Demon's Kiss (20 page)

He studied her. The mussed curls, tumbling to her shoulders in silky disarray. Her dark eyes, watching him, analyzing, evaluating. Smart, sexy Clea.

She’d kept his secrets.

Darqun and Javier had definitely sensed that something was off, unbalanced, but without proof, they had had no reason to insist on staying. Explaining things to them right now was beyond him. The acid mist. The dark blades. Worse, the way that Clea was draining his power, the fact that he ought to get her as far away from him as possible, and the reasons he could not trust her to the care of another.

He could make no explanation without turning it into an accusation, and that he was unwilling to do. Bad enough that he had handled it so poorly with Dain. He had no wish to compound the issue further by making unfounded accusations against Darqun and Javier. At least not until he knew the identity of the traitor. Then, he would be duty-bound, honor-bound, to terminate the problem, despite centuries of friendship. A horrific proposition.

If the traitor was Dain, then Ciarran knew he’d made a hash of it, given him a heads-up when he shouldn’t have. His only excuse was that he wasn’t thinking straight, and that was no excuse at all.

Less than an hour past, Darqun and Javier had left after a brief conversation, though not without some small measure of reluctance. They had obviously wanted explanations, and he was in no mood to provide them.

Right now, Ciarran could say that he didn’t mourn the loss of their company.

Pouring Clea a cup of freshly brewed coffee, he glanced at the bowl he’d given her. “You need to eat more.”

She met his gaze, smiled, scooped up some fruit, and let out a low hum of appreciation as she chewed and swallowed. Then her pink tongue came out to lick across the back of the spoon, sending his imagination into overdrive. He froze midmovement, the coffee cup poised above the counter. It was all he could do to stop himself from leaning over, twining his tongue with hers, and licking the taste of peach yogurt from her lips.

Her gaze locked with his, big dark eyes, slumberous enough that he was left with no doubt that her thoughts were running a parallel course to his. And what the hell was he going to do about it? Sacrifice everything just for one more chance to be inside her, one more chance to take them both to heaven?

With meticulous concentration, he set the cup of coffee on the counter, wrestling his lust into submission. He looked up and caught the quizzical look she sent him.

“What?” he asked.

“I guess I didn’t picture you cooking.” She smiled. “Or brewing coffee. Or cutting up fruit.”

“No?” He added a portion of cream to her coffee, glanced at her, recalled the caramel corretto she’d loved so much, and added a little more. “You thought that sorcerers do not eat?”

She took the mug as he slid it across the kitchen counter, then shifted on her stool to reach for the sugar. Ciarran followed the movement of her hand, the graceful stretch of her arm, the shift of the thin cotton T-shirt over the lush swells of her breasts.

Measuring out a teaspoon, she dumped it in and stirred. “I figured you just
conjured
everything . . . you know . . . like you did with the whipped cream on my caramel corretto.”

“There was a purpose in that.”

“Yeah? What?”

“It got your attention.” He couldn’t help it. He was staring at her breasts, and she caught him. A shaky little laugh escaped her, and her eyes widened.

“I have a preference to avoid the mundane use of magic,” he said, his voice a low rasp. He wanted this conversation to come to an end, wanted his mouth and hers busy with things other than talking. Hot things. Sweet things. Wild, erotic things that would make her hum, and moan, and, yeah, make her scream.

Her smile faded, and she dropped her gaze. “I’m gonna. . . umm . . . go. After breakfast. I’ll go.”

Icy pain lanced through him. She was intending to leave him. “What are you talking about?”

She raised her eyes, and he saw the desperation and the sadness. “I’m no good for you. I drain you. I know it.” Her hand shook as she touched the countertop, flattening her fingers. “I think if I stay, you’re going to suffer.”

Suffer.
Christe.

“You are going nowhere.” He felt like his chest was full of poured concrete. “I need you safe. I need you here.”

She shook her head, her eyes shimmering. “I don’t understand what’s going on, but I
know
I’m a danger to you just by being in the same room—”

“You go, you die,” he snarled, cutting her off, aware of his ebbing restraint. The thought of her leaving, walking out the door, putting herself in harm’s way, kindled a dark fury inside him. He took a slow breath, caught the tail of his fleeing control, and hauled it back into place. “I can’t let you go.”

A jagged little gasp left her lips, and he figured she understood everything. Not just what he’d said, but what he hadn’t said. She was so close, he could smell her hair, her skin, and he was alive, electrified by the need to touch her.

Why not? What harm?
He shook his head to clear his thoughts, remembering his conversation with Darqun that night at Slinger’s. He hadn’t known for certain then, hadn’t been sure exactly what he might become should the beast slip its chain even a little. Then, he had only suspected what sort of monster he might become.

Now, he
knew
. Just as he knew the taste of Clea’s lips, the sounds of her pleasure. He knew with certainty that joining with her tore through his defenses, made him vulnerable to the darkness he had so long held at bay.

The worst of it was the dual temptation.

He had found true ecstasy in Clea’s arms, in her body, in the warmth she offered him with a true and caring heart, the first warmth he had known in decades.

She pulled his magic, weakened the cage around the demon parasite he harbored, freed him to taste its dark lure. He had found it far from unpleasant to let loose the demon, to feel it coil through him, blending darkness with his light.

The Ancient had sensed that.
Does it tempt you, Ciarran? The darkness? The power?

Yes, it tempted him. All the more so because in order to have Clea, he must court his damned demon right along with his woman. Embrace it if he wanted to embrace her.

Making love to her once had not been enough, could never be enough. He was chained to her and freed by her, and he knew he would want no other.

