Kinked

supplies.”

“I had no idea you were so interested in me,” she mocked.

“My interest in you is purely pornographic.” He reached out to trace her mouth with a finger. “Your tongue is very talented when you stop using it to talk.”

Laughter threatened to shake through her. She stifled it. She didn’t want him to think she found him amusing, and he sure as hell wasn’t charming. “Remind me to tell you that you say the nicest things—when you start saying them. Maybe that’s what I can use my half hour for, to compel you to compliment me.”

His teeth flashed in a shadowed gleam of a smile. “You think I couldn’t compliment you without being compelled?”

“I don’t care about the compliments,” she told him. “I just want to watch you struggle.”

He slipped his forefinger between her lips and penetrated deeply into her mouth. Not only did she allow it, she sucked him. His breathing deepened.

“You’ll have to find some other way to do that, then,” he whispered. “I’ve hated you, and you’ve pissed me off more than anybody else I’ve ever met. You’re also one of the best fighters I’ve ever seen. I watched you every time you were in the Arena during the Games. And I was too mad to admit it at the time, but what you did back in Prague, when you pinned me against the metal door, was crazy awesome. And of course then there’s your mouth. Your wet, warm, extremely dexterous, tight mouth.” He pulled his finger out slowly until just the tip rested between her lips. Then he pushed it back in, fucking her in an almost leisurely way. “See how much better things are when you shut up?”

She had known hate sex with him would be hella good. It was even better in this … place they had come to, this not-quite-hate-but-something-else place. If you find an hourglass, I’ll consider it. But next time I go first.

“What if I don’t want you to go first?” he murmured, sliding his finger along her tongue in a slow, intimate stroke. “What if I want to bargain for something else?”

Behind the silhouette of his head, something moved on the bridge.

It was a quick black streak of—something.

She rolled to her feet and drew her sword in the same motion. In one lightning-fast, fluid motion, Quentin sprang upright and whipped out his sword too. He spun to put his back to hers, and only then asked telepathically, What is it?

Whatever else she might think or feel about him, his instincts as a fighting partner were dead-on accurate. She approved. She said, I saw something move on the bridge.

What?

She could feel him at her back through the thin material of her T-shirt. His body heat radiated against her skin, and the back of his shoulders brushed hers. She said, I don’t know.

They watched and listened. Nothing moved except for leaves in the wind. The only noises she heard were normal night sounds. She scented the air and smelled nothing out of the ordinary, and, because she was who she was, she looked up. There was nothing in the sky that didn’t belong there.

All the while, Quentin stayed at her back, hot as a burning ember and steady as the earth underneath her feet. She had the time and the space to think, all of that coiled danger at my back, and for once it’s on my side.

It felt strange, good and even exhilarating.

He didn’t relax, but after a few moments, he asked, You’re sure.

Yes, I’m sure I saw something, she told him. No, I don’t know what it was. It was a streak of something black. It didn’t look like it was connected to anything, and it moved independently of everything else. It was almost like—

She looked up at the night sky again. The entire scene radiated normality. She didn’t trust it. She stared at the bridge, and studied both ends where it disappeared into the darkness under the trees. It was empty.

Quentin spoke out loud. “It was almost like what?”

“It was almost like a shadow, except there wasn’t anything physical attached to it,” she said. “Or it wasn’t attached to anything else.”

She grabbed her pack by a strap and strode for the bridge. Leaving behind any belongings was a rookie’s mistake. Quentin followed and they leaped onto the bridge. Throwing their things together, they moved to opposite ends of the bridge.

Aryal stopped just before stepping off of the bridge and going under the tree line. She still held her sword. She bent and sniffed at the stone, running her fingers lightly over it. It was dry and still held a lingering warmth from the heat of the day. There was no scent of any creature that passed by recently, just the faint odor of dirt, recent rain and mildew.

She straightened and retreated to the packs without putting her back to the dark, shadowed forest, and she didn’t stop until she came to Quentin.

Full moonlight fell on them. It was almost as clear and bright as daylight. It emphasized the strong slash of cheekbones on his face, and that lean, stubborn jaw. He sheathed his sword and stood with his hands on his hips. “No magical residue,” he said, still speaking quietly.

She sheathed her sword too and told him, “If you say anything about disbelieving me, I’m probably going to punch you again.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “Remember, I saw how you reacted. You’re one of the oldest creatures I’ve ever met. You’re also one of the most combative, and yet you’re still alive. I give your instincts and reactions full credit for that, because my gods, the total number of people and creatures who must have tried to kill you over the years must be mind boggling.”

She narrowed her eyes and tilted her head. “I think I’m going to take that as a compliment too.”

A quick grin flared and died on his face. “You would. So, what we have is something very dark and quick that moves independently, and leaves no footprints, no scent, and no magical trace behind.”

“That sounds right.”

He walked over to their packs and handed hers to her. “That sound like anything you’ve ever run into before?”

She shrugged her pack on. “Nope.”

“So what we really have is an anomaly.”

“That’s about the size of it, although it’s only an anomaly to us,” she pointed out. “It might be a perfectly natural part of the environment here.”

After donning his own pack, he belted it at the waist. His head bent, he said, “I don’t like anomalies.”

“I don’t either.” She looked at the shadowed forest ahead of them. “In my experience, there’s almost always an explanation. And it’s hardly ever a good one.”

TWELVE

Quentin rubbed his face. It felt like his life was full of too many goddamn anomalies. So many of them centered on the sexy, frenzy-inducing female who stood beside him.

His modern mind kept snagging on the concept of her identity. Part of him kept insisting she was masculine, but then he would look at her, really look at her, and realize that she was feminine in a way he had never known before—strong, confident, and completely devoid of the mannerisms and characteristics that popular culture defined as femininity.

She wasn’t ruled by fear of defying conventions. As far as he could determine, she wasn’t ruled by fear in any form, and all her emotions were painted in primary colors. At times it seemed primitive, even exasperating, but it was always colorful and exhilarating.

When she loved someone, she would do so completely and passionately, no reservations or qualifications, or the kind of emotional blackmail that said “I will love you if you will only do this, or be that.”

What would it be like to be loved with that kind of … purity?

He looked at her and experienced a sense of freedom, a previously unnamed, unidentified emotion.