Rossi didn’t look even slightly cowed by either of our threats.
Aaron leaned forward in his seat, looking like he wished he’d brought popcorn for the show.
“Don’t add another layer of crazy to this cake,” I said to Rossi. “I’m already juggling all I can handle and I need death-of-the-demon-who-has-my-soul to be off the plate right now.”
I thought he heard me, his stance easing an infinitesimal amount, though his killing gaze never left Bathin.
“Delaney,” Bathin cooed staring right back at Rossi, stone to his fire. “Would you like to know what your father made Rossi promise him before he died? What he promised him about you?”
Rossi shot up out of his chair. I sprang forward at the same time, and so did Bathin. I leaned out in front of the demon, throwing myself between them.
And yeah, sadly, I was fast enough to do so before Rossi started around the table.
“Sit. The hell. Down,” I said.
A sliver of the murderous lust in his eyes seemed to cool. But if I didn’t know Rossi, if I hadn’t been around him since I was a kid, I would be terrified of him.
He chewed on that anger, the muscles at his strong jaw clenching, the meat of his lips stretching against the protrusion of his fangs. He wanted to kill the demon, right here over this cheap conference room table.
I didn’t blame him. The table was awful.
And so was the demon.
Instead, Rossi straightened and sat back in his chair.
I turned on Bathin, who in five minutes had caused more trouble than the literal god of war at the end of the table.
We didn’t have time to play games, didn’t have the luxury to squabble or fight or commit homicide.
“Leave.” I told the demon. “You are not helping and I don’t have time for your shit. You serve nothing but your own desires and I do not have time to coddle self-absorbed monsters. Leave. Now.”
Bathin raised one eyebrow. “Are you sure you want to set me free on this succulent little town? Are you sure I won’t feast on all the sweet treats?”
“You do, I kill you.”
“Then you and I will be locked in death together. For eternity. Much more enjoyable than with your father. Perfectly cozy.”
“Gonna give you to the count of three,” Ryder drawled. He pulled his gun out from the side holster I had foolishly hoped he wasn’t wearing, and placed it on the table in front of him. “One.”
Bathin didn’t even bat an eye at the gun.
Myra reached into her pocket. Seriously? Had everybody brought guns to the conference room?
But she didn’t draw a gun. She withdrew a piece of chalk.
Okay…that was…weird.
Bathin instantly stilled, gaze, body, and breath focused on that slender white tube in her fingers.
She didn’t even look at him, but instead sketched something on the table top, quick sure strokes mapping a design, her dark hair tucked back behind her ears and swinging softly at the curve of her neck with each motion.
“What’s this?” Bathin asked, not even glancing at what she was drawing, but enraptured with her face. He leaned forward, fingers spread, fingertips pressed against the cool table top to hold his weight. The look on his face wasn’t fear. It was curiosity, humor.
And it was hunger.
“Do you think you have the leverage over me to complete this spell? You, a mortal woman? Do you think anyone does?”
She didn’t answer, so he just kept taunting her.
