Demon Marked

by Meljean Brook

  In Madelyn’s town house, she’d recognized that an obsession enslaved him after a single look at his bare chest, yet Ash hadn’t realized the effort Nicholas put into it until she’d followed him down to the hotel’s workout room just after midnight. Too icy to jog outside, he’d fired up the treadmill, instead. For an hour, Ash watched him run to nowhere, admiring his stamina.

  She also discovered that she could easily heft a fully loaded bench press bar. She amused herself on each of the lifting machines after that, setting them to their highest weight and testing her strength.

  The gym didn’t possess any weight heavy enough to truly test her, but she found that her pinky finger could lift several hundred pounds. If her toes had been longer, she’d have tested them, too.

  Then Nicholas had abandoned the treadmill, drenched in sweat and his chest heaving. Water bottle in hand, he prowled the length of the room, cooling down. After a few minutes, he’d straddled one of the weight benches.

  Ash hadn’t been able to interpret the look Nicholas had given her when he’d removed the pin and selected a lighter weight than she’d been using, but she thought he was—once again—struggling not to laugh.

  He wasn’t threatened by her strength as she knew some men would have been, and not chagrined . . . just amused. But why hide that amusement?

  Several times on the journey, she’d also noticed that he’d struggled against an attraction to her—but that made sense. She looked like his dead girlfriend, and he wouldn’t want to feel anything sexual for a demon. Why not laugh, though? Ash couldn’t understand that.

  She took his place on the treadmill and pondered it while she ran. After another hour of that—in her boots, without a drop of sweat forming, and even though she’d set the machine to the highest speed, she wasn’t winded—Ash still hadn’t figured it out. And although Nicholas headed directly into the shower after they’d finished, he closed the door again.

  At least now she knew how he’d developed every muscle that he hid from her.

  She learned even more when he emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed in a tailored white shirt and dark trousers, wet hair neatly combed, jaw shaved. So formal, as if he wouldn’t let his guard slip for a moment, not even at two o’clock in the morning. He’d ordered room service before the kitchens closed at midnight, and before heading to the gym—two broiled chicken breasts and a pile of steamed vegetables, now cold and limp—and read the Wall Street Journal while he ate. Standing by the window overlooking the lake, Ash watched his reflection as he paused over an article that mentioned his company. He reached for his phone, and she saw his frustration in the subtle firming of his mouth when he realized that making the call would possibly alert the Guardians.

  No, she didn’t need to see him naked. In a few short hours, his obsession had been laid bare to her. Everything he did was calculated to serve his purpose, down to each unappetizing bite of food he put in his mouth. She saw everything that mattered to him: making certain that he possessed enough money to pay for his revenge, and maintaining the physicality to carry it through.

  Revenge wasn’t just his obsession, she realized. It was his life.

  Now Ash was a part of that life, that revenge . . . and she was glad of it. Glad. She could feel that emotion as clearly as she felt the window glass against her fingertips.

  Something inside her had changed during the journey here. Everything she saw seemed so familiar now: the highway, the streets and buildings, even this nighttime view of the bridge—as if she’d visited this city many times. She could almost remember the summer wind from the lake hitting her face, the scent of barbecue and popcorn, the spray of fireworks against the sky.

  Tomorrow, they’d travel north to Rachel’s hometown. Ash could picture that road, too . . . but she couldn’t picture the faces of Rachel’s parents. She couldn’t hear their voices in her head. She couldn’t recall any of that—but maybe when she saw them, when she heard them, they’d be familiar.

  God. She wanted to haul Nicholas away from the table, drag him out to their vehicle, and drive north now. The anticipation that had been building with each mile had transformed into a quivering excitement and impatience—and though she expected those emotions to fade, they only deepened.

  None of her emotions faded as quickly anymore. Nor were they as shallow as they had been—as if every familiar sight and every association she made created a stronger foundation for those emotions, even though she still had no memories to base them on. She felt so much more now than she had even twenty-four hours ago. Excitement, amusement . . . arousal.

