It was hard work to lift her arm, shifting among twisted bedcovers; she’d thrashed herself into a knot trying to get away. Still, she managed to free her knees, and he didn’t move as her palm met his chest again. Her own heart was skipping along fast and hard, and her cheeks felt hot.
Oh, Christ, am I blushing? I hope he doesn’t notice.
The monster stared at her, remote and impassive. Bea patted his shirt; even through cloth the muscle definition was a bit startling. Like carved stone, but giving off stove-heat. “Did I sleep all day?”
“The sun rises, fledglings sleep.” His voice rumbled under her fingers. “It is inevitable. You may be able to tolerate sunlight in small doses until the fangs break through. After that, no.”
Oh. So that will keep me trapped during the day, if it’s true. “But it doesn’t bother you.”
“I am daywalker, certain things do not trouble me.” He blinked, almost deliberately. Cats did that to show affection, but she wondered if he had to remind himself to act human. “Eventually you will share that.”
Good news, or just propaganda? She tried to imagine he was human, that her fingers were resting against an attractive man’s shirt. “Eventually?”
“A few centuries.” The monster finally moved. His hand settled over hers, pressing her palm more firmly to his chest. “It’s difficult to say, but eventually, yes. Quite possible.”
Shit. Her heart sank—a few centuries? When he said it so casually, the whole thing seemed absolutely, horribly plausible. Bea clearly needed to get her ass in gear.
So she let herself hold the monster’s gaze, hoping she wasn’t about to be hypnotized like a chicken. “That’s a long time.” Pretend you’re interested. You did it all during the party, you can do it now. “What if you get bored?”
His hand tightened; his lips parted slightly. No sign of fangs, though, that was good. “Impossible. A leman is an eternal mystery, and you more than any other, I think.”
Yeah, well, let’s hope you can’t tell what I’m really thinking. Self-confidence was probably too much to ask for in this situation, and so was courage. How was she supposed to do what she needed to without either?
A subtle change in pressure. Her fingers moved, trapped but not immobile, stroking his chest. The barest butterfly-brush, answered by a thump—his heart, a strike felt all through her own limbs.
Every outside sound faded, even the rush and splatter of cold winter rain. Kids must be praying for it to stop before trick-or-treating, she thought, and hoped her own tricks were up to par this year. The prize wasn’t full-size candy bars but her own miserable life. “How do you still have a heartbeat?”
“Mortal death is a process, not a terminus.” His fingers shifted, caressing the back of her hand. “It is true-death all sanguinant fear, even Archons. But those are…” Now the fangs were out, dimpling his lower lip. “Beatrice.” Lingering over her name.
This might be easier than I thought. “Lukas.” She tried to pronounce it the way he had, then rocked up onto her knees, finding the movement easier than she suspected and hoping she didn’t lose her balance. Falling over right now would be fucking embarrassing, and Christ knew when she’d get another chance at this. The mattress shifted; Bea found herself again nose-to-nose with the monster. “Am I saying it wrong?”
Please. She was doing everything but fluttering her damn eyelashes. If he was just after the chase, this would end pretty messily. Please, I know I wasn’t born to be lucky, but can you throw me a bone here, God?
She leaned in, and closed her eyes.
CHAPTER 20
His leman’s touch was a brand even through layers of cloth; her pulse galloped along, sweet thunder. Lukas had barely enough presence of mind to set the seals, remaining immobile as her lips touched his. That slight contact burned as well, thick sugary fire spilling through every blood-channel as her scent wrapped him in a drugging cloud. So incandescently beautiful, and willingly touching him—she pressed a little harder, and he could do nothing but respond.
Gently, though. Hardly able to move for fear of frightening shy, recalcitrant prey.
The thrall woke, arousal a clawed steel bar at the very root of his being. At the bottom of consciousness, the animal who prioritized survival was unbreathing, unblinking, still as a frozen rock. It gloried in the paired sensations—the small slim hand against his heartbeat, the mouth teasing at his own. The faint tang of his blood upon her tongue was even more enticing, if that were possible.
She explored rather tentatively, perhaps afraid of his true teeth slipping control. Lukas could barely believe this sudden turn; he had expected more wild veering between fear and defiance, perhaps another attempt at self-harm or panic-struck escape.
Not this. Never this.
The center, the very omphalos of the universe drew closer, her free hand meeting his shoulder, skimming upward, curving at his nape. Delicate fingers, pressing so gently—he needed only the slightest of pressure to obey, leaning into her.
But she retreated, and he froze again. Agonizing, the bare inch between her lips and his own, even if he could drink the nectar of her breath.
“Lukas?” A tantalizing whisper, his mortal name wonderfully altered with her charming, so-modern accent. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No.” He could barely remember which language to plead in. Never. Don’t. If he moved, if he so much as exhaled wrongly, she might take flight. He would pursue, he would have her again...but he very much wanted to see what she intended. The longing was a spear in his chest, a blade so keen it did not hurt at first strike, and he drowned in sensation his numbed, calcified former self had never dreamed possible.
“Okay.” A light, brushing kiss, not nearly enough. “But I want something different this time. Can I have it?”
So she grasped, in some way, how helpless he was against her. “Yes.” And those incredible, dizzying words—this time.
