Jessa Slade: Vowed in Shadows

The league had no idea what it was getting. But demons—even the repentant teshuva that fought against the darkness—never cared much for harmony. Their quest for redemption would be found through obliteration. “I still don’t condone selling your soul for money.”

“Very good money.” She bent her knee, lowering herself toward him, the V of her breasts one deep breath away from swallowing his wallet. “And it’s just a body. Don’t you think it’s worth that wad?”

He twitched the wallet away. “You don’t even care that much about the money.”

“Not true,” she protested.

“You do it because you like when men ache.”

“Oh yeah, I ache all over. For you.” She flexed so that her shin hovered above his chest, her naked body stretched nearly parallel to his. “Just returning the favor, lover.”

“Did you ache when you marked yourself with these?” He touched his fingertip to the first in a row of circular scars marching up the inside of her thigh.

She recoiled with a snarl. “Don’t. Touch.”

Behind her back, he reached up, and, with his hook flattened between her shoulder blades, he dragged her down to his chest.

She squawked as she sprawled over him in a tangle of long limbs and a thrust of bare breast. Her first ungraceful move of the week.

He cupped his palm to her cheek, fingers against the curve of her skull, thumb pressed under her jaw, firm but not unnecessarily cruel. “You put too much faith in your body.” He was relieved at his conversational tone. “Control the head and you control the body.” Control was good, yes.

Unable to regain her balance without testing his grip on her pressure point, she glared into his eyes from inches away. The purple flare spiraled from her irises into the blacks of her pupils, bright enough to dazzle him. He knew her vision was shifting into hunter mode.

An irate breath flared her nostrils. “Which head?”

She slammed her fist toward the fly of his jeans.

If she hadn’t all but announced her intentions—and if he hadn’t already been thinking about that part of his anatomy—she might have landed the punch. But he was already twisting away, so her knuckles caught the point of his hip instead.

She yelped, not loud enough to carry over the bump-and-grind music. He’d already confirmed that the security cameras covered only the doors and the cash register, and the bouncer had willingly taken two hundred-dollar bills with nothing more than a wink and a man-to-man nod.

More important, the isolation that had made her susceptible to the demon and now her unconscious reliance on its powers would keep her from calling out for help.

However, the rising demon also made her harder to handle. He twisted again when she braced one foot between them on the chair seat and reared back, nearly overturning them. He stood, still clasping her close. With the weight of his body, he pinned her to the wall while he awkwardly adjusted his one-handed grip.

Since the hook, he hadn’t held anyone he didn’t want to hurt.

And this wasn’t exactly a grappling hold he could practice on his fellow fighters. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said aloud, but the demonic growl in his voice made that hard even for him to believe.

Nim’s irises flared to a more violent purple in response, and she jackknifed against the wall, angling and weakening his hold. Obviously she wasn’t interested in what he had to say.

Come to think of it, neither was he.

“Dance for me, Nim.” This time, he let the demonic double-lows ripple through his voice. He let her go and dropped into the chair. “Make me want it.”

She landed in a crouch, one hand braced on the ground between her feet. But she didn’t run.

She could no more escape than he could. No matter how much he hated the wicked thrill flowing through him, the pulsing, stiff flesh behind his fly pointing the way.

His long, slow descent into hell had brought him here. But the dark twist inside him promised that now he might actually enjoy it.

Nim couldn’t stop her feverish shivers. What was happening to her? She’d stepped off the stage, knowing exactly what she was after—and the number of dollar signs that entailed—and he’d taken her plans away from her, one-handed.

And now he held it out again. Not the wallet, which he’d tucked safely into his pocket. But the memories . . . those he’d yanked out of her with a single, fleeting touch against her scarred thigh.

She’d shove the past down his throat.

What else could she do? Nothing. She had nothing else. So she danced, no holds barred.

The already tiny room shrank to the circle of his thighs. His heat thawed the chill that had invaded her, as if the perpetually struggling AC had decided to turn August into Arctic. Her tightened nipples sent a pang all the way through her body, and when she ran her hands over her breasts—same as she always did when the moment came to rock the crowd—her knees almost buckled and she moaned for real, a breathy sound too soft and weak for the stage.

Oh, this was not good at all.

It was too good. His blue eyes raked her with a sensation more intimate than any touch. God, who was he that he could do this to her? No man should be able to touch her. She’d made sure of that. Now everything she knew was breaking down, all the certainties she’d lived with. Ugly, they might have been, but they were hers, simple and constant.

And all the while, he watched her as if waiting for her to finish breaking.

Fuck that. He thought he could confuse her, mess with her head and from there control her body? Well, she’d seen— felt —that he wasn’t so calm and cool as he pretended. And if there was one thing she still knew, it was manipulating the body.

She slithered over him, as close as Mobi twined around her during a dance. His eyes widened in momentary shock. She might have laughed, but her breath was gone as her thighs scraped over his jeans and her nipples dragged on the soft cotton of his T-shirt. She reveled in his heat and rubbed the length of him.

When the chair wobbled, he put his arm around her. His hand landed on her ass, and she felt his chest heave under her as he gasped. He released her at once, so she rocked the chair again. The hook where his hand should have been thudded into the wall as he steadied them.

“Nim,” he warned.

She sank her fingers into the blond waves of his hair. Somehow, in the nasty little room with its one lightbulb, his hair managed to shine like sunlit gold. No man had ever offered her gold.

“You wanted this,” she reminded him. “‘Dance,’ you said.”

“I haven’t paid yet.”

“You will.”

“Is that a threat?” Those cold blue eyes glinted at her with a touch of purple.

She hesitated, remembering her dream of glowing eyes and Amber’s strange observation. A wayward stage light? Did it matter when he was waiting for her answer? Every possible reply seemed like empty banter.

So she kissed him.

She pressed her mouth to his and sucked his lower lip between her teeth. She nibbled, gently at first, then meaner, while her fingers cradled his head.

Or held him fast, depending on the perspective. She felt him straining, with nowhere to go except to sink against the chair. Why he didn’t just throw her off, she didn’t know. She was strong from years of pole work, but she didn’t kid herself that she could truly restrain him. Her feelings should be hurt that he was so obviously not enjoying his enjoyment. But she felt too good with the hot bulk of him between her legs, the fine silk of his hair tickling her fingers.

The AC chill prickled over her spine. “I’m cold,” she whispered against his mouth. “Hold me.”