But would she be willing to accept him, accept the light sorcerer with the demon seed growing ever darker, ever stronger, in his soul? What right had he to ask it of her?

She stirred in a second teaspoon of sugar, tasted her coffee, and added a quarter teaspoon more. Her hand shook just a little, testament to the turmoil he’d awakened, the emotion he’d pulled with his refusal to let her go.

“You could just tip the whole bowl in,” he suggested, a wry grin tugging at his lips.

Flashing him a tremulous smile, she shook her head. “Yeah, I could. But I won’t.”

Her smile hit him in the gut like a blow. He wanted to make love to her. There it was, reeling through him, a powerful force. He was so
conscious
of her. The soft exhalation from between her parted lips. Her inhalation and the resulting movement of her breasts. The outline of her nipples.

Breathing deeply, he took in the scent of her, intoxicating, fascinating. He let his gaze wander along the curve of her waist, a naked band of smooth skin between the tied ends of the T-shirt and the waistband of her low-slung sweatpants . . .
his
sweatpants, actually. A self-mocking smile curved his lips. He envied his goddamned clothes, because right now he’d give just about anything to be plastered up against her in their stead.

He took a seat on the stool beside her, ate his breakfast, when what he really wanted to do was taste her, let her melt on his tongue like cotton candy.

The tension was there between them, an unsubtle weight, and all he could think of was the many, many ways he would like to take her, please her.

“I don’t think your friends approved of me.” She was laughing, the lilt in her voice betraying it. He had the feeling that she didn’t care what they thought of her, and he liked that, liked the fact that she was that comfortable in her own skin. He was nowhere near as accepting of himself as she was. Of course, she didn’t have a demon eating at her insides.

A grunt was pretty much the best reply he could conjure.

“Is that why you didn’t invite them to stay for breakfast?” she asked. “Because you sensed they weren’t fond of me?”

Swallowing another mouthful, he thought about his answer and decided on the truth. “I never invite them to stay. It would only put them in the position of declining. They like noise. People. At least, Darqun does. He cannot bear silence. Solitude. Not even for a short time. I think if he could choose, he would never be alone.”

“Wow.” She didn’t look at him. Palms wrapped around the steaming mug, she blew on it, then lifted it to her lips and drank. Her chest rose and fell, too fast, as though she’d jogged a block rather than sitting here beside him. “That’s terrible. I think I actually feel sorry for him.” Breathless. She sounded breathless.

He looked away, then back, couldn’t contain his smile. Because she was here. Beside him. And no matter what honorable intentions she had of protecting him, of saving him, he was not letting her go. “They always eat at the greasy spoon up the road. It’s packed on a Sunday morning, with a line out the door. I’ve eaten there, and I can tell you . . . you should feel sorry for
both
of them.”

She was quiet for a moment; then she swiveled on the stool, turning to face him, her expression speculative. “I think if you could choose, you would always be alone.” It wasn’t a question. “You don’t like people. Noise.”

No. Not anymore. Once, he had liked mortal company, enjoyed the human realm, but no longer. He needed to focus, to channel everything he had into the rigid barrier of his control. “They distract me.”

From the demon and his ever-present battle.

The touch of her fingers, featherlight on his cheek, made him tense, sent a hot swell of desire pulsing through him, burning a path to his groin.

“Has it been so bad for you?” she whispered, her voice catching just a little.

Such a vague question, but he knew exactly what she asked. The darkness. The demon. Two decades of battling temptation, warring with himself. Despising himself.

Alone, with only the horror inside him for company. Until now. Until Clea.

He was connected to her by magic and by the finest gossamer webs that enveloped his heart and tied him to her.

Forget the ancient lore and the imprinting of the magic he shared with her. The truth of it was that given the choice, he would
choose
her. Clea was everything he could desire, his just mate.

No. He couldn’t face that, couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge the depth of his feelings. He had no idea what to do with such profound emotion.

Curling his gloved fingers into his palm, he tested the limits of the cage, and the beast, and his own frayed control. Quiescent now, the thing was there, a dormant threat. If he touched her, made love to her, let down the barriers and restraints once more, what then?

He clenched his fist hard to keep it from shaking; then he gave in, closing his fingers around the metal leg of her stool, dragging it close. Lowering his face, he ran his nose along the side of her cheek. Gentle, he was trying to be gentle, despite the turbulent edge to his desire.

“Go, Clea,” he rasped, tried for a smile. “Just don’t go far.”

“How far? Another room? Another building?”

“If you go, I won’t follow. You’ll be safe.”

“Stay. Go. What is it you want?”

He knew what
she
wanted. He could read it in her expression, feel it in the heat of her body, so close, so tempting.

“You. I want you.” Why the hell had he said that?

She pulled back, taking her warmth and her light, and for a moment he thought that she would listen, that she would flee. His heart twisted.
Yes. Leave me. Be safe.

Hell
.

Don’t leave me.

“I’m safe right here.” Her palms came to rest flat against his cheeks, warm skin, her touch gentle. Her expression gave away her thoughts, and he knew what she wanted from him. Everything. His heart. His soul, what ragged bits were left of it.

Take me for who I am, for what I am.
He wanted her to. Needed her to.

Leaning in to press her open mouth to his, she kissed him with a passion that licked at the core of him, an erotic flame, her tongue stroking the length of his in elemental possession.

His lust was a powerful force pounding through him. He would not be gentle, could not be gentle.

“I don’t run away,” she whispered, her tone fierce, her dark eyes flashing fire. “Whatever it is, I deal with it. It’s who I am.”

No, she didn’t run away, but neither did she stand and let life happen to her, a passive vessel for all that occurred. She took the hand she was dealt, and she made it into something she could live with.