  She glanced at Nicholas again. When they’d arrived, she hadn’t only expected to see him naked; she’d have liked it, too. Perhaps appreciation for a beautiful form accounted for part of that enjoyment, but she also liked the feelings that the thought of his nudity stirred in her. She relished the warmth that spread through her body, the ache of her flesh—sweet and painful, all at once.

  Of course, she didn’t need him naked for that, either. She had full memory of his mouth closing over hers, the penetrating stroke of his tongue. She could see the precision of his hands wielding his knife and fork, and knew he’d be just as deliberate with a touch. But what would she like best? A rough caress or a gentle tease?

  Both, she thought. Just imagining the glide of his fingers seemed to tighten her skin, as if in anticipation—and he didn’t need to take his clothes off for her to feel this.

  Perhaps she didn’t even need to imagine Nicholas. Maybe it could be anybody.

  Now that thought made her curious. Was her sexual interest a physical reaction or an emotion? How could she tell the difference?

  Her gaze landed on the television remote. There was a fifteen-dollar answer. Watching a porn movie and cataloging her physical response might help her find out.

  Or she could skip that. Imagining a pimply-assed plumber rutting over a plastic actress wasn’t doing much for her now.

  Nicholas did something for her, though, and Ash didn’t think his looks alone accounted for it. She liked spending time with him. She liked his snarly responses when he forgot to maintain his icy composure—or when he couldn’t maintain it. She liked that she couldn’t anticipate his reactions. She even liked his obvious dislike for her, particularly when he couldn’t stop himself from laughing, anyway.

  She liked that he didn’t pretend anything. Oh, he lied, but that fascinated her, because it meant he thought the truth might give her an advantage. And he held back information, which was irritating—but even that provided an intriguing challenge when it forced her to figure out why he lied or held back info.

  But he was also different from the majority of the people she’d met, particularly those at Nightingale House. Rare was the adult human whose words and actions weren’t at odds with what they felt—adults who would stare at her tattoos and pretend not to notice them, who would carry on a conversation while completely preoccupied by some other matter, who would express some emotion when she knew they felt another. Nicholas didn’t do that. And although he hid his emotions from her, they weren’t difficult to guess: hatred and distrust, because she was a demon.

  He lied, yes. But at the same time, he offered her a different sort of honesty, one that she hadn’t known she’d appreciate until she finally met someone who was both open and hidden from her, at the same time. She couldn’t read him, but he didn’t pretend to feel anything other than hatred and distrust.

  Ash supposed she should have been hurt, or even offended. The soap opera ladies would have been. I’ve never lied to you; why won’t you trust me? But she suspected that liking would have to become caring before Nicholas could hurt her. Hopefully, her emotions wouldn’t develop that far—and if they did, she hoped that they also came with a survival instinct: not of the mortal kind, but an emotional one.

  No . . . Ash hoped that she had already developed that emotional survival instinct, because she had come to care about something: whether she’d see Rachel’s parents. It mattered. Sh
e could barely tolerate the idea that the only obstacle preventing her from meeting them was her inability to shape-shift.

  Determined, she focused on her reflection. How hard could it be? She didn’t even have to think about her eyes turning red; they just did. Why would shape-shifting be any different?

  She studied the shape of her face and imagined it changing. But into what? It was probably best if she resembled someone that everyone would trust, like the Brady Bunch mom. Concentrating on the tattoos, she pictured vermillion fading to a light tan. She pictured her chin narrowing, her cheekbones widening and flattening. She pictured hair of gold in a mod little pixie cut.

  . . . and nothing happened.

  Dammit. What kind of lousy demon was she? There had to be a trick to shape-shifting, but whatever that trick was, her procedural memory couldn’t recall it.

  Her attention returned to the tattoos on her face. Okay. So she couldn’t make her face resemble Florence Henderson’s, but she could find out what the symbols meant. Turning away from the window, she stripped off her jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair.

