smile to show his sharp canines and hustled into the hallway with it all. Okay, so it wasn't for me.
Leaning against the counter, I sipped my coffee and listened to a door creak open. Kisten's voice called out cheerfully, 'Good afternoon, Ivy. Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey!'
'Shove it, Kist,' came Ivy's slurred mumble. 'Hey!' she cried louder. 'Don't open those! What the hell are you doing?'
A smile curved over my face and I snickered, taking my coffee and sitting at the table.
'There's my girl,' Kisten coaxed. 'Sit up. Take the damn tray before I spill the coffee.'
'It's Saturday,' she snarled. 'What are you doing here so early?'
As I listened to Kisten's soothing voice rise and fall in an unrecognizable patter, I wondered what was going on. From families of wealth, Kisten and Ivy had grown up together, tried the cohabitation thing, and parted as friends. Rumor had it Piscary planned for them to get together and have a passel of children to carry on his living- vamp line before one of them died. I was no expert in relationships, but even I could tell that wasn't going to happen. Kisten cared deeply for Ivy, and she for him, but seeing them together always gave me the feeling of a close brother/sister relationship. Even so, this breakfast in bed thing was unusual.
'Watch the coffee!' Kisten exclaimed, shortly followed by Ivy's yelp.
'You aren't helping. Get out of my room!' she snarled, her gray-silk voice harsh.
'Shall I lay out your clothes, love?' Kisten said, his fake British accent on full and laughter in his voice. 'I adore that pink skirt you wore all last fall. Why don't you wear that anymore?'
'Get out!' she exclaimed, and I heard something hit the wall.
'Pancakes tomorrow?'
'Get the hell out of my room!'
The door clicked shut, and I met Kisten's grin with my own when he came in and went to the coffeemaker. 'Lose a bet?' I guessed, and he nodded, his thin eyebrows high. I pushed out a chair kitty-corner from me with my foot and he settled in with his mug, his long legs going out to encircle mine under the corner of the table.
'I said you could go on a run with David and come home without turning it into a slugfest. She said you couldn't.' He reached for the sugar bowl and dumped two spoonfuls in.
'Thanks,' I said, glad he had bet against her.
'I lost on purpose,' he said, crushing my vindication before it had taken its first breath.
'Thanks a lot,' I amended, pulling my feet from between his.
Setting his mug down, he leaned forward and took my hands in his. 'Stop it, Rachel. How else could I find an excuse to come over here every morning for a week?'
I couldn't be mad at him now, so I smiled, dropping my gaze to our twined hands, mine thin and pale beside his tan, masculine fingers. It was nice seeing them there together like that. The past four months he had not lavished attention on me, but rather was there and available whenever the mood struck either of us.
He was incredibly busy running Piscary's affairs now that the undead master vampire was in jail—thanks to me—and I was occupied with my end of Ivy's and my runner firm, Vampiric Charms. As a result, Kisten and I spent spontaneous snips of intense time together that I found both extremely satisfying and curiously freeing. Our brief, nearly daily conversations over coffee or dinner were more enjoyable and reassuring than a three-day weekend backpacking in the Adirondacks dodging weekend-warrior Weres and slapping mosquitoes.
He felt no jealousy about the time I spent pursuing my career, and I felt only relief that he slaked his blood lust elsewhere—it was a part of him I was ignoring until I found a way to deal with it. There were problems brewing in our future, as blood-chaste witches and living vampires were not known for making long-term commitments. But I was tired of being alone, and Kisten met every emotional need I had raised and I met all of his but one, allowing someone else to do that with no distrust on my part. Our relationship was too good to be true, and I wondered again how I could find comfort with a vampire when I'd never been able to hold onto it with a witch.
Or with Nick, I thought, feeling the expression leave my face.
'What?' Kisten said, more aware of my mood shift than if I had painted my face blue.
