Dark Lover. Brenda Joyce
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gasp had nothing to do with pain from the gash on her ribs. “How much does it hurt?” he whispered, sliding his hand over to cup her breast.
“What are you, a high-testosterone version of Florence Nightingale?”
He took her bodice in his hands and snapped it down below her breasts.
She inhaled.
His mouth became dry. Very slowly, he looked up into her eyes. “We can tend yer cuts, if ye really wish to, or ye can turn around and let me have ye on this table, from behind, the way I like it.”
Her grasp on his wrists tightened.
He shifted and pushed the weight of his entire arousal against her thigh. “Turn around, Sam.”
She looked down at what was between them. “As good as that looks and feels, no thanks.”
She would resist him still. He reluctantly looked past her bare breasts, her nipples taut, at the open, bleeding knife wound. She wasn’t immortal. She should take care of the cut. He looked up. “Are ye sure? Because I can pleasure ye right now…more than ye’ve ever been pleasured, Sam.”
“I’d rather pleasure myself.”
“Ouch,” he said, but he grinned. He was going to enjoy the hunt. Their gazes held, hers warm but fierce. His hands were positively itching, and he finally let go of her bodice. He knew he’d pay, but he cupped her bare breasts anyway.
Her single spike heel bore into his instep. He released her, cursing.
“Hands off,” she warned. She jerked the dress up.
“Maybe ye should have thought twice about handcuffin’ us together.”
“If you didn’t have the power to leap, I’d handcuff you to the wall,” she snapped. “No, to the bed—but alone. I’ll bet that would torture you.”
He tensed, but hid it. Images flashed. He was hiding beneath the bed. Then he was on it, chained…He forced a smile. “Ye ken we’ll have to sleep together? Bathe together? Use the bathroom together?” His tone was shaky.
She’d noticed. “I can handle it, Maclean. So let’s go. It’s almost one-thirty. I need to clean up and then I’m putting you to bed.”
He stared at her, the need even worse. He had to escape the past. “I’m no gentleman.”
“No kidding. But you’re not a rapist, either.”
He jerked away from her. “Ye don’t know me at all.”
She stared, her messenger bag now in hand. “Is that a warning? Because I’m pretty sure seduction is your MO. Let’s go,” she added sharply. “It’s late and I need a couple of hours of sleep. After all, I am mortal. And just a reminder—if you leap into that vault, I’m coming with you. I’m a really light sleeper.”
The flashback was gone. He started down the hall toward the elevator. “Do ye really think to sleep beside me like a sister?”
“Actually, my plan is to take the floor.”
“How could I live with myself if I let ye sleep on the cold, hard floor when we can share the big, warm bed?” He batted his lashes at her and went past the elevator to a staircase at the end of the hall. He used the elevator often, but didn’t feel up to it now. He was afraid of what would happen in that tight space, after so many flashbacks. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, Ian tensed, suddenly disturbed, but not by his past.
He felt evil. It was close by—inside his home. He hadn’t checked his security alerts when he’d come in.
Pausing, he glanced at Sam. She was still and alert, having felt it, too. She showed no fear, just a soldier’s tension. Briefly, for the second time, he had the oddest feeling of admiration for her.
Sam seized his shoulder. “You have company, and it’s not the welcoming kind.”
His gut churned with fear, a reflex he could not control. It didn’t matter. He started upstairs, almost running.
“Maclean?”
He fought the fear, breathing hard. He wasn’t nine years old now. He relished the impending encounter. And then there was only rage, so much so that he did not hear her.
He had been expecting this predator, but he’d been so intent on Sam Rose, he’d forgotten to put himself on guard. He was prepared now.
“Ye stay back,” he said quietly. It was an order. And as he spoke, he used his powers to unlock the handcuffs, which instantly dropped off his wrist.
“I thought you might be able to do that,” Sam said.
The anger began to build, impossibly. He was a man—nearly immortal, with the kinds of powers only those who followed the gods should have. He hated demons, every single one of them, just as he hated the mixed bloods and all evil. He started forward furiously. Sam followed, the steel-toothed Frisbee in her hand. “Ye leave it to me,” he warned her.
“Wow, what a change of heart!”
His library faced them on the next landing. The demon sitting on his brocade sofa there leapt to his feet, his handsome face registering surprise. Then, slowly, he smiled. “This must be a mistake. I’m awaiting a student of mine. He said he needed to see me. Are you Liam’s father?” he said smoothly.
“There is no mistake,” Ian said softly. “You were right to wait—for me.”
The demon stared. “What the hell is this?” he demanded, his eyes burning. “Is this some kind of game?”
“Aye, it’s a game,” Ian murmured, trembling with pentup rage now. The memories flooded him. There was so much pain and fear. “There is no Liam, John. There’s only me.”
“You have power. So what are you, a vigilante? I’ll play.” The demon laughed at him.
Sam made a sound.
Ian had forgotten her presence. He felt his mouth curl as he started forward. “Come and get what you deserve, John,” he murmured. There was no feeling now, not even rage, just determination.
The demon’s smile faltered as Ian paused before him. “You share our desires, don’t you? Somehow you’re tainted. I can feel it.”
“Share this,” Ian said softly. The blade had been strapped to his wrist, beneath his sleeve. He thrust it deep into John’s heart.
But John had seen the movement, and as the blade went deep into his chest, his red-black energy blazed. Ian had known the blast would come and he withstood it, yanking the dagger out and impaling him again. He heard Sam cry out as the black power threw her back into the hall, but he couldn’t care, not now.
This was his revenge.
Alive and enraged, John blasted him again.
It hurt. The pain engulfed him and infuriated him even more, and he tackled the demon and wrestled him to the floor. He seized the dagger, jerked it free of flesh and bone, and sent it back into the bloody heart again. The demon’s red eyes blazed and rolled backward, becoming lifeless.
Ian knew it and didn’t care. He stabbed him again…and again. He would never hide under his bed again, never hide in the closet, never feel pain or fear or shame…John deserved to die for all that he had done, for all those days, weeks, months and years of shocks and cords and prods and the ripping apart and the final submission. Now he recalled every atrocious act. Now he recalled the fear and the pain, merely repressed and buried deep. For fear and pain were who and what he was. But most of all, he recalled the loss of his humanity and sanity, which he would never have again. Sweat and tears blinded him as he raised the knife again.
“He’s dead.”
He heard her but couldn’t stop, even though he realized that the demon was dead, his eyes entirely sightless now, his bloody and mangled body unmoving