Dark Lover. Brenda Joyce
She was determined to hide her surprise and act as if nothing much had happened. Oddly, it felt incredibly important to pretend that nothing was awry.
It had been sheer instinct to leave him alone with his grief when he’d finished with the demon. No man, immortal or not, would want someone to see such rage, much less that shocking emotional aftermath.
And she was shocked.
He was breathing hard. “I said I am not one of them.”
She was breathing hard, too. She’d heard. And while she didn’t think him a rapist, he’d probably have kept trying to seduce her anyway, if she hadn’t gotten rough.
And that was the problem. Having that incredibly hard and aroused body against hers had been so damned tempting. It was as if there was an unearthly pull between them. “Okay. I might have overreacted. I’m sorry I kneed you. But I’m fairly certain a little blow won’t hurt that.”
He gave her a really dark glance. “Why don’t ye leave?” He strode back to the bar cart and poured a scotch, which he drained. Then he poured another one. “Ye can understand why I’m not bein’ a bit more hospitable.”
“I’m not leaving, not until the page is in Nick’s custody,” Sam said flatly.
He gave her an incredulous look. “I’m not leapin’ anywhere tonight. Not into the vault and not into the past, or any other time.” He drank half of the second scotch. He was impatient now, his stare cold and hard.
She carefully shut down those thoughts. She’d think about it all later. “And I should trust you because…?”
“Ye trust me because I’m St. Cuthbert,” he snapped. “Do as ye will. Amuse yerself, Sam.” He refilled his glass and strode from the library.
Sam walked to the threshold of the room and saw him go down the hall, past several impressive works of art, entering what was apparently the master suite at its far end. When he vanished inside, leaving the door open, she inhaled.
Holy shit. What had just happened…really?
She walked over to the bar cart and poured herself a drink. Sipping it, she went into the adjacent guest bathroom. She set the drink down and opened the cabinet, where she found a few handy items, including mouthwash.
As she took off the dress, she became aware of her body, which was sore. The stab wounds felt as if they were on fire. Not that she hadn’t had worse. Her right ankle was also sore, and she hoped it wasn’t sprained, because she didn’t have time to limp around. She shoved the red jersey dress into the garbage and thought about the few facts she’d gleaned with Brie last fall about Ian Maclean.
Brie and Sam had been trying to save Aidan’s life. They’d assumed Ian was dead—everyone had. Aidan had helplessly watched while his own father murdered him as a boy. Sam recalled that date as being 1436. Some dates simply stuck out.
She picked up a bar of scented white soap and cleaned her arm and the cut on her rib cage. Now that she thought about it, Ian had been born in the fifteenth century, making him really old—unless he was visiting New York from another century. That did not seem likely—he acted really contemporary. But the second, more important fact was that his grandfather, the notorious demon, Moray, hadn’t actually killed him.
Ian had been in demonic captivity as a child. Now she recalled that Aidan had fallen to the dark side as a result of his thinking Ian murdered. Aidan of Awe had a record of nearly demonic activity that spanned decades. She knew. She’d handed the file over to Brie herself.
Ian had been presumed dead for decades…which meant he’d been a demon’s prisoner for all that time.
A chill went through her.
Demons thrived on torture, abuse, rape and murder. It was a miracle he was still alive. But the emerging facts were beginning to explain a lot. No wonder he was such a hard-ass. He’d been so unlikable, so cold and unfeeling—until he’d had the breakdown.
What had they done to him?
She was never going to forget the sight of him on his hands and knees, trembling violently, tears streaming.
Her heart seemed to stir within her chest. Sam jerked in shock, and she looked at her reflection in the mirror. For one instant, she saw herself standing there, naked and cut, and her blue eyes seemed unusually soft and worried.
Her eyes looked like Tabby’s, except for their color.
Her sister was the kindest woman she’d ever known. Tabby worried about everyone. Tabby’s compassion knew no bounds. Tabby often had that look in her eyes.
Damn it. She, Sam, was never concerned. She took life in stride. She fought for the Innocent, was prepared to die for them, but she never had and would never shed a single tear over an Innocent’s murder. She hadn’t even cried when she’d realized her mother was dead. She’d gone hunting, instead.
Her composure did not slip now. The image of her mother’s murder was engraved on her mind, and she wanted it that way. She’d been twelve years old, walking home from school alone, because she’d cut her Spanish class so she could play street hockey with the boys. But they’d pissed her off and she’d gotten into a fistfight and gone home instead. When she’d walked into her front yard, she’d seen the man getting up, her mother lying prone and lifeless on the ground.
Sam had run to her mother, and had quickly realized Laura was dead. Tears had burned her eyes, but the grief had been dull because there was so much rage. She welcomed the fury, the need to strike back, the burning revenge. She leapt up and set chase. The demon had been halfway down the block. But instead of confronting her, he’d vanished, leaping into time.
She’d meant to murder him with her bare hands, even though just a skinny kid.
“Coward!” she had screamed.
She’d spent a year hunting him but he’d never come back.
Now, sixteen years later, she knew she’d never find him. He might even be vanquished by someone else’s hand. But every time she brought a demon down, there was a deep, internal satisfaction. Laura would be proud.
Being cold-hearted was far more than a means of survival. It was the only way to win. She was a Slayer. And that made her a soldier. No soldier could succumb to compassion, much less sorrow. There was no room in her life for regrets. She took the mouthwash and poured it over her rib cage. It stung. Compassion was not a part of her MO. And it was an especially bad idea where Maclean was concerned.
If he thought her sympathetic toward him, he’d use it to his advantage.
Grim now, she doused the wound with the rest of her scotch. It was a good thing she still thought him a complete bastard. There was no sympathy to be had. He wasn’t that kid in captivity anymore. He’d survived—people survived the bad, the evil and the ugly, all the time. She took an emerald-green towel from the rack and wrapped it around herself, staring at her set face in the mirror. And she made a pact with herself.
No matter what they’d done to him, it wasn’t her business; she had a war to wage.
Sam picked up her cell and dialed Kit, who was back at the office. “How was the rest of the party?”
“Boring. Good caviar, though.”
“As if you’d know. Did Hemmer take you on the VIP tour?”
“No, but he asked a lot of questions about you. He’s either smitten or really suspicious. Where are you? I’m about to leave.”
“I’m at Maclean’s. 1101 Park Avenue. It’s been an interesting night. Can you swing by and bring me clothes? My dress is in the trash.”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“It was just subs, Kit.”
“Yeah, I heard about the Rampage after you left. I’ll be about thirty,” Kit said, hanging up.