I took a breath, hating myself for where my thoughts had gone. 'Nothing.' I smiled thinly. 'Just thinking how much I like being with you.'
'Oh.' His bristly face creased into a worried smile. 'What are you doing today?'
I sat back, pulling my hand from his and putting my sock feet to either side of his lap so he wouldn't think I was drawing away. My eyes drifted to my shoulder bag and my checkbook. I wasn't desperate for money—wonder of wonders, since the calls for my services had dropped dramatically after the six o'clock news last winter had featured me being dragged down the street on my ass by a demon. And because I was heeding David's advice to take a few days off to mend, I knew I ought to spend the time in research, or balancing my bank account, or cleaning my bathroom, or doing something constructive.
But then I met Kisten's eyes, and the only idea that came to me was…ah, not the least bit constructive at all. His eyes were not calm. There was the faintest rising of black in them, the faintest thinning of blue. Gaze riveted to mine, he reached for one of my feet, bringing it onto his lap and starting to rub it. The intent behind his action strengthened when he sensed my pulse quickening, and his massage took on a rhythm that spoke of… possibilities.
My breath came and went. There was no blood lust in his eyes, only a desire that made my gut tighten and a tingle start at my demon scar.
'I need to…domy laundry?' I said, arching my eyebrows.
'Laundry.' He never looked from me as his hands left my foot and started creeping upward. Moving, pressing, hinting. 'That sounds like it involves water and soap. Mmmm. Could be slippery. And messy. I think I have a bar of soap somewhere. Want some help?'
Uh-huh, I thought, my mind pinging over the possible ways he could 'help' me, and how I could get Ivy out of the church for a few hours.
Seeing my—well…willingness might be too weak a word—enthusiasm in my inviting smile, Kisten reached out and pulled my chair bumping and scraping around the corner of the table, snuggling it up to his with a living vampire's strength. My legs opened to put my knees to either side of him, and he leaned forward, the blue of his eyes vanishing to a thin ribbon.
Tension rising, I put my lips beside his torn ear. The scent of leather and silk crashed over me, and I closed my eyes in anticipation. 'You have your caps?' I whispered.
I felt him nod, but I was more interested in where his lips were going. He cupped a hand along my jaw and tilted my face to his. 'Always,' he said. 'Always and forever with you.'
Oh God, I thought, just about melting. Kisten wore caps on his sharp canines to keep from breaking my skin in a moment of passion. They were generally worn by adolescent living vampires still lacking control, and Kisten risked a severe ribbing should anyone find out he wore them when we slept together. His decision was born from his respect for my desire to withhold my blood from him, and Ivy's threat to stake him twice if he took my blood. Kisten claimed it was possible to be bound and not become a vampire's shadow, but everything I had seen said otherwise. My fear remained. And so did his caps.
I inhaled, bringing the vamp pheromones deep into me, willing them to relax me, wanting the tingling promise that was humming in my demon scar to race through my body. But then Kisten stiffened and drew away.
'Ivy?' I whispered, feeling my eyes go worried as his gaze went distant.
'Pixy wings,' he said, pushing my chair out.
'Matalina,' I answered, sending my gaze to the open archway to the hall.
There was a distant thump. 'Jenks?' came Ivy's muffled call from her room.
My lips parted in surprise. She had heard Matalina's wings through a closed door? Great. Just freaking great. Then she'd heard our conversation, too.
'It's Matalina!' I shouted, not wanting her to burst out thinking it was Jenks.
But it was too late, and I stood awkwardly when her door thumped open. Matalina zipped into the kitchen a heartbeat before Ivy staggered in, halting in an undignified slump with one hand supporting herself against the open archway.
She was still in her skimpy nightgown, her black silk robe doing next to nothing to hide her tall lanky build, trim and smooth-limbed from her martial arts practice. Her straight black hair, mussed from sleeping, framed her oval face in an untidy fashion. She'd had it cut not too long ago, and it still surprised me to see it bumping about