  When she slid down her sweatshirt’s zipper, Nicholas glanced up from his dinner and newspaper. He looked again when her T-shirt came off. For a moment, he didn’t react, then that cold amusement overtook his expression. His lips thinned and tilted upward just at the corners, his eyebrows lifting a fraction of an inch.

  He sat back in his chair, his gaze running the length of her naked torso and pausing on her breasts. “Dinner comes with a show?”

  She bent over to haul off her boots. “It’s so we can take pictures of these symbols and send them to the Guardians.”

  “That’s not happening tonight.”

  “Why?” Barefoot, she straightened and unbuttoned her jeans. “You had to use a credit card to reserve the hotel. How long do you think it’ll be before they find us?”

  “Not long. We’ll find another place that takes cash tomorrow morning, but stay checked-in here so they won’t know we’ve gone.”

  “So it won’t matter if we send the pictures.”

  “It will, because they might not have connected my name to the card I used. We might have a few days. An e-mail would bring them in right away.” His gaze lifted to her face as she lowered her zipper. “Whatever you’re doing right now, it won’t work. You can choose that body or any other. You look gorgeous, perfect—but I know you’re still a demon.”

  Perfect. Ash liked that, too. And was it evil to be glad he thought so, despite his obvious desire not to? If it was, she didn’t care. It felt good. Nicholas thought she looked gorgeous. Too bad he’d gotten the rest of it wrong.

  “I didn’t choose this body,” she pointed out. “I have no idea why I look like this.”

  “Right.”

  Oh, yes. Her plot. “So you’re attracted to me, just as you were to Rachel. And you think I deliberately chose this body to foster that attraction. I didn’t.”

  “Don’t compare yourself to Rachel. You look similar, but there’s a critical difference: She wanted me in return.”

  Not much of a difference, then. “I do, too.”

  “Jesus. You expect me to believe that?” He shook his head, then dismissed her by returning his attention to the paper.

  So he’d decided to take the irritating route again, conveniently forgetting the portion of their bargain that made it impossible for her to deceive him.

  “I can’t lie,” she said. “You made certain of that.”

  Oh, that little smile again. But this time, he didn’t bother to look at her. Now that was interesting. She knew he liked her body. Why not look at it, unless he felt her nudity threatened him in some way?

  “I made it part of our agreement,” he said. “That doesn’t mean you haven’t been lying. It only means that you’re fucked if you do lie. For all I know, you’ve been lying since the moment we struck that bargain.”

  “So basically, I’m either lying about everything, or I’m not. But you choose to believe that I’m lying. You chose to believe that I was breaking our bargain from the word go.”

  “Making any other choice would be stupid. You’re a demon.”

  Maybe he was right, and any other choice would be stupid; he did know more about demons than she did. But he also had to know that there was no middle ground here. Either she’d lied . . . or he’d made the wrong choice.

  And if he believed that she’d lied, why keep her around? If she’d broken her bargain, Nicholas had no use for her. He lived for revenge. He discarded anything that got in the way of his goal, and a lying demon wouldn’t be any different.

  So despite his response, he must be allowing for the possibility that he might be wrong. That he didn’t know everything. He might not admit it to her, but he must acknowledge the possibility to himself. Otherwise, he’d have already dumped her off on the side of the road.

  She liked that about him, too.

  Nicholas looked up. He’d been waiting for her to answer, she realized. Maybe waiting for her to argue. But when his gaze dropped to her bare chest and he took a long, slow breath, Ash decided she’d rather do something else.

  “I want to have sex.”

  He met her eyes again. Aside from that small movement, Nicholas didn’t react.

  His body did. A slight darkening of his skin followed the increase of his heartbeat. A flush, a quickening. Born of anger or arousal? Maybe caused by both—and both pleased her. She liked provoking that reaction, whatever it was.

  And even if it was physical arousal, it wasn’t desire. He didn’t want her. His cold blue stare communicated that perfectly across a room full of silence: Don’t fuck with me.

  Too bad, because she fully intended to. She didn’t expect him to fulfill her request for sex, but she wanted—needed—to push him about this. To make him acknowledge that she felt something.

