

Miru-kai was loitering in the doorway of the office where the guard rosters were made up. The room was a curious mix of ancient stone and modern equipment, for this was one part of the Castle where electricity could be conjured from the walls. Mac was sitting at an old metal desk, biting the end of his pen, dark head bent to his work. The desk was big, ugly, dented, and covered in a snowstorm of paper. A lamp with a green shade cast a stark circle of light in the center. The floor was bare stone.

The scene was almost comical in its contrasts. The huge demon, a massive man by any standards, was covered in blue flamelike tattoos. The heat from his presence alone warmed the room. Miru-kai had seen him battle an army of rebel guardsmen single-handed. And here Mac was fretting over paperwork like a common clerk, making neat notations, writing lists, crumpling pages into little balls and tossing them to the floor.

Like any good leader, Mac would do what it took, big or small, to get the job done. It would be interesting to match wits with him, but Miru-kai would try persuasion first.