Demon Moon (24 page)

A selfish bastard. A thoughtless one.

“Sir Pup,” she said, and flattened her palm, holding it out. “I need a knife.”

In his Labrador form once more, Sir Pup looked around the front of the car and whined softly. A long-bladed dagger appeared in her hand.

Bless demon dogs and their limitless, invisible hammerspace.

Colin's laughter rumbled against her neck. “Do you think to fight me, sweet Savitri?” His long fingers sought her nipples, caught the taut buds in a pinch. Then he smoothed his thumbs over the stinging peaks.

She had to close her eyes against the pleasure that speared through her; she must be completely sick for him to affect her now. “Sir Pup, will you go make certain Nani is okay, and follow her home? But don't let her see you.” When the hellhound hesitated, she looked up at him and repeated, “Go.”

He disappeared. A moment later, the rapid click of his claws against the pavement faded in the distance.

Behind her, around her, Colin's lean body tightened. “I will disarm you without effort. Call him back.” An edge of desperation sharpened his voice.

“I'm removing a variable,” she said, and flipped the hilt of the dagger around in her hand. “One of your strengths. You use his presence to help maintain your control, or you wouldn't have dared try to approach me and scare me like this.”

“Are you scared, Savi?” If he sought a mocking tone, he failed. Instead, he sounded anxious, as if
he
was suddenly afraid.

“I should be. Mostly I'm just pissed,” she said—and dropped her shields.

In his instant of paralyzed surprise, she pushed off with her legs and caught him off-balance.

She was more powerful than she'd realized; they flew back and skidded across the asphalt until his shoulders wedged against the front tire of the car in the adjoining space. She took no time to triumph in that small victory; before he could react, she twisted and slapped her bleeding palm over his mouth and nose.

He froze. Above her hand, his eyes widened. His pupils dilated, leaving a thin ring of pale gray.

Her breath came in short pants. She straddled his abdomen, the ground hard and cold beneath her knees. His fingers clawed at the asphalt, then clenched and stilled.

Keeping himself from touching her. If he could manage that much control, she'd be safe. And if not, Sir Pup would still hear her scream.

His chest was motionless, as if he was trying not to inhale the scent of her blood. His lips were sealed together beneath her hand, and she could feel the tightness in his jaw, the effort it took for him not to open his mouth. That suited her; he didn't need to breathe except to speak, and she just wanted him to shut up.

She leaned forward until her hand separated them from a parody of a kiss. “You did teach me well. Strength against weakness makes for a short battle. Your weakness is my scent and blood; they are apparently my strengths.” The dagger clattered to the ground as she opened her right fist. “I didn't even need this.”

Not that she would've used it; it had only served as a distraction. Nor could she hang on to her anger any better than she did the knife. She'd never been able to.

She didn't fight the deep, overwhelming exhaustion that took its place. “I think we can call the friendship experiment a complete failure,” she said, drawing back until she was sitting almost upright, her arm stretched out in front of her. Her sleeve was streaked with blood. “I've just proven that, even under the worst circumstances, you have enough control not to rape me or drain me to death—but you obviously don't give a shit about the rest of me.”

His brows drew together, and his gaze searched her features. In her peripheral vision, she saw his hands flex.

“You don't even realize, do you?” A short, tired laugh escaped her, and she shook her head before looking at him again. The wheel formed a dark nimbus behind his golden hair. “I thought, at the restaurant, you were feeling sorry for what you'd done to me in Caelum. But now I think you must've simply been feeling sorry for yourself. Perhaps concerned I'd change my mind about tonight; no wonder you danced with Nani when you found out otherwise.”

Something flickered in his eyes. It looked a bit like guilty comprehension, but the first thing she'd learned about him was that appearances were deceiving.

“And I can just imagine what went through your mind a couple of minutes ago:
I'm
doing this for her own good; this is hurting
me
, not her.
I
won't get to fuck her now because she'll hate me for this.
I'm
sacrificing tasting her to save her from me.
I'm
risking my friendship with Hugh and Lilith, and
my
pretty head.”

Her voice broke, and she dragged in a ragged breath. She swiped at her cheeks, pressed her forefinger and thumb against her eyelids to stop the burning.

“Do you understand?” she said hoarsely. “You're not frightening me when you say these things—
you're hurting me
.”

Colin flinched beneath her, and a rough sound of denial came from deep in his throat, vibrated against her palm.

She couldn't stop. “And there are many things for which I deserve to pay, but your selfishness is not one of them. What Michael's sword did to you is not one of them. What happened to you in Chaos is not one of them.”

She lowered her hand from her face, but she couldn't see him through her remaining tears. Her shoulders hunched, and her palm slipped away from his mouth. A blurry red streak remained. “You could've just asked me to get back into the car, but you chose to exercise your frustration and to hurt me instead. And you didn't even know you were doing it—or you didn't care. I'm not sure which is worse.”

Her gaze fell to her lap, his chest. She stared at them blindly, waiting for his response before recalling herself. She'd effectively gagged and bound him. He wouldn't risk speaking or moving, not with her blood covering his lips, not with her shields down.

A folded silk handkerchief poked up from his breast pocket. Of course he had one. She wadded it and brought it to his mouth, then paused; the green hue of the material protruding between her fingers matched perfectly the pinstripe in his shirt collar.

It was so
Colin
—and it shouldn't have made her feel like smiling. Not now. She bit the inside of her cheek to prevent it.