  Holding his gaze, Ash arched her brows. She could do cool and amused, too—and she could stare longer than he could. Whatever he thought that icy look would accomplish, she wasn’t capable of feeling intimidated or discomfited. She wouldn’t back down, and he’d have to eventually respond.

  What would he say? Would he tell her to go screw a stranger on the street? She would have, if the thought appealed to her even a fraction as much as the prospect of sex with him did, and even though she knew Nicholas wouldn’t climb into bed with her. Telling him what she wanted and forcing him to respond satisfied a deep-seated need that she hadn’t known existed until a few moments ago. And yes, it was a little evil, a little mean.

  Maybe she was getting the hang of this demon gig, after all.

  Finally, he set his knife and fork onto this plate, so carefully that she didn’t detect a clink. Oooooh, such restraint. She could hear his blood raging through his veins, yet he was so determined not to betray anything he felt. Simply fascinating.

  Honestly, what did he think she’d do if he did reveal his emotions?

  Perhaps she was about to find out. Nicholas rose from the table, all coiled tension and deliberation. His eyes didn’t leave hers as he crossed the room. Despite the icy threat emanating from him, Ash held her ground. The last time he’d come so close, he’d kissed her. He’d also electrocuted her, but he didn’t carry a weapon now.

  Unless that weapon was his hand—not to hit, but to hold. Her pulse leapt when he cupped her jaw, when she felt the faint rasp of calluses against her skin, the sweep of his thumbs across her cheeks. Too late, Ash remembered: She couldn’t pull away until he let go.

  She didn’t him want to, not yet. Heart pounding, she held his gaze. His eyes so cold and his expression so flat, though his blood raced, too.

  The same restraint and tension flattened his voice. “You say that you didn’t choose this body on purpose, and yet you offer it to me.”

  “I’m not ‘offering’ my body to you. It won’t be yours. I just want your penis in me, and to discover whether I’d enjoy it.”

  Almost imperceptibly, his fingers tightened. “You wouldn�
��t enjoy it.”

  “You’re so terrible in bed?” Ash doubted that. “Don’t worry, I’ll make the best of it.”

  The brief clenching of his jaw betrayed his frustration. Because she’d continued pushing, or because a part of him wanted to make the best of it, too? Either way, his reaction pleased her.

  Despite his frustration, his voice remained smooth as silk. “You think I don’t know, demon? You can’t want sex, let alone enjoy it.”

  “What do you mean, I can’t?” A spark of fear burned through her. “It’s against the Rules?”

  “You can’t. It’s impossible, physically.” His head lowered, mouth hovering over hers. “I could kiss you, and you’d feel my lips and tongue. You won’t feel the need that comes with it, when you don’t know if it’s your mind wanting or your body taking over.”

  Mind or body? Ash didn’t know. She tore her gaze from his and studied his mouth. She only had to lift onto her toes, and she’d taste him. She wanted to.

  She couldn’t. Not without permission. Her hands had to remain fisted at her sides instead of drawing him down to her lips.

  But no matter what Nicholas thought he knew, she felt this need. God, how she felt it.

  “Look at you, Ash. Your eyes beginning to glow, your nipples hard. Pretend all you like, but I know that’s not from wanting me. I could suck on them all day, and you wouldn’t get hot. Not really hot.” His voice roughened. “Maybe you could even make yourself wet. I don’t know.”

  As far as Ash knew, she couldn’t make herself wet. But she was now. Her muscles seemed to turn to water, all of her warm and liquid. She wanted to sway against him, feel the hardness of his chest against her breasts—and if his body had reacted like hers, to rub herself against the thrust of his erection. Nicholas obviously didn’t believe that he could do this to her, but she could feel the slick need, the delicious ache.

  Ash met his eyes again. “I am.”

  For a moment, desire flared through the cool amusement, before hardening to ice again. “So I could have you. You’d surround my cock with heat, like nothing I’ve ever had . . . and it’d be like fucking a blow-up doll. Every reaction, faked.”