All an occupational hazard of being the girl who closed the gates to Hell. The engineered product of a demonic and human bloodline. The Chosen One who prophecies talk about in that ominous, capital-letter way that made me sound like a comic book character instead of an almost seventeen-year-old who still couldn’t manage to parallel park.
But right now, at two in the morning with the mansion quiet around us and Jared’s tongue teasing mine as his hands slid under the hem of my t-shirt, demons were the absolute last thing I cared about.
His fingers traced up, moving over my ribs, his skin cool against mine. His body temperature ran a few degrees lowerthan human, which, honestly, was kind of nice on warm California nights. I arched into him, deepening the kiss, and felt him smile against my lips.
“You really should be sleeping,” he murmured.
“You really should be letting me sleep.” I pulled back just enough to look at him. In the dim moonlight filtering through my blinds, his features were all sharp angles and shadows—high cheekbones, a deliciously sexy jaw line, and dark hair that fell across his forehead in a way that made my fingers itch to push it back. He had the kind of face that belonged in a black-and-white photograph, timeless and a little bit devastating.
“You started it,” he said, the tease clear in his voice.
“I absolutely did not.”
“Trust me,” he said. “You did. You rolled over and put your leg across mine.” His hand settled on my hip, his thumb tracing lazy circles through the thin cotton of my sleep shorts. “That’s starting it.”
“That’s called getting comfortable.”
“That’s called starting it.” He kissed the corner of my mouth. My jaw. The spot just below my ear that made my breath catch and my toes curl. “I’ve been alive—well, more or less—for almost a hundred and thirty years. I know when someone’s starting something.”
I laughed despite myself. “Okay, grandpa. Tell me more about the olden days.”
He nipped at my earlobe—gentle, no fangs—and I squirmed against him. “Respect your elders.”
“You look seventeen.”
“I was almost eighteen when I was turned, thank you very much. And I can pass for all the way into my twenties. Maybe higher if I dye my temples gray.”
He stretched out, then propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at me with those dark eyes that have witnessedmore than a century. His expression managed to be both ancient and boyish at the same time—the weight of a hundred-plus years softened by a crooked smile that still made my stomach flip.
I leaned in, then brushed my lips over his.
He flashed that grin I love—and that my best friend Mindy callsmovie star devastating.
“I’ll have you know that in my day, a young lady would never be so forward.”
“In your day, a young lady would have been married off at sixteen to some guy with a good cow.”
“That’s a gross oversimplification of nineteenth-century courtship rituals.”
“But not entirely wrong?”
“Not entirely.” He ran his finger through my recently highlighted brown hair, long enough now that it falls almost to my breasts. I should have cut it by now—there’s nothing more annoying than a demon who’s a hair-puller in a fight. But Jared likes it long. And I liked the way he was playing with it now, letting the strands slide between his fingers like he’s soaking up the sensation.
“And yes,” he said, clearly fighting a grin. “Cows were definitely a factor.”
“I love it when I win,” I said, pulling him to me. In one smooth motion, he shifted, straddling my legs and leaning forward, and this time the kiss was slower, deeper, the kind of kiss that made time go soft around the edges. His hand slid from my waist to my breasts, his fingers cupping them, and I made a sound I probably should have been embarrassed about.
We’d been doing this for a while now—Jared spending nights in my room when I couldn’t sleep, which lately was most nights. It had started innocently enough. He rarely slept. I couldn’t sleep. It made sense for him to keep me company.
But somewhere along the way,keeping companyhad evolved. First, it was just talking in the dark, his voice low and steady, grounding me when my thoughts spiraled. Then it was talking while he held me, my back against his chest, his arms wrapped around me like armor. Then it was holding me while I fell asleep, my head rising and falling with his breathing—unnecessary breathing, but he did it anyway, just for me, just so I’d have something to ease me into sleep. Then I’d drift off, listening to the silence where a heartbeat should have been.
Somehow, that silence had become the most comforting sound in the world.
I don’t know what finally gave me the courage—maybe it wasn’t even courage, maybe it was just need—but one night I’d lifted my head and kissed him. We’d kissed before, sure. But not in bed. Not wrapped in the intimacy of night clothes and pillows and unspoken desire.
He’d kissed me back. And it had been awesome and felt devastatingly right. So very, very right. New, but familiar, too. Like I was discovering something I already knew by heart.
And it wasn’t just that he was perfect on paper. Because, okay, yeah, he was. I mean, considering who and what I am, a normal boy probably wasn’t ever in the cards.
