going to hit

His fist smashed into her mouth. Ash’s head snapped back, and she staggered into the table. Pain shot through her lips, her teeth. Blood spilled over her tongue.

Gross. And, ow.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” His heart pounding—and her perception obviously back to normal now—Nicholas reached for her, cupping her jaw in both hands and raising her face to his. Horror and shock whitened his face. “Jesus. Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said, but the blood she could feel spilling from her split lip must not have convinced him.

“Ah, fuck. Goddammit. Come here into the light.” Though his voice was rough, his fingers were gentle as he touched her lip, her teeth. “Why the hell didn’t you move?”

Hot anger leaked through his shields. Not at her, though, she realized. Anger at himself. Guilt was mixed in with it.

“I meant to get out of the way, but I ran out of time.” She ran her tongue along her teeth, didn’t feel any broken edges. “Is my lip bad?”

“No. No, it’s already healed. You just need to wash it.” His gaze lifted from her mouth, but he didn’t let her go. Still cupping her jaw in both hands, he said, “Don’t do that again.”

“It didn’t hurt much,” she said. “Either that or I can take more pain that I realized. And I didn’t know how quickly a cut would heal. Now I do. It’s better to know both of those things.”

“Don’t do it again.”

She hadn’t meant to this time. But maybe she should have. “I should have made it part of my plot: how to make Nicholas St. Croix feel bad.”

His fingers tightened. That familiar flatness moved across his expression, the coldness into his eyes, as if to say that No, Nicholas St. Croix didn’t give a shit whether he hit a demon. But he couldn’t say that, because they both knew he did.

“Just don’t do it again.”

And now he wasn’t talking about forgetting to move, she knew. He didn’t want her to do anything that might reveal how much he cared.

She nodded.

He let her go, moving back to the center of the room. “What do you mean, you ran out of time?”

“My perception changed, all of a sudden. I was watching your fist come at me, and it was like in slow motion. It was strange. So I was looking around, seeing what else appeared different, trying to figure it out . . . and I didn’t look back in time to miss your fist.”

He closed his eyes. Stopping himself from laughing—and it had sounded pretty ridiculous. Which made her believe that he’d stopped himself from laughing only because he didn’t want her to feel ridiculous, as if he were laughing at her. He need not have bothered. Embarrassment apparently hadn’t taken root among her other emotions yet.

Still, it was nice.

“So . . .” He cleared his throat. “You sped up. Did you do it on purpose?”

“No. It just happened after you threw the punch. Like a reflex.”

“Did it happen when the demon attacked you?”

Had it? “I don’t know. How much time passed from the moment he grabbed me by the car to when he stopped at the fence?”

“Less than a second.” A rough note entered his voice.

“It felt like forever. I tried to hit him about thirty times along the way. So maybe the reflex did kick in.”

“I don’t think it’s a reflex for the others. They just speed up when they want to. Can you move fast on purpose?”

“Faster than anyone I know.”

“I’ve seen that,” he agreed. “But that’s the problem: I’ve seen it. What about now? Bring to me a book from the shelf there.”

He pointed across the room. Ash raced for it, slapped it into his hand.

“See? That was only a second.”

“And I saw you. I couldn’t see the other demon move, or I just saw a blur at other times. You weren’t a blur.”

Ash narrowed her eyes at him. “I can be a blur. I’m a demon.”

“Then take the book from me,” he challenged.

Too easy. Wondering if it was some kind of trap, she snatched her hand out. He jerked the book away from beneath her fingers.

His grin irritated her. “Lucky timing,” she said.

“Then prove it. Grab it.”

Her hand shot out. He moved the book just in time. Her nails scraped over the cover.

She felt the points of her fangs digging into the inside of her bottom lip. “So you’ve got good reflexes,” she hissed.

“Ha! Look at you. Can’t take it from me, demon.”

Fuck that. Determined, she reached for it again. He jerked it back . . . and slowed. She snatched the book before he’d moved it an inch.

And for good measure, raced across the room.

Nicholas blinked, looking at the spot she’d been standing. He looked down at his hand, then found her standing by the stove. “Better,” he said. “Now come back here, and we’ll try a few jabs again. Don’t you let me hit you. Either move or block every one.”

She did—blocking most of them, just for an excuse to touch him, to catch his fist against her palm and slide her fingers against the backs of his. In the space of a half hour, using that different perception became almost natural. It wasn’t so much that everything slowed, she realized; she just reacted more quickly. So quickly that it didn’t matter when he changed up the hits he threw, faster and faster . . . getting his own workout, she realized. Well, this had worked out well for both of—

He spun and dropped, sweeping her legs with a kick. Ash shrieked and crashed to the floor onto her stomach. Prepared, Nicholas grabbed her wrists, pinned them over her head. His body came hard over hers, smashing her flat.

“No more permission,” he rasped in her ear. Winded from the workout, probably boiling in that sweater, his chest worked like a bellows against her shoulders. “The Rules are in effect again. But try to get out, anyway.”

And what if she didn’t want to? He lay on top of her, and she could feel each hard muscle through her clothes.

Please let them disappear, she prayed. And his, too.

Apparently, God wasn’t listening. Her clothes remained on.

Nicholas’s grip relaxed slightly. “Ash? Are you okay?”

“Fine,” she said, and realized too late that she shouldn’t have replied. If he was determined to make her get out of this despite the Rules, pretending to be hurt would have done it. And it would have been pretty evil, too.

Next time, she thought, and then couldn’t think at all when he shifted his weight slightly, lifting off her torso and trapping her thighs with his legs. As if he’d suddenly forgotten that she didn’t need to breathe—or recognized a weak spot in his hold.

But she could have told him that there were no weak spots. Not a single inch of hard flesh against hers felt weak at all.

“Ash?”

“I’m thinking.”

About Nicholas sliding her jeans down. About his thighs slipping between hers and pushing them wide. About him slamming forward, taking possession, filling her slick flesh with explosive pressure and heat.

She closed her eyes. Oh, God. She tried to open her legs, let his weight settle in between—but she couldn’t. Her thighs pressed against his and if she moved him against his will, without permission, the Guardians would come

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