Doranna Durgin - Claimed by the Demon

She made a face. “How gruesomely convenient.”

“Nothing about the blades comes without a touch of darkness,” Devin said, absently enough so the words hit home even harder than they were probably meant to. What they’d done to Mac...what wielders like Devin and Natalie lived with every day...

What Mac would live with every day...

Unless he chose not to.

Her hand went to the pendant.

Devin’s eyes narrowed. “I’d really like to know what happened down there.” He flicked a gesture out, encompassing the rushing channel of water behind her. “You only had a few more moments of hanging on left—and you weren’t even trying to get out. People who take those arroyos lightly tend to die.”

She frowned at him. “Like I even know what a concrete arroyo is? In the dark?”

Mac made a deeply disgruntled and incoherent sound of protest. To Gwen, it was a sound of beauty. “Mac!” she said, pressing her hand against his shoulder. His eyes flickered, didn’t open. No, not quite yet.

Not that Devin was done with her. “And then there’s what happened up here—there’s no way your guy beat out that man with that blade—he’s been one foot from the wild road for days. And I know what it looks like to commune with one of these things. I know how damned dangerous it is, too—for everyone!”

Her temper flashed. “I did what I had to, and it worked, didn’t it? And even if Rafe’s little minion got away with the blade, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. We can find him. I know that blade now— I can find him.”

“Ah,” Devin said, brows raised. He appraised her for another long moment. “Demardel chose well.” And, looking down, he gave Mac a gentle nudge with his toe. “You, too, fella. Though I’m guessing it’ll be a while before you realize it.” He reached down, offering his hand to Gwen. “Come on. Let’s get you both somewhere warm.”

Mac stumbled at the threshold of the little casita and caught himself on the doorjamb.

“Hey,” Gwen said, catching up under his shoulder—fitting nicely there. “No hurry. Let’s not have any more fainting.”

“Passing out,” Mac said through gritted teeth. “And seriously, at the park? That was more of a trying-not-to-die thing.”

“Yes, dear,” Gwen said, slipping through the door to pat the back of the couch not far from it. Nothing was terribly far from anything in this small guesthouse on the former Sawyer estate—and it was theirs to use for as long as they needed.

Or wanted.

Mac growled at her cheerfully patent disbelief. “Bring it on,” he said, leaving the security of the doorway to swoop in and lift her up.

She clung to him in self-defense, legs wrapping around him and expression full of alarm. “Mac— Mac —I give, I give! There was no fainting! Just put me down before—”

Wisely, she didn’t say the words you fall down.

Wisely, Mac wasted no time getting to the kitchen, where he set her delectable bottom down on the counter. He didn’t mention that his vision had greyed or that he couldn’t quite hear clearly or that his thigh had seized up.

Keska had done its job these past few days. Week. Whatever. Having Gwen by his side hadn’t hurt—napping with him, forcing the estate cook’s good food on him at every opportunity, holding his hand when she thought he was asleep and murmuring truly naughty things in his ear when she thought he was awake.

But in the end, nothing took the place of time...and he still needed it.

His new employer—thinking he’d been in a car accident during that mysterious rash of trouble in the city—had regretfully replaced him; Devin had already hired him on and then immediately put him on sick leave.

When he was on his feet, he’d start by protecting the city alongside Devin. But as they peeled back the layers of Demardel, he and Gwen would also have a new mission—using Keska and Demardel. Find the others. Those unknown blade wielders out there, lost and alone and still trying to make it on their own.

Before they turned into Rafe. Or Sawyer Compton. Or the thing Mac had almost become.

Because Natalie was right—she and Devin had the unique resources to help them all. They had a powerful primary blade; they had Compton’s library.

And now they had Demardel.

They’d already started teaching Mac the exercises that would give him more control over the blade than he’d ever dreamed possible.

Gwen’s eyes had narrowed; her legs locked tightly around his hips, jerking him close and to attention. “You can’t fool me,” she said. “And no, I am not cheating.” Not peeking through the connection they’d forged. “This,” she told him, sending him a rush of sensation, “would be cheating.”

He jerked again. And swore.

She laughed. “I practiced that.”

“Prove it,” he suggested, though it didn’t come out with the confident demand he’d planned. Too breathless for that. And his eyes were too close to rolling back in his head.

“Mmm. I don’t know if I should.” Her hands rested at his jeans snap, fiddling slightly.

He narrowed his eyes at her flowery skort and decided they’d be no impediment at all. And then, when his cell phone rang, he said fiercely, “Ignore it.”

“Men,” she told him. “Can’t you multitask? Besides, I emailed this number to Sandy this morning. You know, my friend? Who went to Vegas? When I didn’t? And who probably just found out I’m not coming back to work?” She fished the phone from his pocket, flipped it open...and slipped a smooth, wicked hand down the front of his jeans. “I’ll keep it short.”

Not that he could answer. Not that he could do anything other than clutch the counter. He barely heard her say, “Hey, Sandy. How was—yeah, yeah, okay. What happens in Vegas...” Jeans unsnapped, hand stroking around his clenched butt cheek and back again. Mac made a noise. Couldn’t help but make a noise. “What? I didn’t hear anything...and no, I’m really not coming back. I got a better offer on my walkabout.” There, her hand—just right. And he’d found the buttons on her shirt, and she laughed again, more breathlessly this time, and at the feel of her in his hands he made a rough, low noise and Gwen said, “Hey—yeah—I really gotta go. I’ll email, okay? I’ll be back to pack up my stuff, so...yeah...what?”

And then she laughed outright. “Hey,” she said. “What happens on walkabout, stays on walkabout.”

She flipped the phone closed and put it aside. Mac put his hand over hers and interlaced their fingers. “Permanent,” he said. “That walkabout. You and me.”

Gwen stilled herself to hold him tight—to let what they had swell between them and only them. Not through the blade, not through the pendant. Just man and woman, controlling who they were and what they were—if each for the first time in a long time. “What happens on walkabout...”

“Stays,” he told her—and held her gaze, grey-blue eyes gone dark and deep, that wry set of his mouth gone completely and utterly kissable.

So she did, and it was answer enough.

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt from CLAIMED BY THE DEMON by Doranna Durgin.

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