Mercy Burns (15 page)

“I plan to temporarily get rid of your scent. Now, strip.” He pulled out a plastic spray bottle filled with a lemony-looking liquid, then tossed the bag back into the trunk. After glancing rather pointedly at his watch, he added, “We haven’t got all day. Not if you want to catch this Angus person.”

“This isn’t exactly a private area,” I said, the heat of embarrassment growing in my cheeks. “And stripping could definitely attract the wrong kind of attention.”

“The cameras can’t see us here, and we’re also out of visual range of anyone who comes out of the elevators or stairs—facts you’re more than aware of.” Then he gave me the ghost of a smile that had my face flaming hotter. “What if I promise to turn around until you’re naked?”

“Fine. Turn around,” I muttered, wondering how the hell I was going to stop the blush from rolling right down to my toes.

He turned, although his amusement spun all around me, heating my skin more than his gaze ever could.

I hurriedly undressed, stacking my clothes on the car’s roof before crossing my arms across my breasts and turning my back to him. “Okay, I’m naked.”

A heartbeat later I realized just how wrong I’d been before. His gaze
could
warm me far more than any emotion riding the air. The weight of it burned by skin, making my spine tingle and my pulse flutter.

“You weren’t kidding about the scars, were you?” His voice was cool and controlled, and it jarred against the hint of anger that stirred the air.

It was almost as if he were fighting for control.

But if Death didn’t like the scars, then why didn’t he—and the council he worked for—do something to make the situation for draman more bearable? Yet even as that thought crossed my mind, I dismissed it. We were draman. In the scheme of things, we didn’t matter.

I shivered a little, and knew it didn’t have a whole lot to do with the gathering coolness. “Why would you think I’d joke about something like that?”

Though I heard no sound of movement, his finger suddenly touched my skin, trailing heat as he traced the S-shaped scar along my right side. “This one’s nasty.”

His finger stalled at the knotty end of the scar, and the heat of it spread across my butt, making me ache. I fought the urge to press back into his touch and said, in a voice that sounded amazingly calm, “It’s retribution from someone I wouldn’t sleep with.”

“The man who did this wanted to sleep with you?” A note of incredulity had crept into his otherwise controlled tone. “That’s not exactly the most convincing way to seduce a reluctant partner.”

I smiled, though it belied the anger that still burned somewhere inside. But it was an anger aimed just as much at myself as the man who’d given me the scar. I’d been stupid that day. Stupid enough to put myself into that situation, and to believe that a dragon could ever change his colors. “Apparently there was a bet between Seth—the man who gave me the scar—and his bisexual mate. The object was to bed as many draman as possible in a day. I refused to be one of many, and he lost the bet by one draman.”

To say he’d been unhappy would be the understatement of the century. And if I’d thought his tormenting
had been bad up until then, afterward it became ten times worse.

Damon’s finger was moving again, tracing a line down my back. He reached the junction of my legs and my breath hitched. For a moment, neither of us moved. My awareness of that finger—and of him—was so acute that every little hair on my body felt like it was standing on end, and my heart was going a million miles an hour. Wanting, needing—and yet fearing it at the same time.

How many times had I been in a situation like this, wanting someone I shouldn’t?

And how many more times did I need to get hurt before I learned my lesson? Before I stopped hoping that not all dragons were tarred with the same brutal brush? That there
was
one out there who
could
accept me?

That man
wasn’t
Damon. He was a hit man for the council, for God’s sake, and a man who believed draman shouldn’t exist.

I should be running as far and as fast as I could.

And yet here I stood. Hoping. Needing.

“What about the scar that cuts across the middle of your stain?” he said softly, his touch shifting. Up to the snakelike skin that twined around my spine. Not downward. Not to where it ached.

Disappointment mingled with relief, but both were quickly washed away as his caress slid across my hip.

“The result of fighting off yet another would-be suitor who wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“And this?” he said softly, his fingers tracing the jagged scar that cut across my shoulder blades, slicing into the tip of my stain.

