Scorched

Besides a pendant on a leather lace, she wore a scarf of thin white fabric around her shoulders, the ends tucked modestly down her front and foiling any clear views of cleavage. Damn.

She caught the look. “And if I remembered you, would that be on account of your smooth tongue and practiced smile?”

“I have better souvenirs.” Careful, the last woman you thought was cute turned you into a demon.

But she ignored his comment and looked around the corner instead, this time letting her spine sag with relief. “They’re gone.”

“Good.” The sword, once so important, now felt cumbersome in his hand. He wanted an excuse to touch this woman. It was pure instinct. She was beautiful and achingly young. The fact that she was hiding from the guardsmen only added a protective urge to the mix. “What’s your name?”

“Constance,” she said, then added, “Moore,” as if it was a piece of information she rarely needed.

“Were the guardsmen chasing you?” he asked.

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m a patient man.”

“I’ve heard that one before.” She gave him a bold look that almost contradicted her earlier caution. “You men never make it to the climax of a tale.”

Mac raised an eyebrow. “You must be one helluva storyteller.”

She gave a sly, close-lipped smile that would have shamed the Mona Lisa. Her eyes dared him right up until they shifted away, a nervous tell. “I am. Ask any warmblooded man.”

Mac folded his arms, an awkward process when holding a sword. “Oh, yeah?”

She leaned against the stone wall, all fair skin, black hair, and cherry lips. Snow White in a reckless mood. “Indeed.”

“But are you Scheherazade or Jane Austen?”

“I don’t know those names. Which would I like to be?”

Despite the taunting jut of her chin, he could see the tremor in her fingers, the quick pant of her breath. His demon side licked up her fear like a cat lapped cream. He reached out with his free hand and cupped her jaw, tilting her face up to him. “What do you know about a key?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I know they exist. This place isn’t as air-tight as one might think.”

He dropped his hand, but didn’t move away. “You got one?”

“No.” She tried to hold his gaze, but failed. “You can trust my word on that.”

“Worried that I might search you?”

“You’d probably like that.”

“You think so, eh?”

“You’re male, aren’t you?” The words were more defeated than bitter, and somehow that made them worse.

“Yeah, but I’m not a ravening beast.” Not the human part, anyway. “Trust me, undressing a woman is more fun when you’re invited.”

She laughed, but it wasn’t mirthful. “And you’re an expert, I suppose.”

“Practice makes perfect.”

“I’m sure it does.” Again, the Mona Lisa smile. There was a history that went with that sweet, self-mocking sadness.

Definitely more temptation than he could handle. He bent and pressed his lips to hers, perhaps to taste that puzzling smile, perhaps to kiss it away. Or maybe just to prove his expertise.

Constance inhaled, a quick, light gasp ended by his capture of her mouth. Her lips were cool and soft, returning his kiss with surprised hesitation. That perfume he had smelled earlier, something flowery and old- fashioned, wafted up from her silken skin. He felt the tentative brush of her fingers in his hair, light as a moth’s wings. Finally, her hand settled on his cheek, a girlish, uncertain touch so gentle that it tickled.

She was no practiced flirt, and he’d just called her bluff.

At a twinge from his conscience, he drew back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean ...”

She used both hands to pull his head down, bringing his mouth back to hers.

Okay. Mac wasn’t about to argue. Heat surged through him, thick and electric. He drew his hand up her spine, over her ribs, up the side of her breast. Constance flinched, as if he’d touched a bruise, but then murmured in pleasure, rising onto her toes. Her body brushed against his. Oh, yeah. Unexpected, but oh, yeah.

He felt the tip of her tongue meet his, a shy inquiry. Constance tasted as sweet and wild as blackberries still hot from the sun. He couldn’t drink down her soul as he could have in his demon days, but he could savor it, sad and pure, like her smile.

He already ached in his body, but that taste of her spirit made him ache in his heart. He caught the salty tang of loneliness. That’s just not right. Was there no one to look after her? A tiny creature like Constance shouldn’t be out wandering the halls of the Castle by herself. She was so small, he could nearly span her waist with his hands. The fabric of her dress felt rough, too coarse for such tiny perfection. And there was far, far too much clothing for satisfactory exploration.

Okay, whoa, buddy. In five seconds flat, you’ve gone from sneaking a kiss to planning to get naked with someone you’ve just met. Get a grip.

Heedless, Mac’s fingers slid beneath the flimsy fabric of her scarf, finding soft, cool skin and the gently rounded tops of her breasts. He kept his touch feather-light and was rewarded with a delicate shiver. Tracing his thumb over her collarbone, he caressed the satin flesh of her shoulder. Nice.

He deepened the kiss, but kept his beast tightly leashed. Whoever this girl was, she wasn’t ready for his demon side. Hell, most of the time, neither was he.

So sweet. She knew about a key, a way for Mac to escape. It was almost a shame. This moment, so full of new promise, almost justified an eternity in the Castle.

And yet...

Yeah, okay, Macmillan, what’s with the hearts and flowers? This isn’t you.

Something was not right.

No shit, Sherlock. Nothing’s been right for over a year. Was it the soul-sucking demon shtick or the eternal prison of darkness that tipped you off? As for the girl...

Mac winced, suddenly going very still. Women. There’s always something.

Yeah, Constance was sweet. The teeth, however, were a surprise.

Gently, he pulled away. Her eyes were closed, her lips flushed and slightly parted to reveal tiny, perfect fangs. A vampire. But an innocent one that sent off none of the usual vampiric vibes. There was only one way that happened.

Constance had never tasted blood.

Pheromones. That answered why she had fascinated him so completely, sent him head over heels in less time than it took your average speed date.

But it raised still another interesting question.

A really good one.

Am I meant to be her first kiss or her first kill?

Chapter 6

Constance let her eyes drift shut, swamped by the absolute wonder of her changing luck. A human male, wandering alone in the Castle, beating the odious Bran into the very stones of the floor? And then kissing her? She couldn’t have ordered up a fantasy more to her liking.

And to make it even better, he was the key to rescuing her son. She had to grab hold and make the most of this chance. And even through her sizzling fury with Atreus, Reynard, and the perverse curse that was her very Undead existence, she didn’t mind the grabbing.