Mercy Burns

what’s next?”

“Next, Miss Most Irritating, we find somewhere to stay for the night. It’s been a long day, and I need some sleep.”

The sudden twinkle in his dark gaze suggested sleep was the last thing he had on his mind right now, and the thought made my stomach clench with excitement. He reached down and offered me a hand. His fingers were warm against mine, his grip like steel and yet somehow gentle as he pulled me upright.

“We can’t walk into a hotel looking like something the cat’s thrown up,” I commented, halfheartedly trying to tug my fingers from his and not succeeding.

“I never said anything about staying in a hotel.” He turned around and tugged me alongside him. “There are plenty of vacation homes around, and at this time of year they’re not likely to be occupied. We’ll just pick one and help ourselves to the amenities.”

“And hope the cops don’t wander along to arrest our asses.” I didn’t actually expect an answer to that, and I didn’t get one. Normal dragons had an easy disregard for human law at the best of times, and Damon was far from normal. “How does one become a muerte?”

He raised an eyebrow, the beginnings of a smile teasing the corner of his mouth. “You do like asking the unexpected, don’t you?”

“It stops me from getting bored.”

“I’ll bet it annoyed the hell out of your brother when you were growing up.”

“That was part of the fun of doing it.”

He snorted, then released my fingers and wrapped his arm around my shoulders. Although the action was casual, my reaction was as far from that as you could get. My whole body hummed with anticipation.

“Sometimes it’s a family tradition,” he said eventually. “Sometimes it’s simply talent.”

“What sort of talent?”

“My clique has an innate ability to blend with the shadows. Those who become muerte have a higher degree of this skill than most.”

His fingers were teasing the top of my arm near where the bullet had clipped me, and it was inevitable that he’d eventually touch the patch sodden with half-dried blood. Sudden concern rippled through the air. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d been hit?”

“Because it’s barely a scratch, and definitely not worth worrying about.” I shifted my shoulder back a little, forcing his hand to drop closer to my breast. “So which one were you? Tradition or talent?”

“Both. And that wound needs cleaning, even if you do have dragon-fast healing.”

“So we’ll clean it once we find a house for the night,” I said, a touch impatiently. The man wasn’t going to wriggle out of telling me at least something about himself. Not this time. “Your father was a muerte?”

“Yeah. I was his only son, so I’ve basically been trained for the position since I could walk.”

The edge in his voice surprised me. I glanced at him, but his expression was as unreadable as ever. “It almost sounds like it wasn’t something you wanted to be.”

“I love what I do, but that’s not the point. I was never given the choice.”

“And if you had been? Would you have chosen to walk this path or not?”

“I don’t know.” He released me to jump off the marina, then grabbed my waist and lifted me down. We walked in silence through the dark RVs, and it wasn’t until we reached the road on the other side of the park that he added, “There was a time I contemplated a life that was more than shadows. A life filled with warmth and family and children of my own, but that foolishness vanished years ago.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Why would you consider wanting love and a family foolishness?”

“Because such things are not for the muerte.”

“Why the hell not? I mean, you exist, so somewhere along the line, love and family must have come into the equation.”

“I come from a long line of muerte who breed for necessity, not for love. My father bred three daughters from different women before he produced me. He had nothing further to do with the mothers of his other children. I became his sole focus.”

We crossed the road and moved through the trees lining the sandy hill. He obviously had a target in mind, even though we’d passed several perfectly good houses. Of course, they could have been occupied—a dragon’s senses were usually keener over long distances than a draman’s.

“Why the hell would your father’s other partners even put up with that?”

His mouth twisted and became a bitter thing. “Because in our clique, it is considered an honor for a woman to bear the child of a muerte—especially if that child is a male who goes on to become one of the shadow ones.”

“And I thought my clique had attitude problems.” These men were using dragon women as little more than incubators—and had them convinced it was a good thing! “But just because you come from a long line of men who refused to settle down doesn’t mean you’re destined to do the same. You have a choice, you know.”

“A muerte’s life is nomadic. And it is dangerous.”

“So?”

“So,” he said, slanting me a glance that sent a chill down my spine—and not because it was his usual scary, death-in-residence glance, but rather one that was briefly filled with a resigned and aching acceptance of a barren future. It was a familiar feeling—simply because it haunted the darkest of my dreams, too. “There are those who do not like what we do, and there is an active—if underground—plot to erase us. My father was murdered, as was his father. I have no doubt that will be my fate, too.”

“So you live like a monk until then? Why restrict yourself that way?”

His grin was sudden and decidedly wicked. “Oh, monks and I have nothing in common. As you’ll no doubt discover soon enough.”

“There you go again, getting ahead of yourself.” I let my hand slide across his butt until it slipped into the back pocket of his jeans. Even through the material I could feel the heat of him, the ripple of muscle as he moved. I wished it was skin-on-skin contact, but it was probably better that it wasn’t. Things might have gotten heated a little too quickly if it had been, and we still had to find somewhere decent to stay. Sandy soil was not a good bed, no matter how sexy the partner. “And we still haven’t gotten to the bottom of that whole respect thing yet.”

“Oh, I respect you,” he said, his voice a whisper through my soul. “In fact, I intend to respect every single inch of you. And more than once.”

Heat surged through my limbs at the thought, and I resisted the urge to fan myself. I needed to get this conversation back on track. Otherwise we were going to get down and dirty right here and now—sand or no sand.

“There are lots of men in dangerous jobs—cops, firemen, and soldiers, just to name a few—and they still allow themselves to love, and be loved.”

“But part of the power of a muerte is the fact that he has no family—and no loved ones—to fear for. There is no one in his life that can be used as a pawn in whatever game might be in play.”

“So what about when you stop being a muerte?”

“You don’t ever stop,” he said, amusement in his voice even as his fingers lightly brushed my nipple. “Generally, you’re just stopped.”

“Oh, come on, there has to be at least one muerte who has lived to a ripe old age.” God, it was amazing how normal my voice sounded considering my insides were all quivery and my knees were threatening to give way under the assault of that simple caress.

Time, I thought, to start causing some havoc myself.

I slipped my hand from his pocket, and moved up to the waist of his jeans, finding the edge of the material and slipping my fingers underneath, cupping his butt. And lord, it was a good butt—well shaped and firm.

“A good half of those trained don’t even live to see their middle years,” he commented, his tone warm and laced with amusement. “And you are making it impossible for me to walk.”

My gaze skimmed down his body and came to rest on the rather impressive bulge in his jeans. “That,” I