I shivered, as much from his caress as the memories. “A gift from a flight lesson gone wrong.”

His hand slid around my waist, and suddenly there was no space between us. All I could feel was the heat of him pressed up against me. The hardness of his erection nestled against my butt. The warmth of his breath flowed past my ear as he said, “Draman can fly?”

I could barely breathe, let alone think, but somehow managed to say, “Most can.”

“Can you?”

His lips brushed my ear as he spoke. I shivered, the memories of past hurt crowding present pleasure, the need for caution warring with the simple desire to feel and enjoy the touch of another. “I’ve never been able to fly.”

It was the truth in more ways than one.

“Then perhaps that is something we should fix when we have a little more time.”

His lips brushed the junction of my neck and shoulders, and for a moment it felt like he were branding me.

Then he stepped back and cold air washed between us, cooling my skin but not my reaction. I ached, and there was no simple remedy for something like that. Not here, and not now, anyway.

“Raise your arms so I can spray you down,” he said, his tone calm and unperturbed. Which was annoying, to say the least. Death could at least have the decency to sound a
little
hot and bothered.

I raised my arms as ordered, and moisture hit my skin, its scent slightly acidic but not unpleasant. He sprayed my back, arms, and legs, then ordered me to
turn around. I did, and he repeated the process, all in a very cool, calm, and collected way.

Highly annoying indeed.

When he’d finished, I reached for my clothes again, but he’d already grabbed them and tossed them into the trunk. “They’ve seen that outfit. You’ll need something else.”

While he scavenged through his trunk, I reached for my flames and used them to cover my nakedness. They lapped across my body gently—a fiery blanket that neither burned nor smoked, and one that had the bonus of keeping the chill from my skin. I just had to hope that no one came out of the elevator—although standing there naked was as likely to catch as much attention as standing there on fire.

Not that Damon seemed to notice either way, despite the powerful erection I’d felt only moments before. My gaze slipped downward. It was still there, and that made me feel a little better. At least Death wasn’t in control of
absolutely
everything.

“I thought you didn’t carry female clothing around with you?”

“I don’t, and we can’t risk going out to buy more, so this time you’ll have to make do with male.”

“Oh. Great.” Just what I needed when in the company of a dynamic and sexy man—to look like a kid dressing up in her daddy’s clothes. “It’s going to look ridiculous. And certainly not very manlike.”

He glanced up from the confines of the trunk, the glimmer of amusement evident in his eyes. “At least you have rather small breasts, so they’re not going to be a problem.”

“There’s nothing wrong with small breasts,” I said, a little defensively.

“I didn’t say there was.”

“You didn’t say there wasn’t, either.”

He began pulling clothes out of a bag. “Your breasts are perfect, just like the rest of you.”

“It’d be more believable if you didn’t say it in such a sardonic tone,” I said drily.

He raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t believe I meant it no matter what tone I used.”

He had a point. I wouldn’t. I had a good figure, a reasonable face, brown hair, and brown eyes. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that would make anyone look twice. But in a clique where the shimmering golds and fiery reds of a sunset dominated, being born a boring brown had meant I’d stood out in an altogether unwelcome way.

At least it had taught me to fight.

Damon tossed me a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, and the scent of smoke and musky male teased my nostrils. It wasn’t
his
scent, though.

“They’re a friend’s brother’s,” he said, obviously noting my expression, “He’s smaller than me, so they should fit you.”

I slipped on the gray sweatshirt and wished it smelled more of him than of a stranger—though I guess a stranger’s scent made more sense if dragons did have such keen senses. The sleeves covered my hands and the shoulders slid halfway down my arms, and it was even bulky enough to hide the fact that I had breasts. The jeans had similar problems in length and were a little tight in the butt, but otherwise they fit okay.

I began rolling up the sleeves as he pulled out a small backpack and transferred the netbook and the other bits and pieces from the red handbag to it before handing it to me. He dumped the now-empty handbag into the trunk and slammed down the lid.

