“Thanks, I’m starved.”
“Not this,” he said with a gesture at the fragrant, grease-stained bag. “This.” With a magician’s flourish, he withdrew a small brown paper sack from inside his coat and pulled out the tiniest set of bolt cutters I’d ever seen. “Let me see if I can get those cuffs off.”
“Gladly.” I padded across the room toward him like an old woman, sore, stiff, and hunched over. I was exhausted and in real pain from my encounter with Lorelei.
Murphy eyed me appreciatively, apparently unaware of my geriatric troubles, and my arms crossed automatically over my chest. Two hours earlier, I’d have done anything to see that look on his face, that heat in his eyes, but now I was embarrassed almost beyond the ability to function by what I’d said and done in the airplane.
My problem wasn’t my reaction to him. Murphy was adamnfine specimen of a man, and the best advance to come out of the past two centuries—other than cell phones and fast food—was the social acceptance of a woman’s healthy sex drive. My attraction to him was perfectly normal.
But my inability to control it wasnot.
Never in my entire, very long existence had I felt as violated—asused—as I had with Lorelei manipulating me. She’d drawn not just emotions from me, but actual physical reactions. Against my will. She’d made me drop both my guard and my gun.
The more I thought about it, the angrier I got.
Nothing pisses me off worse than not being in control, especially of my own actions. If the succubus weren’t already dead, I’d kill her. But this time she’d suffer first. Not physical pain, but the same kind of soul-smashing, ego-bruising, pride-crumbling, call-up-the-king’s-horses-and-men-to-put-humpty-together-again humiliation she’d put me through. I wanted her shattered and broken beyond the possibility of repair. I wanted to see her grovel and flush as her body betrayed her. I wanted—
“Lex, you okay?”
I blinked and my eyes focused on Murphy, who stood frowning at me, bolt cutters at the ready. “Yeah. Just contemplating the vengeful abuse of a corpse. Where’d you get those?”
“The drugstore around the corner had a display of ‘tools to fit a woman’s hand,’ and this one looked narrow enough to get between the cuff and your wrist.”
I scowled. “The problem with that isn’t the concept, it’s the marketing. Why couldn’t that just be ‘tools to fit small hands’?”
“Agreed. Let’s get these off and get some food in you. You’re looking pretty pale.”
“I’m always pale. It’s part of my charm.” And the direct result of both my nighttime schedule and Lorelei sucking the energy right out of me.
“It certainly is.” He smiled, and I found myself smiling back. His good humor was irrepressible, and quite possibly contagious. “Here, sit and give me your arm.” Murphy sank onto the end of one bed, and I sat facing him with one leg pulled up onto the bedspread. He took the hand I offered and positioned it on my thigh, fingers stretched toward him.
“Thanks for this,” I said, staring at his chin dimple because looking directly into his eyes made me dizzy.
“Any time.” His chin shifted as he smiled. “This should only take a second. Hold still.”
I couldn’t have moved if I’d tried. Hell, I could barely breathe with him so close to me. His hand brushed my arm as he positioned the bolt cutters, and I didn’t realize how cold I still was until his fingers scorched my skin. Precious flashes of heat traveled up my arm with each touch, settling lower in my body. Smoldering.
“Ready?” he asked, and I finally exhaled. I was ready. Soveryready. “Lex?”
I nodded, finally looking straight into those deep-sea eyes.
“Here goes…” He squeezed the cutters closed on the thinnest point of the cuff. For a moment, his arms bulged, straining. Then steel snapped, and the cuff fell away from my left wrist.
I grinned like a fool. I almost laughed out loud from relief. Wearing those stupid handcuffs was a constant reminder that Hagen had almost gotten the better of me. Between him and Lorelei, my pride had taken a serious blow and would need to be inflated again soon.
Murphy took my bare right arm, moving it gently into position. His touch was light and warm. And very odd. Almost…protective. Not as if he thought I couldn’t handle the pain, but as if he thought I shouldn’thaveto. I hadn’t been touched like that in more than two centuries, and the memory of that last time brought tears to burn behind my eyes.
I blinked them away as soon as they came, before Murphy could see them and start asking questions. Or trying to comfort me.
The second cuff came off as easily as the first, and Murphy tossed both pieces across the room into the trashcan, where they landed with a jarring clatter. “Now let me get a look at your arm.”
“It’s fine. Let’s eat.” I started to stand, but his hand closed firmly around my left wrist. Glaring at him, I jerked my good arm from his grasp. “I said it’sfine.”
“You’ve been shot, Lex. Let me take another look and clean the wound. Please.”
It was the “please” that won me over. In my experience, most men don’t say please. They say “now” and sometimes “harder” or “faster,” but rarely ever “please” or “thank you.” So I stayed seated on the bed while he grabbed a small first-aid kit from his backpack, opening it to reveal the usual assortment of band-aids, antiseptic, and Q-tips, which I had yet to find a single legitimate use for.
Still facing him, I held out my right arm, and he took it gently, carefully pushing my sleeve up as far as it would go. His fingers were warm against my skin, cradling my elbow so I wouldn’t have to hold my arm up on my own. Frowning, he leaned in closer, and I winced as my arm shifted. “Sorry. It’s not as bad as I thought it was. I guess better lighting makes all the difference.”
