Skykeepers

her cheek, shaping the swell of her hips and breasts.

“Don’t,” he gritted from between clenched teeth. Don’t push me. Don’t tempt me.

The air between them steamed with the memories of the two of them straining together, his big body pinning her to the wall, helpless against the burn of pleasure. Her scent filled his lungs, bringing him the taste of her, the feel of her. They weren’t touching, weren’t kissing, but his whole body lit as though they were. He held still, told himself to take a big step back. Couldn’t make himself move.

“What’s wrong, Michael?” she asked, lifting her chin in the defiant challenge that got inside him, turned him on. “You don’t want me, remember?”

“I never,” he grated, voice rough and low, “said I didn’t want you.” The words were out before he could call them back. “I ache for you.” Whoa. He really hadn’t meant to say that.

Her expression went sharp. “Then . . . what, you’re playing games? The thrill of the chase isn’t enough; you need to manipulate the people around you, too?”

Sweat prickled along his spine as the heat demanded that he touch her, take her. Yet he couldn’t, damn it. “You don’t understand.”

“No shit, Sherlock. How about you try explaining it to me?” She lifted a hand and splayed it on his chest. “Your heart’s pounding.”

“I’m pissed.”

“You’re turned on,” she countered, “and so am I.” A flush rose high on her cheeks at the admission.

“So . . . you want to tell me why, rather than giving us a chance, you’re up here beating the shit out of a bunch of targets—and from the looks of you, yourself too—trying to get yourself too damn tired to feel the burn?”

“I . . .” He wanted to. By the gods, he did. If she understood that much about what he was doing, maybe she could understand the rest, at least as much as he did. Hell, maybe she’d even have some ideas. But he couldn’t find the words for what was happening inside him, the shame and the anger, and the daily battle to hold on to himself. He’d tried to tell her, but hadn’t been able to. He’d tried to drive her away, but hadn’t been able to do that, either, because he’d betrayed his own good intentions through his friends. Had that been his subconscious sabotaging his conscious intent? Maybe. Probably.

Gods, he wanted her.

He wanted her beneath him, surrounding him. Arching up against him as she came. But more than the physical, he wanted to sit with her, laugh with her, be with her. But above all, he wanted to keep her safe. And to do that, he had to keep his hands off her.

Or did he? He was nearly dead on his feet, and the target practice had burned off the leading edge of the anger. If there was ever a time he’d be able to keep himself level around her, it was now. And if the logic was self-serving, maybe even coming from the corruption brought by the silver magic, in that moment, with Sasha close enough to touch, he was having trouble caring. He’d run himself ragged each day until he dropped into bed too exhausted to do anything but sleep. And in sleeping, he’d dreamed of murder and magic.

He needed something different to take with him tonight. He needed her.

Control, he reminded himself. Drawing a deep breath, he counted his heartbeats, feeling them slow beneath her palm. Then he leaned into her touch and dropped his head, zeroing in on her glossy lips.

Her darkened eyelashes fluttered to her cheeks as she tipped her head back in tacit agreement. He wanted to crush her to him, wanted to take her deep in an instant, but held himself in check. Hold it together.

Slowly, he leaned in. Softly, he touched his lips to hers. Then he paused, assessing. The magic stirred; the Other pressed at the edges of his consciousness but remained in check as he increased the pressure fractionally. Her mouth opened beneath his; their tongues touched. Retreated. Touched again.

And then, daring to test the limits of his knife-edge control, he took the kiss deeper, trying to tell her the things he didn’t have the words for. I want to be with you, he said in his kiss. I’m sorry for the things I’ve done, the things I can’t tell you about. And then as he pulled her to him and took her lips in a branding, blatantly carnal kiss, something shifted within him.

She stiffened and started to pull away, then hesitated as he gentled the kiss, trying to tell her the things he didn’t have the words for. After a moment, she brought her hands up to grip his wrists, and her mouth opened to him.

Yes! exulted the creature that was him. His blood raced, burning in his veins, seeming to stretch his skin from within as he crowded closer to her, taking the kiss deeper and deeper still as his hands slid from her shoulders to the crooks of her elbows, then down to the soft skin of her wrists. He moved to link their fingers as the heat gained an edge of wonder, a sense that—

She shifted, spun, and drove a knee into his side, below his ribs. Completely unprepared for attack, entirely off balance on every level imaginable, Michael let go of her and fell back. His body dropped automatically into a fighting crouch, while his head fought for control, fought not to go after her as she moved past him. Then he wished he had gone after her, because she grabbed one of the autopistols and leveled its business end in his direction.

He froze. “Those rounds are live, sweetheart.”

“Do you really think now is the time to ‘sweetheart’ me?”

“Possibly not.”

She regarded him levelly, holding the weapon waist-high with the ease of a childhood familiarity that had come back to her with, according to Jox, amazing speed. The winikin, who was their resident gun nut, had waxed enthusiastic over her dead aim at close and middle distances, though he’d allowed how some of the others, including Michael, were far better sharpshooters. They were sure as shit at close range now, though.

“Do I have your attention?” she inquired, pinning him with a glare that held a bright-eyed edge of the same passion that hammered in his veins. It was a short leap from sex to combat for him.

Apparently for her too.

He spread his hands away from his body, indicating helplessness on many levels. “You’ve had my attention from the first second I saw your picture.”

“Damn it, that’s what I’m talking about!” Her eyes narrowed in fury, but she let the muzzle of the autopistol dip an inch. “You don’t get to say stuff like that; you don’t get to kiss me like you just did, or do what you did for Ada, and then tell me you’re not interested in me.”

“I never said I wasn’t interested.” Even that much was an effort to get out; it bumped up against the fused-shut part of him, the part that made him work around the things he couldn’t say.

“Then what are you? Because I’ve got to tell you, I don’t have a frigging clue.”

I’m crazier than your father ever was. I’m a split personality that some powerful men made worse.

I’m a time bomb. A killer. And you, who are an angel, bring out the devil in me . His mouth worked, but none of that came out.

Her expression flattened; her eyes went hot with disgust and fury, aimed not at him, but at herself.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought. Shit, I did it again.” Spinning, she squeezed off three rapid bursts of gunfire in quick succession, rocking the three nearest Uzi-toting pop-ups. Then she slapped the pistol back on the counter and stormed past him, jaw set.

“Sasha . . .” He held out a hand to stop her, but then let it fall, because what could he say? It would be better for both of them—for all of them—if she were pissed at him.

She turned back at the edge of the cement pad. “Don’t do me any more favors, okay? Just leave me the hell alone. My whole life, I watched Pim wait around for Ambrose to get tired of chasing his dreams and settle down. I swore I wouldn’t be that woman, swore I’d hold out for a man who wanted to be in a relationship with a woman rather than an idea. Then, when I thought I’d found him, it turned out that he’d wanted the relationship, yes, but then he wanted to move on to the next, and the next after that. Saul didn’t want me; he wanted the idea of me, which was just as bad.” Eyes dark, she opened her hands, as though letting her own dreams fall free. “And you . .