“Why are you carrying his clothes around?” I asked.

“Because I didn’t have a chance to return his effects to his parents before I was kidnapped.” He walked around and opened the passenger side door for me.

“So this friend’s brother—he’s the victim you mentioned before?”

“Yes.” His answer was controlled, but I felt the anger in him regardless.

“I’m sorry—”

“So will they be, trust me.” He handed me a multicolored woolen cap. “Tuck your hair up in that.”

Once I’d done it, he brushed my back lightly, guiding me into the car. I was still so attuned to him that I couldn’t help a tremor of delight.

But the casualness of his threat against those men seemed to hang in the air, sending another shiver through my soul. And while half of me questioned the wisdom of hanging around such a man, the other half—undoubtedly the insane part that was so attracted to him—knew he was still my best chance of getting the answers I so desperately needed.

I waited until he climbed into the driver’s seat and had reversed out of the parking bay before asking, “So, did they kill him because he was too close to finding answers?”

“No, he was a victim of one of the cleansings.”

I raised my eyebrows. “He was draman? I thought you didn’t like draman.”

“I never said that,” he replied, his voice holding an edge. “What I
said
was that draman cause us a lot of problems.”

“Well, your tone certainly didn’t imply affection, so what else am I to think? And you never did bother to explain
how
we cause you problems.”

The look he gave me was wintry, to say the least. “Most draman are stronger and faster than ordinary humans, and there are many who seem to delight in using this advantage.”

“History is full of the strong taking advantage of the weak. It’s not just a draman trait.” And I had the scars to prove it.

“True. But it is the draman who seem to most delight in risking exposure to us all.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I wonder why that might be? Surely it couldn’t have anything to do with the treatment dished out to most draman?”

“Not all cliques treat draman the way Jamieson does.” The winter hadn’t lifted from his eyes. In fact, it had probably gotten deeper. “And my friend was not draman. He was merely having a liaison with one.”

Was that liaison Chaylee? Rainey had told me that her sister had met someone, but surely if she’d known that someone was full dragon, she would have mentioned it. “In the draman town of Stillwater?”

He flicked me a glance. “Yes. And before you ask your next question, I neither approved or disapproved of the relationship. It was not my place to do either.”

That didn’t stop him from having an opinion about it—though it was one he obviously wasn’t going to share with me. “How do you know for sure that your friend is dead when no bodies have been found?”

“Because his kin felt his passing. His brother—who had a broken wing and couldn’t fly out himself—phoned me and asked me to investigate what had happened.”

Though his voice was flat, his anger seared the air, rolling across my senses as sharply as an axe and making it difficult to breathe. “Damon,” I panted, “control it.”

He glanced at me sharply, surprise in his eyes. Then the anger disappeared as if sucked away into a vacuum, and suddenly I was able to breathe again.

“You didn’t say you were sensitive to emotion.”

“You didn’t ask.” I tucked a sweaty strand of hair behind my ear and thought about admitting that I didn’t often get
so
attuned to the emotion of others that it affected me physically. That, in fact, I didn’t usually get a whole lot from him, either. But that might lead to him controlling himself even more, and I actually liked feeling the occasional flashes from him. So I simply said, “You flew straight out?”

“Yeah.” He was silent for a minute, and though the force of it was muted, his anger and guilt still touched the air. Those were emotions I was all too familiar with.

And the only thing that would help either of us feel better would be stopping the bastards behind this destruction. And in my case, saving my friend from an eternity stuck in between worlds, never able to move on and be reborn, but never able to participate again in this one.

He added, “I
did
get there in time to stop the fires from destroying every building. His belongings were in one of the remaining ones.”

I took a deep, shuddering breath that did little to
shake the residual pain, and said, “So if you were there in time to stop the fires from destroying the town, do you know what happened to the inhabitants?”

“No. The place was empty and there were no remains. I suspect they were all taken elsewhere to be killed and buried.”