Rachel Vincent - Rogue

Clean, dry, and lavender-scented, I pulled a brush through my still-damp hair and dressed in a pair of short denim shorts and my favorite green stretchy-T. I paused at my dresser to put my watch on, then glanced up at the mirror.

Not too bad, I thought, brushing clinging strands of hair from my neck. But with my throat exposed, my eyes caught on my first and only battle scars: four small white crescents running down the left side of my throat. No one else ever noticed. But I did. All the time. And each time my gaze focused on them, I remembered Miguel’s fingernails popping through the surface of my skin and sinking into my flesh.

Miguel had cut off my air for less than two seconds, but they were the most terrifying two seconds of my life. Even worse than the memory was the fact that he’d left his mark on me. Permanently. I couldn’t help but see that as a mark of shame, a daily reminder that I hadn’t been able to keep his hands off me.

“He’s dead.” I said it aloud to comfort myself, but it didn’t work. Miguel may be dead, but Luiz is still out there somewhere. Lying low. Waiting.

I was sure of it. He’d disappeared too easily. It was too good to be true. And if the new body gave us evidence of another jungle cat in the territory, the rest of the council would have to listen.

Shaken by thoughts of nightmares not yet over, I pulled my hair back over my shoulder, covering the scars. Then I brushed it back again, angry at myself for being so squeamish. The guys bore their scars with pride, as evidence of the work they’d done to keep the rest of us safe. Why shouldn’t I? Even if the sight of them did make my stomach churn…

“You get lost?”

I jumped, then whirled to find Marc leaning against my door frame, arms crossed over a deeply tanned, well-toned chest. “Quit sneaking up on me,” I said, mentally cursing a werecat’s stealth. But I couldn’t summon a sharp edge to my voice. He looked too damn good to scold.

Marc smiled and stepped over the threshold, pushing the door closed with his foot. He sauntered across the room to plop down on my unmade bed, the soles of his feet grazing my cream-colored Berber carpet. My pulse spiked just watching him. “Vic ordered pizza.”

I laughed as I came toward him; I’d guessed as much. “What did he get?”

Marc leaned forward to grab my wrist as soon as I was within reach. He pulled me into his lap, nuzzling my chin, just below my right ear, sending tingling sparks to smolder in very promising places. “A meat-lovers, a cheese-lovers, and a supreme. All large.”

“That’ll be enough for me, ” I whispered, trailing my fingers down the side of his face. His chin was rough, and the stubble tickled my fingers, a delightfully masculine texture. I liked chin stubble. Especially on him. “But what are the two of you going to eat?”

Marc laughed, and I pushed him back on the bed, where he rolled us over until I lay looking up at him. Light from the fixture overhead made a halo around his head, but he was no angel. His next words confirmed it. “I have an idea,” he murmured, pinching my earlobe lightly between his front teeth. “But Vic’s out of luck.” His tongue trailed from my ear down my throat.

“Mmm,” I purred as my arms snaked around his waist, my fingers playing lightly over the muscles of his back as they bunched and rolled beneath my hands. “I might need a snack, too.”

“That can be arranged.” He hooked his right hand beneath my knee and wrapped my leg around his waist. His hand skimmed slowly up the length of my thigh to cup my rear beneath my shorts. He squeezed, and my breath hitched. He slid his hand beneath the hem of my shirt, and my pulse leapt. He ground his hips into me, and…

My phone rang, Pink singing “U + Ur Hand” from across the room.

Exhaling in frustration, I planted one hand against his chest and tried to push him up, but he only growled and refused to move. “Let it ring,” he moaned. Which I found ironic, considering the title of the song.

I let my head fall back against the rumpled covers and sighed, enjoying the feel of his weight pressing me into the bed. “What if it’s important?”

“What could be more important than this?” His hand trailed up my stomach, and I squirmed beneath him. But the song played on, and I wasn’t one of those people who can just let the phone ring. I’m too curious. And yes, I know what curiosity did to the cat.

“I have to get it, Marc,” I said, stroking the hair at the base of his skull. “It’ll only take a second.”

“Fine.” But he refused to move, so I squirmed out from under him, which gave me some very interesting ideas for later….

Smiling to myself over the naughty images in my head, I grabbed my cell phone from my desktop, glancing at the number on the display.

My smile withered instantly, leaving my expression hollow. It was the same number I’d seen a day and a half ago.

When Andrew called.

“What’s wrong?” Marc asked.

“Nothing.” My thumb hovered over the yes button as I tried to calm my pounding heart. If he heard it racing, he’d know I’d lied. Then I’d have to explain, and he’d know it wasn’t the first time. I hated lying to him. I really did. But if I told him an ex-boyfriend was bothering me, he’d insist on fixing the problem for me. And not only would that offend my pride—I was hardly your typical damsel in distress—it would probably involve an unpleasant road trip, an overdose of testosterone, and a major cleanup effort, which would only make things worse for everyone involved. Most of all, Marc himself. So really, I was lying to him for his own good.

Or so I told myself as my mouth opened, intent on digging me even deeper into my proverbial hole.

“It’s Sammi,” I said, cringing inside even as the lie came out smoothly. “Why don’t you go make a salad to go with the pizza? I’ll be right there, okay?”

Marc frowned. “Fine. But we’re not done here,” he said, gesturing toward the bed with an unmistakable spark of mischief in his eye. I nodded, and he left to make me a salad. Sometimes he was too sweet for his own good. And for mine.

I closed the door behind him and pressed the yes button, cutting Pink’s song short before the phone could switch over to my voice mail. But I didn’t speak, in part because I knew that since I could still hear Marc’s footsteps, he could hear anything I said. But the other reason, of at least equal importance, was that I had no clue what to say.

“Have you been thinking about me?” Andrew said into the empty static over the line.

Shit. Until he spoke, I’d clung to the sliver of hope that I’d been wrong. That it wasn’t his phone number on my screen. But that hope was now as real as the Easter Bunny. “I know you’re there, Faythe. I can hear you breathing, so answer the fucking question.”

I opened my mouth, yet I had no idea what I was going to say until the first word slipped from my lips.

“Yes.”

Frustrated with my own answer, I let my head fall to thump against the door, then held my breath until I was sure Marc wouldn’t turn back to investigate the sound. He didn’t. Instead, from across the house came the barely there sound of the magnetic seal breaking as he opened the refrigerator door.

“Really?” Andrew sounded suspicious, almost as surprised by my answer as I was. But it was the truth; I had been thinking about him. In fact, I’d had trouble blocking him from my thoughts. I felt guilty about the way I’d left things between us, and about how ugly the whole situation would get soon if he didn’t stop calling.

I sighed silently. Why did I feel compelled to be honest with Andrew, but not with Marc? Did I owe Marc any less than I owed Andrew?