“I doubt Merriam-Webster would concur.”
“Unless you’re playing Pictionary, do you really think it matters?” She took a small step back and incrementally widened her stance. “Any special reason you’re being an ass?”
“Might have something to do with the fact you’re evading, answering every question with a question.”
“Do you really think I’m... Whatever.” Stare shuttered and lips thinned, her chin lifted and she met his hard stare with her own. “I’ll answer you if you answer me. Who are you, Dominic?”
“That’s easy.” He let his hands fall to his sides and widened his own stance. “I’m the wrong person to fuck with.”
* * *
Dark spots dotted Rhyan’s vision. She had to slow down, think, breathe. Tonight was so not going the way she’d planned. Seduce the fallen angel? Check. And that’s where her accomplishments ended. Allow the fallen angel to seduce you, soften toward the fallen angel, lie ineffectually, let him needle you and more all rested solidly in the “Failed” column. The way he looked at her now, with both wary assessment and open distrust, actually hurt. Letting him see that hurt would only afford him an exploitable weakness. Exposing that weakness would add to her mounting list of failures, and that wasn’t an option. Instead, she shifted her focus back to him, considering.
Tousled hair hung around features that had been well defined but now appeared unforgivingly chiseled. Chest heaved and muscles bunched. He positioned himself close to the butcher block. Not good.
“Might as well answer your first unasked question.” He grabbed a large Santoku knife.
“You know, if you threaten all your lovers this way, it’s no wonder you’re still single.” The quip aimed, again, for light. It failed on an epic scale, coming out hoarse and strained.
He blinked once, slow and deliberate. “I never said I was single.”
“Seems to me you’d have to be if you’re taking a different woman every night.” The way her voice shook irritated her, though not so much as the mental images she’d conjured every time he took someone new in the club. She had wanted to kill the women. Knowing he’d found pleasure in another’s arms spoke to a violent side she hadn’t known she possessed. Shrugging off the memories, she said, “Simple logic.”
Lips still flushed from shared passion went flat and hard. “You’ve been watching me.”
Rhyan fought a wince. Busted. There were only a couple of options at this point. She could try to continue lying or she could tell the truth. Considering he had the only weapon and was trained to kill with far less, she should try to lie her way out of the mess. She could go back to the Realm and admit her failure, take the Caste’s punishment and move on. The problem? Lying to Dominic wasn’t an option she could live with. Deep breath, and then she began. “I need to know how you’ve retained angelic strengths after falling. You don’t get sick. You heal abnormally fast. You haven’t aged. You can manifest weapons from the Realm’s weaponry. Why? How?”
Dominic’s movements stopped, leaving him as still as old death. He didn’t even breathe. “I should have known.”
The refrigerator compressor kicked on, startling her. Heart pounding, she watched as Dominic spun the knife between his fingers and stared at her with undisguised contempt. She’d thought nothing could hurt worse than his distrust. Wrong again.
“It only makes sense the Caste would send a seductress after I killed their last—” air quotes “—’ambassador.’”
Definitely not going the way she’d hoped it would go. “I knew Cassiel. He sought only understanding, presented no real threat.”
He snorted derisively before she’d finished speaking. “No threat? That’s precious. He wanted answers and, when I declined to provide them, he came at me with a sword forged from demon bone.”
The short gasp was as much about denial as outrage. “He wouldn’t have! If he’d struck you down, your soul would have been damned.”
“Exactly why wouldn’t he have come after me? Because he was such an upstanding member of the Realm? I was from the Realm, Rhyan. I was the one they used to send on their self-righteous missions. Peace was never their impetus, and understanding had nothing to do with it. Gabriel’s a power-hungry masochist.” Dominic tossed the knife on the counter. “How do you want to do this?”
“Do what, exactly?” The urge to cover herself made a burning blush stain her shoulders and climb her neck.
The bastard grinned. “That’s precious.”
“What?”
“You. Pretending you’re all embarrassed after you had my dick in your mouth. After you sold yourself to the Caste to be used to gather information by fair means or foul.”
Her cheeks burned hotter. “I didn’t sell myself.”
“What are the kids calling it these days, then? Bartering? Negotiating? Oh, wait. How about this? Femme fatale-ing it up. That sounds about right. Because no matter what you think? You sold out, baby. I just hope the fuck was worth it.” Heavily muscled arms crossed over his chest.
Nausea rolled through her belly. “Stop calling me ‘baby.’”
“Excuse me?”
“You call every woman the same thing, like you can’t remember their names. I’m not your baby.”
Bright blue eyes emitted a glacial coldness that flash-froze her as he stared. “Trust me when I tell you I’ll never make that mistake again.” Without warning, he shoved off the stove and stalked past her, kicking his clothes out of the way. “Now get out.”
“Get...? No.” Anger moved beneath the fragile surface of her control, an invisible emotional rip current that threatened to pull her down.
He slowed, stopping shy of a wide doorway. Every movement was deliberate as he faced her. “No?”
