Sharon Ashwood - Ravenous

He hadn't realized how much noise a human made—breathing, rustling, swallowing—until, as a demon, he'd stopped. He'd had no scent, moved no air when he passed by. Now, partially human again, he could switch the ability on or off. Going stealth mode freaked him out a bit, but it came in handy.

He was close enough now to see the woman clearly. Her dress fell to the floor and was made of a heavy indigo fabric, worn threadbare along the hem. She was small—barely five feet, small-boned, and almost frail. He could have picked her up in one hand. Most of her weight was surely in that thick, straight hair.

Just when he was close enough to notice a strip of dusty lace peeking out from beneath her skirt, her shoulders stiffened. She'd made him. Soundless or not, even demons couldn't hide from that sixth-sense survival instinct that makes a deer run before the cougar breaks cover.

She whipped around to face him, eyes wide with fear, white edging their deep blue centers. With the jerking motion of a cartoon character, she looked around the corner again, then back to him. Caught between two bad choices .

"What's there?" Mac asked in a quiet voice, wondering if she spoke English. The Castle didn't have a universal language, unless one counted despair.

"More guardians," she answered, almost whispering.

Not going to warn Bran's friends, then.

"Three of them, heading toward their quarters." Her words lilted. Irish, perhaps? She searched his face, clearly measuring the level of threat he presented. "Who are you?"

"Conall Macmillan, ma'am." Somehow it seemed right to use his best manners, as if the shade of his great-grandmother was cuffing him on the ear. "At your service."

"At my service, now, is it?" There was a flash of irony in her eyes. "And how is it that anyone who defeats a guardian is serving the likes of me? They're made so that we can't do that. We can't beat them, and yet there you were looming over Bran's broken body."

Uncertainty squeezed Mac's chest. He didn't want to hear from a pretty woman how he was not quite normal, much less that he loomed. "I'm just passing through. Maybe the rules don't apply to me."

Her gaze caught his, deadly serious. "No one just passes through here."

"I've done it before."

"You have a key, then." She said it naturally, as if it were no great marvel.

There's a key? Maybe more than one ? Mac didn't answer, wondering what else she might reveal.

"Well, then." She was calming down, but still looked like she was expecting a dirty trick. "That would answer why I've never seen you before."

"I hope that means you wouldn't forget me if you had." He snuck a glance at the neckline of her dress. Her low-cut gown was laced up the front, the tight crisscross of ribbons making the most of her slender shape. She wore a scarf of thin white fabric around her shoulders, the ends tucked modestly down her front and foiling any clear views of cleavage. Damn .

She caught the look. "And if I remembered you, would that be on account of your smooth tongue and practiced smile?"

"I have better qualities." Careful, the last woman you thought was cute turned you into a demon .

She ignored his comment and looked around the corner instead, this time letting her spine sag with relief. "They're gone."

"Good." The sword, once so important, now felt cumbersome in his hand. He wanted an excuse to touch this woman. It was pure instinct. She was beautiful and achingly young. The fact that she was hiding from the guardians only added a protective urge to the mix. "What's your name?"

"Constance," she said, then added, "Moore," as if it was a piece of information she rarely needed.

"Were the guardians chasing you?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"It's a long story."

"I'm a patient man."

"I've heard that one before." She gave him a bold look that almost contradicted her earlier caution. "You men never make it to the climax of a tale."

Mac raised an eyebrow. "You must be one helluva storyteller."

She gave a sly, close-lipped smile that would have shamed the Mona Lisa. Her eyes dared him right up until they shifted away, a nervous tell. "I am."

Mac folded his arms, an awkward process when holding a sword. "Oh yeah?"

She leaned against the stone wall, all fair skin, black hair, and cherry lips. Snow White in a reckless mood. "Indeed."

Despite the taunting jut of her chin, he could see the tremor in her fingers, the quick pant of her breath. His demon side licked up her fear like a cat lapped cream. He reached out with his free hand and cupped her jaw, tilting her face up to him. "What do you know about a key?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I know they exist. This place isn't as airtight as one might think."

He dropped his hand, but didn't move away. "You got one?"

"No." She tried to hold his gaze, but failed. "You can trust my word on that."

"Worried that I might search you?"

"You'd probably like that."

"You think so, eh?"

"You're male, aren't you?" The words were more defeated than bitter, and somehow that made them worse.

"Yeah, but I'm not a ravening beast." Not the human part, anyway . "Trust me, undressing a woman is more fun when you're invited."

She laughed, but it wasn't mirthful. "And you're an expert, I suppose."

"Practice makes perfect."

"I'm sure it does." Again, the Mona Lisa smile. There was a history that went with that sweet, self-mocking sadness.

Definitely more temptation than he could handle. He bent and pressed his lips to hers, perhaps to taste that puzzling smile, perhaps to kiss it away. Or maybe just to prove his expertise.

Constance inhaled, a quick, light gasp ended by his capture of her mouth. Her lips were cool and soft, returning his kiss with surprised hesitation. That perfume he had smelled earlier, something flowery and old-fashioned, wafted up from her skin. He felt the tentative brush of her fingers in his hair, light as a moth's wings. Finally her hand settled on his cheek, a girlish, uncertain touch so gentle that it tickled.

She was no practiced flirt, and he'd just called her bluff.

At a twinge from his conscience, he drew back. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

She used both hands to pull his head down, bringing his mouth back to hers.

Okay . Mac wasn't about to argue. Heat surged through him, thick and electric. He drew his hand up her spine, over her ribs, up the side of her breast. Constance murmured in pleasure, rising onto her toes. Her body brushed against his. Oh, yeah. Unexpected, but oh, yeah .

He felt the tip of her tongue meet his, a shy inquiry. Constance tasted as sweet and wild as blackberries still hot from the sun. He couldn't drink down her soul as he could have in his demon days, but he could savor it, sad and pure, like her smile.

He already ached in his body, but that taste of her spirit made him ache in his heart. He caught the salty tang of loneliness. That's just not right . Was there no one to look after her? A tiny creature like Constance shouldn't be out wandering the halls of the Castle by herself. She was so small, he could nearly span her waist with his hands. The fabric of her dress felt rough, too coarse for such tiny perfection. And there was far, far too much clothing for satisfactory exploration.

Okay, whoa, buddy. In five seconds flat you've gone from sneaking a kiss to planning to get naked with someone you've just met. Get a grip.

Heedless, Mac's fingers slid beneath the flimsy fabric of her scarf, finding soft, cool skin and the gently rounded tops of her breasts. He kept his touch featherlight and was rewarded with a delicate shiver. Tracing his thumb over her collarbone, he caressed the silken flesh of her shoulder. Nice .