Lilith Saintcrow - Flesh Circus

“Saul,” I whispered.

“Hm?” He nipped, playfully, and I arched.

“I think we should take this somewhere else.” Like a bed. Like our bed.

“Here’s nice.” He nuzzled again. I squirmed in a new way.

“Saul—”

“Shhh.”

I stilled. He inhaled deeply. Let out the breath in a chuff, a warm spot on my vulnerable throat. My pulse strained toward him. I held still as long as I possibly could. Finally wriggled a little bit, and he didn’t immediately move. “What’s wrong?” My wrists, braceleted by his fingers, both throbbed. He was holding me a little too tightly.

“Nothing,” he whispered back. “I just want to hold you.”

Goddammit. I want something else entirely. But I breathed in, the urge retreating low in my pelvis, a dull ache spiking for a moment as bloodflow reversed itself. I’m going to be cranky if this keeps up. “Okay.” I swallowed, my throat moving against his lips. Another slight touch; it became very difficult to throttle my hormones back.

Mikhail had always been on me to control my pulse. I was much better at it than I ever had been, but one whiff of my cat-boy and the hormones started jacking me up again.

As problems went, it was a nice one.

Deep breathing. My eyes closed. The dark behind my lids was safe for once. Pushing the feeling down and away, reasserting control.

It used to be damn near every sparring session ended with us rolling around in an entirely different way to take the edge off. Since Saul had come back from the Rez with his hair cropped, it hadn’t happened. He wanted to be close, and wanted to be held.

I was okay with that. But the no-sex thing was beginning to take its toll.

God, Jill, how selfish can you be? His mom’s dead. For a Were, that’s like the end of the world. I kept my breathing slow and even. He didn’t let go. We stayed that way, knotted together. Frozen.

“I love you,” he finally said against my skin. “Jill?”

“I know that.” And I did. “I love you too, catkin. Just rest for a minute. It’s okay.” I told the persistent tension in the bottom of my belly to go away. I refuse to be dragged around by my clitoris, for God’s sake. Come on, Jill. Rule the body, the body doesn’t rule you.

“I…” Maddeningly, he stopped. We lay like that for another thirty seconds or so, hardwood floor holding me up but not in the most comfortable way.

He levered himself up all in a rush, easing over to the side and ending up cross-legged, sitting and watching me. Something flared in his dark eyes. I watched his face, alert for any sign.

“I’m sorry.” The little bottle of holy water on its silver chain around his neck shifted as he moved again, twitching, and stilled. “I thought…”

“Don’t worry about it.” I pushed myself up on my elbows. My T-shirt was rucked up, muscle moving under my abdominal skin, scars crisscrossing me. I’d put on a little more weight, but not a lot, and most of it more muscle. “Really.”

“Jill…” A helpless shrug. You wouldn’t think he was so much bigger than me, he looked so small and lost right now.

“Hey.” I scrambled, got my knees under me, threw my arms around him. “Hey, don’t. Please don’t. Don’t worry about it.”

“I just… I want to…” I’d never known him to be incoherent before. Quiet, yes. Unable to find the words?

No. That was my job, wasn’t it? To be the one who couldn’t express a single goddamn important thing. I searched for the right thing to say. “I know, baby. Don’t worry so much. It’s only temporary.”

His face fell. “You think so?” It wasn’t like him to sound so questioning. Or so tentative.

“Of course. ” I said it far more firmly than I felt. Maybe it wasn’t temporary. Maybe he was just having second thoughts about marrying a hellbreed-tainted hunter. Weres don’t divorce—they just pick their mates and settle down—but Weres didn’t date hunters all that often either, and almost never got hitched to them.

So if this distance between us wasn’t temporary, would he go back to his tribe? As far as they were concerned the fireside ceremony with his mother officiating made me his mate. But… I was an anomaly, and a big one. If he went back to his tribe, I couldn’t see anyone protesting.

Least of all me. I’d commence and finish quiet internal bleeding before I said a peep. He deserved that much from me. If he really wanted to go back, I couldn’t blame him one bit.

God knows you’re not the easiest person in the world to live with, Jill. Buck up. Comfort him.

I held him, stroking his hair, touching the silver charms knotted in with red thread. Rubbed his nape just the way he liked it, scraping with my bitten-down nails. He eased a little and purred again, in fits and starts. “It’s okay,” I repeated. “Really and truly. It’s all okay.”

I don’t know what else I would have said if the doorbell hadn’t sounded loud enough to cut my ears in half. The thing goes off so seldom, I always forget between times that I have it deliberately loud. I like to hear everything scuttling in the warehouse’s walls, down to the smallest insect.

Not that I ever have many insects around, what with sorcery burning all through the paneling and studs, but you get the idea.

I straightened. There wasn’t a quiver or a peep from my hackles. My intuition was quiet, for once. “Huh.”

Which didn’t mean there wasn’t something bad at the door. It could be just a very quiet something bad. Then again, why would anything that valued its life and had mayhem on its mind ring my doorbell instead of just busting in to lay some hurt on me?

“Jill—” Saul made a small movement, like he wanted to catch my wrist.

“Hang on, catkin.” I bounced to my feet and stalked for the door. A convenient table on the way gave me a gun; I checked the magazine as I slipped cat-footed down the hall and toward the front door.

Nothing. Not even a tingle. A series of raps— human, I decided, since they didn’t have the odd too-light or too-heavy edge that meant something else. I slid up to the door.

Breathing. Slightly asthmatic. A human pulse, just a little elevated. I jerked the door open, the locks parting like water.

A skinny Hispanic teenager smelling of Corona and refried beans stood on my front step. He wore 51 colors, a red bandanna knotted around one thin bicep. Beneath the edge of a hairnet keeping his dark, limp hair back, he had a face that belonged on an Aztec codex.

Or at least, his proud, bird-beak nose did. Sallow, pitted skin and a pair of dead, empty eyes showed why he’d never be handsome. I recognized him a split second after I realized what he was standing there for.

He had the look.

Oh, no. Not now. “What the hell do you want?”

Gilberto Rosario Gonzalez-Ayala blinked once. “Hola, bruja.”

“Hello, Señor Gonzalez-Ayala. I repeat, what the bloody blue blazes do you want?”

“Took me a while to find your house.” A ghost of good humor slid through the bottom of his dark, shark-flat eyes.

You’re not packing a.22, are you? I eyed him, taking in the flannel shirt, the torn jeans—and there it was under the stark flatness of his expression.

I knew that look. It was hunger.

Crap. I knew I hadn’t seen the last of this kid. “There’s a reason for that,” I said finally. Behind him, the street was empty. The warehouse is on the wrong side of the tracks, of course. I spent the first half of my life trying to get away from the wrong side, and now it’s where I spend most of my time. I barely have any idea what it’s like over on the decent side of town, unless I’m working a case with its tentacles up among the rich and powerful.