Unknown - Scorched

“I said I’d come back.”

She sat up, amazement filling her eyes. “What happened to you?”

Mac sealed her mouth with his before she could say another word. Her hands gripped his shoulders, trying to keep some distance between them. That wasn’t what he wanted. He worked the kiss, using every trick in his repertoire to prolong it, to make her forget whatever fear was slipping between them. Bit by bit, the tension in her fingers eased. He pushed her back down to the pillows.

Eventually, he let her break away. He left tiny kisses on her nose and eyes and brow before he retreated.

“It’s fortunate that I don’t need to breathe,” she said tartly, but her tone was shaken.

Her eyes had drifted shut, and now she opened them again. For a moment, she looked blind before she pulled him back into focus. Slowly, her brow furrowed, and she pushed him away, one hand against his chest.

This time, he let her.

Her head crooked back, trying to get a fuller view. Fear had faded to caution. “Conall Macmillan, what happened to you?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Do you like what you see?”

“By the sweet saints, what have you done?” Though she spoke barely above a whisper, her tone was whip-sharp. “And you’re burning up. Are you sick? What magic have you got yourself into?”

He thought he might have heard concern somewhere in there. He swallowed, the taste of her still clinging to his tongue. “It just happened. I feel fine.”

She raised herself up on her elbows, nearly bumping noses with him. Her gaze slowly slid down his front. She tensed, then flushed a faint, faint bloom of pink against her white, white skin. “I can see that.”

He couldn’t stop a grin as curiosity widened her eyes. He leaned forward, using his body to force her back to the bed again. He leaned on one elbow, supporting his head on his hand. He used the other hand to tug at the ribbon that held her jacket shut, quickly working it free.

She closed her hand over his, stilling his fingers. “You know you don’t smell the least bit human anymore? You smell other.”

Her words jolted Mac. “What does that mean?”

“You’ve changed through and through. You’re a demon now, no ‘half about it!”

The words stung, pulling his mood into darkness. Rolling away from her, he sat up. “I didn’t ask for what happened.”

Not human. He’d already lost his job, his relations, and his friends. It shouldn’t have made any difference. It was the last flicker of a dying bulb winking out, nothing more.

But he had prayed so hard for a road back.

Driven by the hot burn of emotion, his demon stirred, shadows sliding through his thoughts. He could sense the demon was adapting, deciding how it could use this new form, savoring its strength and gargantuan appetites. No, the only human part left in him was his reason and what remained of his conscience. The rest lay scattered like flotsam from a shipwreck.

Demons destroy.

Constance sat up behind him, her hands resting on his shoulders. Her touch was tentative, but he could tell it was meant to comfort. “You didn’t want to hear that, did you?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry.” She paused. “Why did you come?”

“I said I would.” Badge or no badge, I’m still the guy who helps people.

“I wasn’t sure I’d see you again. I kept looking for Viktor and the guardsmen’s quarters.”

As he turned, her hands fell away from his shoulders. She was sitting on her heels, her black hair in a tumble around her, the laces of her clothes dangling free. His breath caught, swamped by the burning in his blood. “I said I would help you find Sylvius.”

“But that’s not the only reason you came back, is it?” she asked uneasily.

“No. I came here to take you.”

“What?”

Caveman alert! “Um. I mean, make love to you.” Look, bud, you can rule little Mac, but leave my mouth out of it.

Pale though she was, she turned even whiter; then red spots showed on her cheekbones. Fear, excitement, anger all chased through her eyes.

“You want me to lift my skirts for the likes of you?” She. tossed her hair back over her shoulder, her dark blue eyes narrowing. “Why should I want that? Your blood’s no good to me now. The smell of it doesn’t tempt me to bite nearly so much as before.”

It was more a challenge than an outright refusal.

“I have other uses.”

“And what might those be?” She crawled backward a foot. Her voice teased, but underneath he could hear a tremor of fear. It didn’t matter that she had kissed him back a moment ago. The balance between them had shifted.

The ancient pursuit of male and mate had been declared.

His limbs heavy with need, Mac swung himself back onto the bed. “Come here and I’ll show you.” She was panting. Not that she normally needed air, but adrenaline was taking its toll. His stomach tightened, gripped by blazing heat. “Come here,” he repeated in a thick voice. He moved forward, prowling across the counterpane.

She feinted left, vampire fast, but his enhanced reflexes were quicker. He had her caged under him in a second, his limbs trapping her as surely as iron bars. He stripped the ribbon through the last holes of her jacket in a series of efficient jerks. It went spiraling to the floor.

One obstacle down.

She tried to twist away as he pulled the jacket aside, but he held her firm. The corset beneath her top was nothing but stiff cloth laced tight. He was tempted to simply rip it in two. His hands felt clumsy, his brain too consumed with heat to manage another fiddly unpackaging job.

“Get it off,” he demanded. It came out in a growl.

“To hell with you,” she said, writhing like a cat about to be bathed. “I’m no alehouse whore.”

“How else do you expect this to happen unless you untie that bloody thing?”

“Let me up!”

Her wiggling was making things all the more urgent. He had her pinned between his thighs, balancing so as not to actually sit on her. He caught her chin, turning her face to him. His demon was aroused, but his better nature urged caution.

“Am I frightening you?”

She scalded him with a look full of bravado. “You?”

“Or do you like this?”

“Lout!”

“Uh-huh.”

He was stifling, his skin burning with the exertion of holding his demon in check. Without letting her escape, he stripped off his plaid shirt, then the charm Holly had given him, putting it in the pocket of his jeans. Last, he pulled off his T-shirt, welcoming the cool air of the room against his hot skin.

With an intake of breath, Constance stopped her squirming. Mac sensed her interest like a heat lamp. She was transfixed.

A low laugh rumbled out of his chest.

“Holy Mother of God,” Constance whispered as Mac tossed his shirt to the floor. She was utterly out of her depth. She’d never seen a man like that, not even a blacksmith. Not even the guardsmen who, to a man, were physical perfection.

Mac was a fantasy on a grand scale. Every muscle was visible and alive as he moved. The candlelight loved him, washing the landscape of his body with licks of gold. He looked like a giant killer from one of the old tales her grandfather used to tell: He loomed like a thundercloud, heavy with storms.

She felt suddenly limp, as though all her bones had been melted from her limbs. Her arms were trapped at her sides, or at least she thought they were. She couldn’t tell anymore.

With one finger, he scooped up the ends of the lace that tied her stays, then pulled the tail of the knot until it let go with an audible slide of fabric. The sound seemed to catch on her insides, tugging at things with no name.