Mercy Burns

been bad up until then, afterward it became ten times worse.

Damon’s finger was moving again, tracing a line down my back. He reached the junction of my legs and my breath hitched. For a moment, neither of us moved. My awareness of that finger—and of him—was so acute that every little hair on my body felt like it was standing on end, and my heart was going a million miles an hour. Wanting, needing—and yet fearing it at the same time.

How many times had I been in a situation like this, wanting someone I shouldn’t?

And how many more times did I need to get hurt before I learned my lesson? Before I stopped hoping that not all dragons were tarred with the same brutal brush? That there was one out there who could accept me?

That man wasn’t Damon. He was a hit man for the council, for God’s sake, and a man who believed draman shouldn’t exist.

I should be running as far and as fast as I could.

And yet here I stood. Hoping. Needing.

“What about the scar that cuts across the middle of your stain?” he said softly, his touch shifting. Up to the snakelike skin that twined around my spine. Not downward. Not to where it ached.

Disappointment mingled with relief, but both were quickly washed away as his caress slid across my hip.

“The result of fighting off yet another would-be suitor who wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“And this?” he said softly, his fingers tracing the jagged scar that cut across my shoulder blades, slicing into the tip of my stain.

I shivered, as much from his caress as the memories. “A gift from a flight lesson gone wrong.”

His hand slid around my waist, and suddenly there was no space between us. All I could feel was the heat of him pressed up against me. The hardness of his erection nestled against my butt. The warmth of his breath flowed past my ear as he said, “Draman can fly?”

I could barely breathe, let alone think, but somehow managed to say, “Most can.”

“Can you?”

His lips brushed my ear as he spoke. I shivered, the memories of past hurt crowding present pleasure, the need for caution warring with the simple desire to feel and enjoy the touch of another. “I’ve never been able to fly.”

It was the truth in more ways than one.

“Then perhaps that is something we should fix when we have a little more time.”

His lips brushed the junction of my neck and shoulders, and for a moment it felt like he were branding me.

Then he stepped back and cold air washed between us, cooling my skin but not my reaction. I ached, and there was no simple remedy for something like that. Not here, and not now, anyway.

“Raise your arms so I can spray you down,” he said, his tone calm and unperturbed. Which was annoying, to say the least. Death could at least have the decency to sound a little hot and bothered.

I raised my arms as ordered, and moisture hit my skin, its scent slightly acidic but not unpleasant. He sprayed my back, arms, and legs, then ordered me to turn around. I did, and he repeated the process, all in a very cool, calm, and collected way.

Highly annoying indeed.

When he’d finished, I reached for my clothes again, but he’d already grabbed them and tossed them into the trunk. “They’ve seen that outfit. You’ll need something else.”

While he scavenged through his trunk, I reached for my flames and used them to cover my nakedness. They lapped across my body gently—a fiery blanket that neither burned nor smoked, and one that had the bonus of keeping the chill from my skin. I just had to hope that no one came out of the elevator—although standing there naked was as likely to catch as much attention as standing there on fire.

Not that Damon seemed to notice either way, despite the powerful erection I’d felt only moments before. My gaze slipped downward. It was still there, and that made me feel a little better. At least Death wasn’t in control of absolutely everything.

“I thought you didn’t carry female clothing around with you?”

“I don’t, and we can’t risk going out to buy more, so this time you’ll have to make do with male.”

“Oh. Great.” Just what I needed when in the company of a dynamic and sexy man—to look like a kid dressing up in her daddy’s clothes. “It’s going to look ridiculous. And certainly not very manlike.”

He glanced up from the confines of the trunk, the glimmer of amusement evident in his eyes. “At least you have rather small breasts, so they’re not going to be a problem.”

“There’s nothing wrong with small breasts,” I said, a little defensively.

“I didn’t say there was.”

“You didn’t say there wasn’t, either.”

He began pulling clothes out of a bag. “Your breasts are perfect, just like the rest of you.”

“It’d be more believable if you didn’t say it in such a sardonic tone,” I said drily.

He raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t believe I meant it no matter what tone I used.”

He had a point. I wouldn’t. I had a good figure, a reasonable face, brown hair, and brown eyes. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that would make anyone look twice. But in a clique where the shimmering golds and fiery reds of a sunset dominated, being born a boring brown had meant I’d stood out in an altogether unwelcome way.

At least it had taught me to fight.

Damon tossed me a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, and the scent of smoke and musky male teased my nostrils. It wasn’t his scent, though.

“They’re a friend’s brother’s,” he said, obviously noting my expression, “He’s smaller than me, so they should fit you.”

I slipped on the gray sweatshirt and wished it smelled more of him than of a stranger—though I guess a stranger’s scent made more sense if dragons did have such keen senses. The sleeves covered my hands and the shoulders slid halfway down my arms, and it was even bulky enough to hide the fact that I had breasts. The jeans had similar problems in length and were a little tight in the butt, but otherwise they fit okay.

I began rolling up the sleeves as he pulled out a small backpack and transferred the netbook and the other bits and pieces from the red handbag to it before handing it to me. He dumped the now-empty handbag into the trunk and slammed down the lid.

“Why are you carrying his clothes around?” I asked.

“Because I didn’t have a chance to return his effects to his parents before I was kidnapped.” He walked around and opened the passenger side door for me.

“So this friend’s brother—he’s the victim you mentioned before?”

“Yes.” His answer was controlled, but I felt the anger in him regardless.

“I’m sorry—”

“So will they be, trust me.” He handed me a multicolored woolen cap. “Tuck your hair up in that.”

Once I’d done it, he brushed my back lightly, guiding me into the car. I was still so attuned to him that I couldn’t help a tremor of delight.

But the casualness of his threat against those men seemed to hang in the air, sending another shiver through my soul. And while half of me questioned the wisdom of hanging around such a man, the other half—undoubtedly the insane part that was so attracted to him—knew he was still my best chance of getting the answers I so desperately needed.

I waited until he climbed into the driver’s seat and had reversed out of the parking bay before asking, “So, did they kill him because he was too close to finding answers?”

“No, he was a victim of one of the cleansings.”

I raised my eyebrows. “He was draman? I thought you didn’t like draman.”

“I never said that,” he replied, his voice holding an edge. “What I said was that draman cause us a lot of problems.”

“Well, your tone certainly didn’t imply affection, so what else am I to think? And you never did bother to explain how we cause you problems.”