Scorched

pun-ishment. The scent of him was exotic, drawing her face to his skin. His hands were on her bodice, peeling away the thin scarf she wore. He bent, his lips, his tongue finding the arch of her collarbone and following the valley between her breasts. His breath was hot, electrifying, sizzling against the wet trails his tongue had left.

Mac’s dark, wavy hair brushed against her cheek, the springy texture of it begging to be touched. Her fingers fell against his neck, feeling the pulse that called to her through her belly, her nipples, through the painful clenching of her sex. Her knees quivered with it. She could feel the hard evidence of his desire pressing against her flesh.

Take him. Take him now.

But her senses were swimming. Her body wouldn’t obey, only react.

With a groan, he lifted his head. The irises of his eyes glittered with a scarlet fire. There was nothing there but pure, primitive possession. His scent was changing, the human smell fading as they stood there.

No. Oh, no.

What have I done? I’ve called forth his demon.

She’d missed her chance to feed, but here was something else. Fear and desire was a potent combination. Savage delight rose in her, ready to fight. Ready to grapple, however he chose to do it. This was even more exciting.

Demon or not, she still wanted him. Maybe she wanted him even more. She couldn’t really hurt a demon. They couldn’t be accidentally Turned. There would be no guilt.

Mac—or the thing that had been Mac—held her by the upper arms, his grip beyond even vampire-strong. He put his lips to her ear. “If I take you, I’ll hurt you.”

He pushed her away, leaving every nerve in her body shrieking with rage.

“No!” she said, grabbing the front of his sweater to reel him back in.

“I’m not human anymore,” he said, the mirror of her own emotions in his face. “I won’t play by the rules. I won’t be any good to eat, sweetheart.”

“I know that. I don’t care.” There were more needs than food. She pushed forward, her lips finding the hollow of his throat, salty-sweet with the taste of him. He was hot to the touch, almost burning. For the first time since she had been bitten, she felt truly warm.

He grabbed her arms, setting her back once more with that insane strength. “If you don’t back away, I won’t be able to stop myself.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Only if you’re willing to take a demon for a lover. I have no idea what my demon might do, but it wants you.”

And then she felt it, a pressing wave of need that rolled off him and sent her skittering backward. He took a step forward, the very proximity of his energy nearly bringing her to her knees. Her jaws burned with the need to taste him. Her body felt like it was breaking apart in its haste to surrender.

Constance panted, hugging herself, shivering with frustration. Now she wanted him for so much more than a first meal. A door had just cracked open, and there were all kinds of temptation on the other side. Everything she had missed since she was seventeen. Everything for herself.

But could she put her desires first, when there was a rescue at stake? Could she be that selfish?

He saw her hesitation. His jaws bunched, and the red light in his eyes flared, but he let her go. Damnation. She almost wished he wasn’t so honorable.

“The demon changes things, doesn’t it? It’s different when I don’t smell like dinner.” Mac gave her a long, narrow-eyed look, the burning glow lurking in his gaze. “I hope you didn’t bring me here thinking you could get your teeth into me.”

Constance drew herself up, trying to summon enough anger to wash away the lust burning up her body. It didn’t work. “What does it matter?”

“Sweetheart, if you have to ask that, you’ve been here too long.”

“Maybe.” She felt herself drooping, but pulled her head up again, refusing to look as defeated as she felt.

He gave her another look that said he was weighing and judging her soul.

Constance felt like she would burst into tears. “I’m sorry. Don’t walk away. Please don’t make Sylvius pay for my mistakes!”

She closed her eyes, wishing she could tell him about the kitchen table, the family she wanted, how he had blown into her existence and made that dream almost touchable because it was his face she saw there. Someone real.

All he could see was how she’d tried to trick him. Again.

“Please,” she said again, forcing herself to look at him.

He stared at her for a long time, thoughts chasing themselves across his face. The foremost was a sexual heat scorching in its frankness.

“Please,” she repeated, softer this time.

“There are some things I need to find out. Promise me you’ll stay here until I get back.”

“I can’t.”

“Promise me!” Mac grabbed her by her arms, his grip hard and hot through the fabric of her sleeves. He shook her a little, his strength lifting her to her toes.

She set her jaw. “Let go of me.” Her voice was quiet.

He flexed his arms, pulling her to him. She could feel his breath on her face, warm and urgent. “I need your word. I won’t help you if I’m going to come back to find you torn to pieces by the changelings or staked by the guards. I’m not that selfless.”

His demon’s energy was as palpable as rushing surf. His hands shook as he relaxed his fingers until he stopped crushing her. But he still held her, barely banked need alive in his touch.

Fear warred with the urge to cling to him, but she had her pride. “I’ve lived here for a long time, Conall Macmillan. I’m not easy prey.”

He swallowed, clearly forcing himself under control. “I don’t care.”

Constance thought about resisting, dragging out her surrender because something about it was delicious. This isn’t a game. This is serious.

She cursed inwardly, but did the reasonable thing. “Very well, but I won’t wait long.”

“Good enough.” Mac released her arms and folded his own, as if to keep them out of mischief.

The air in the room changed, taking on the same final feeling as the moment someone closes a book. The heat slipped away like water draining through a sieve. “Later, then.”

Cool. Businesslike. In charge.

He was holding back, being what Constance needed. The mother in her approved, but the young woman that never got to live began to silently weep. “No, wait...” He was already dust. Bollocks!

Chapter 11

Alessandro was hoping for a perfect couple of hours, which meant old jeans, no sword, and no sister-in- law. Ashe hadn’t come back since last night. Even Holly wasn’t at home. She’d stayed late in the reading room in the university library. She’d left a note saying she would call when it was time to drive there and pick her up.

Seizing the moment, Alessandro retreated to the third floor of Holly’s house, where he’d turned a corner bedroom into a studio. There, he kept those things that were uniquely his.

The room was filled with instruments in stands, in cases, hanging on the wall—guitars, lutes, citterns, and other members of the long-necked, plucked family. Some had fat, pumpkin bellies; others were sleek. There was a solid-bodied Gibson and pieces of a French lute he meant to rebuild someday. Alessandro had owned hundreds of instruments over the centuries, but these were the voices he could not bear to part with.

When he had moved in with Holly, those had arrived first. The rest of his things—mostly books and an armory’s worth of weapons—had taken more time to put away. Piles of car magazines still tottered on the old