Colin watched her, his expression tormented as she gently wiped his skin, as she traced the seam of his lips to collect the blood pooled there. Stretching a clean section of the handkerchief over her forefinger, she dipped the silk between them, skimmed it along his inner bottom lip.

He had such a beautiful mouth. Wide and masculine, the curves strong and firm, yet his lips possessed the most intriguing softness…

She averted her gaze, stuffed the bloodied silk back into his pocket. Her knees protested when she stood. She crossed her arms over her middle as she walked back to the Bentley and sat down on the edge of the hood. Her neck was stiff, her stomach sore.

It would all feel worse in the morning.

Colin rose slowly to his feet, as if he didn't want to frighten her. Didn't he realize yet that he couldn't? But he approached her with the same care, pausing once to reach down for the dagger and then carrying it by the blade. A nonthreatening gesture.

He stopped in front of her, an arm's length away. A smile hovered over his mouth, though not wide enough to show his fangs. “It was a bloody brilliant defensive maneuver.”

Admiration filled his voice, and it sounded genuine. Flustered, Savi lowered her head and rubbed at the back of her neck. She'd not known what to expect from him, but that response hadn't been it.

Her brows drew together. That was odd—he held the tip of the blade between his forefinger and thumb, and was lightly drumming the broadside of the dagger's hilt against his thigh. She'd never seen him given to nervous, fidgety displays; perhaps he was as uncertain of her response as she had been of his.

“I thought it an offensive one, actually. I hate violence,” she said finally, and looked up at him. The quirk of his lips told her he was likely remembering her penchant for James Bond and horror movies—or DemonSlayer—and she amended with a reluctant smile, “
Real
violence. Though I'm also practical, and admit it has its uses against nosferatu.”

“And vampires,” he said softly, but not without amusement.

“Yes. Now I have only to attack a demon and my trilogy of violence against otherworldly beings will be complete.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Or you could bring it to an end at the sequel. Third installments are usually the least satisfying.”

Her laugh sounded strained to her own ears, and she pinched the bridge of her nose to ease the ache forming behind her forehead. “And yet another reason to marry, I suppose. To avoid the need for a third.”

“Yes.” His voice flattened, and he tossed the knife carelessly onto the hood next to her hip.

She glanced down at its gleaming blade, then lifted her brows in query as she raised her gaze to his again.

The humor had fled from his expression. He tucked his hands into his pockets and stared down at her, his eyes bleak. His throat worked above his collar, as if he had to force words to his tongue—or attempted to swallow them.

“Forgive me, Savi.”

She lowered her hand to her lap. “Okay.”

He shook his head, as if he thought she only meant to appease him with her easy capitulation. Sincerity deepened his voice. “I did not intend to hurt you.”

“I know, Colin. And it's fine.” She said it barely above a whisper, and through an effort of will she called up a wide smile, a stronger tone. “I can't carry anger or a grudge; you'll see upon our next meeting, it'll be as if nothing has happened at all. That's my other big failing, you know: not just a lack of fear or not thinking, but forgiving far too easily.” Remembrance made her throat tighten. “Even for those who probably don't deserve it.”

A muscle in his jaw hardened. Self-derision darkened his eyes.

“Not you,” she said, realizing how he must have interpreted her statement. “The man who killed my brother and my parents.”

He blinked. “That
is
a failing.”

She gave a half-hearted smile. “I told you.” Her gaze dropped to his stomach. The bloodstain hadn't spread, but the skin showing through the tear in his shirt looked raw. She patted the hood next to her. “You should sit. You're in as terrible a shape as I am.”

He didn't, but he leaned his hip against the side, still facing her. “You said you weren't injured.”

“Not really; a bit of whiplash, a couple of bruises here and there. Michael or Dru can fix me up tomorrow.” The two Guardians could heal everything but the cut across her palm—she'd inflicted it on herself. “I've had worse. This is nothing.”

Colin's gaze traveled the length of her, as if determining the truth of her statement—or thinking of that which had been worse. “How is it that a man can murder an eleven-year-old boy, a man, and his wife for the sum of twenty-three dollars and two gold watches—and but for the interference of a Guardian, would have attempted to silence a little girl, as well—yet you forgive him for it? What an extraordinary creature you are.”

He said the last with a smile, but there was an edge of disbelief and disapproval in his tone. She knew he probably likened it to the nosferatu killing his family; a heartless, evil act, committed by a person of the same nature.

And as she'd reproached herself for it more than once, she couldn't blame him. “You know of it—from Hugh?” At his nod, she looked down at her hands. She had to swallow before she explained, “I didn't want to. I hate what he did, and I wanted so badly to hate
him
. James Anderson. His name was…” She closed her eyes. “And I probably would have, if I'd never found out what happened to him afterward.”

Colin made a scoffing sound. “Shooting himself in the head?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “He did it the same night, only an hour after. So I think there must've been something terribly deranged, something terribly wrong with him…even more than whatever drove him to rob us and shoot Mom and Dad and Ras.” She had to pause before she could continue, and still tears clogged her voice. “I mean, you have to be pretty fucked up to do something like that. But then to kill yourself afterward? And the cops said it wasn't drugs or anything. So there was remorse, or guilt, or something—he couldn't have been so cold-blooded. Maybe he was mentally sick, and when he realized what he'd done…” She trailed off. Colin had gone rigid beside her, his hand clenching at his thigh. She glanced up at him, saw the shock on his features before he concealed it. “What is it?”

He smiled quickly, tightly, and shook his head. “Nothing, sweet.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What?”