Stacia Kane - Demon Possessed

“I’m not scared. I just don’t want to. I don’t see a good reason to.”

He looked up at her, his eyes shadowed. “Isn’t the—no. Never mind.” His expression cleared, as if he’d wiped it clear with a cloth. “This is your decision, darling. If it’s not something you want to do you’ll never be happy with having done it, will you? I’m not going to try to talk you into it. If the possibility of death isn’t enough, I don’t see what I could offer.”

The whole conversation felt wrong; her earlier exhaustion came roaring back, along with the odd certainty that something she didn’t understand had just happened.

Something she didn’t understand but should. She’d had that feeling before, hadn’t she? Something lurking in the back of her mind, a memory she couldn’t pin down. Hell, a memory she wasn’t sure was there at all.

And she was exhausted, and she had survived a murder attempt and had spent fifteen or twenty minutes convinced she’d killed a man. So it was entirely possible she was reading something into it that didn’t exist, spooking at shadows in her mind.

Not to mention the abrupt change of mood. And if she were honest, the fact that she didn’t think he’d ever been that direct about his feelings in regard to her.

That she was important to him she didn’t doubt, hadn’t in months, in almost a year. That he wanted her, wanted her company, she didn’t doubt. And although he’d never said it, she didn’t doubt that he loved her.

It wasn’t as odd as it might have seemed, the fact that he hadn’t said it. She hadn’t either. She’d never really felt the need. Actions worked better, said more; they both spent so much of their time talking, both at work and to each other, that it had simply never seemed necessary. Their Christmas together, when he’d given her the diamond necklace now sitting in her jewelry box on the dresser and told her he’d tried to find one as beautiful as she was but it had been an impossible task. The things she cooked for him and gave to one of the brothers to slip into his desk drawers or leave in his car when he wasn’t looking, so he’d find them and know she was thinking of him. The day he’d told her it was silly of her not to keep things at his place. The day she’d found her radio show on his iPod, because if he couldn’t listen to it live, he’d record it for later.

Those memories stood out, but there were hundreds of other, smaller moments that stood out just as much, that warmed her when she remembered them and made her feel secure. Words were lovely, but they were just words. They couldn’t always be trusted; she of all people knew that.

She didn’t always trust words. She hadn’t always trusted Greyson. But since that Christmas, she had, and he trusted her. That trust between them had been something solid enough, strong enough, to support them both.

So the feeling that she had failed him somehow, that she’d misunderstood something, made her skin colder than it had been before. She ran her palms up his chest, leaned forward and rested her head on it, listening to the steady beat of his heart with her eyes closed; after a moment his hand came to rest on her hair, warm and reassuring.

“You should get some sleep,” he said. “If I know Tera—and I do—she’ll be banging on the door at some ungodly hour, wanting you to go out and play tennis and have a makeover or something.”

“As if I’d let her talk me into that.”

“And thank God. The last thing I want is for you to wander around looking like a Tera clone. I happen to think you’re quite lovely the way you are, despite your crankiness and violent streak.” He shifted position so she could stretch out more easily beside him and she did so, relieved. Whatever had changed in the air changed back; everything was normal again.

“Am I?”

“Cranky and violent? Yes. I hardly think that comes as a surprise.”

She smiled. “No. I mean the other thing.”

“Ah. Fishing for compliments is never an attractive behavior in a lady, you know.”

“Humor me. It’s been a rough night.”

He was silent for a moment, absentmindedly stroking her thigh. Or perhaps not so absentmindedly, after all; his fingers kept inching higher and higher, urging the silky fabric out of the way.

“It has been rather rough.” His other hand found her chin, lifted it to look in her eyes. “I think I know a way to salvage it, though.”

“Really? That doesn’t sound like humoring me, I have to say.”

“Oh, I think you’ll be very pleased when I’m done. In fact, I believe I can guarantee it.” His hand moved with more deliberation, eliciting a sharp little gasp from her. “See?”

She managed to nod.

“And to answer your question, sheshissma . . .” His voice was none too steady itself; she’d managed to find a use for her own hands. “I think you know very well what you do to me, and how very much I hope you’ll keep doing it.”

“Show me,” she said.

And he did.

The knock on the door did indeed come bright and early; the clock by the bed informed Megan that it was quarter past eight. On a workday she would have already been up and moving, but then on a workday she wouldn’t have been awake until almost three the night before.

Either way. All she wanted to do was go back to sleep, and despite her fondness for Tera and her utter gratitude that Tera had come, she wasn’t in the mood.

Along with the sunlight slicing a path through her brain came the unwelcome memories of the night before. Yes, there were one or two very welcome memories in there as well, but for the most part . . . ugh.

Chief of all of them was the conversation she’d had with Greyson. She wanted to believe his sudden interest in getting her to do the ritual was related solely to her safety, but convincing herself of that was more difficult than she’d expected it to be in the hard sharp morning. Having the subject brought up twice in one night seemed a little much for coincidence.

It didn’t matter. She grabbed her robe off the chair and slipped it on, while the pounding continued. Tera could sit and order some room service or something while she took a shower; judging from the closed door and the sound of water running, Greyson was already in there.

Of course, he could have simply leaped in when the knocking started in order to avoid Tera.

She tied the robe’s belt around her waist and turned the knob. “Hi, Ter—Nick!”

Before she could even finish saying his name his arms were around her, squeezing her almost as tight as she squeezed him. Nick Xao-teng was one of Greyson’s oldest friends and probably his closest, and had become one of hers as well. But Nick didn’t have anything to do with the Meegras; he was, he’d once told her, “an independent contractor.”

She hadn’t asked him what exactly that meant.

“What are you doing here? I mean, I’m glad to see you, I just—”

He kissed her soundly on the cheek, gave her one last squeeze, and dipped into a flourished bow. “At your service, hon. Grey called me last night.”

Right. “You’re here to guard me.”

Nick’s eyebrow rose. He hadn’t changed since she’d seen him last, two months before, but he never did. Descended from a Chinese half-succubus mother and a part-psyche-demon father of whom he never spoke, Nick was devastatingly handsome, with an aura of raw sexual energy that he used to full advantage.

Except around her. At least not after their first meeting, when she’d gotten a taste of what it felt like to be seduced by an incubus. He hadn’t realized she was with Greyson, and Greyson had arrived before she’d been able to do much more than lose a little breath—along with dignity—but still. She didn’t think she’d ever forget that feeling, or how angry she’d been.