“You should be familiar enough with the word.” She casually turned toward him, her eyes guarded.
“Don’t piss me off, Rhyan. You won’t like me when I’m angry.”
“Temper, temper,” she taunted.
Hard knots of muscle rose at the back of his jaw. Shoulders that had been broad to start with swelled with rage. He spun on his heel and headed into the house, all muscular grace and bare-assed glory.
“You obstinate jackass!”
He tsked her, calling back, “Temper, temper, ba—Oops. Almost slipped.”
There was no viable reason for her reaction other than, well, screw him. He didn’t get to render judgment against her. She sprinted after him, heels be damned. Through the doorway lay an expansive dining room. Beyond that, the living room.
Dominic stood more than halfway through the second room, hands on his hips, head bowed. At the sound of her footfalls, he whipped around to face her. “Should’ve lost the shoes if you thought to sneak up on me.”
She never slowed, instead plowing her shoulder into his sternum hard enough to drive the air from his lungs in a loud whoosh. “I can best you in heels or barefoot.”
He bucked hard, sending her crashing into an occasional table. “Like hell.”
They rose and circled each other. Their gazes locked. Fury rode the air between them, a heated emotional mirage. A violet bruise bloomed on his chest where she’d hit him.
She blindly shoved at furniture as she passed. No need to give him the upper hand in knowing the room’s layout.
“Stop moving my things,” he snarled.
“Then stop behaving like a prepubescent teenage girl.”
“What did you just call me?” he demanded in a low, dangerous tone.
“A hormonal, drama-loving, attention-craving, chick with a shoe fetish.” She arched a brow. “Need me to repeat it?”
His roar split the air as he charged her.
She feinted one way before darting the other.
He slipped on the Oriental rug. One arm slung out for balance as the other reached for her.
Rhyan danced out of reach, rounded and delivered a solid kick to his side.
Dominic clamped his arm down on her ankle and tipped her off balance. “First rul
e of combat? Never assume your opponent has a weak—oof!”
His head whipped to the side as her other foot connected with his jaw. As she fell, she yanked on and retrieved the ankle he’d trapped. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth. He shook his head out. Crimson drops flecked the nearest wall and hung as if waiting for gravity to do its thing.
Dom managed to retain one of her shoes, so she kicked free of the other before leaping to her feet. “Second lesson? Shut up and fight.”
The tip of his tongue touched his split lip. “Last chance to leave before I get serious about showing you out.” He glanced over, considering her through narrowed eyes. “Because third rule?”
I made him bleed, hurt him. She wondered if he noticed the way she stopped breathing or the way her fingers curled into her palms or saw her throat work to swallow past the lump lodged there. “Third rule?” There was no denying he heard the way her voice shook.
“I might not have my wings anymore, but I remember them, remember what life was like. And baby?” The term smeared the air. “Battle angels weren’t created to lose.” He reached over and palmed a geode off one of the built-in bookshelves and grabbed a large pillow off the relocated sofa.
“I don’t want to fight with you,” she choked out.
“What. You expected me to roll over and let you kill me because, why?” Tossing and catching the geode without looking, he said, “That wasn’t a rhetorical question.”
“I wasn’t sent here to kill you.”
“Assassins are typically armed with a better bag of excuses to draw from. Your handler’s falling down on the job.” He hurled the geode at her. The pillow followed on a similar trajectory.
Already pre-occupied with dodging the hard projectile, instinct had her reaching out to catch the pillow.
That’s when he rushed her.
Dom dove and hit her hard enough they were both temporarily airborne. Every cubic millimeter of air left her body as his arms wrapped her in an unmerciful embrace. He made no effort to break their fall. Her head slammed into the hardwood floor with a dense whump. Bounced. Vision fractured. Ribs might have, too. Chest to chest, his deep breaths met her shallow panting.
“You shouldn’t have come after me, Rhyan.”
Darkness, blessed darkness, robbed her sight.
“Rhyan?”
He might have shaken her. She wasn’t sure.
Her last thought before she blacked out was that she was so damned grateful she didn’t have to look into those disappointed eyes any longer.
Chapter Seven
Dominic’s stomach lurched as Rhyan’s head lolled to the side. Had he hurt her? He’d meant to subdue her, definitely. But hurt her? No. She infuriated him. Pushed at him. Challenged him. Made him certifiably insane. All after driving him to the brink of a pleasure he’d never known.
He got in her face. “Get up, Rhyan. I never raised a hand to you, so cut the bullshit.”
She didn’t move.
He blew a hard breath in her face.
She didn’t flinch.
His breath came back at him carrying hints of lemon and sunshine. Her scents.
“Son of a bitch.” Gingerly pushing to his hands and knees, he scuttled away from her. Watched as she breathed a little easier without his weight. Color refused to repaint that pallid skin.
Weapons were hidden around the room, precautions taken from lessons learned. The first time the Caste sent one of his former soldiers to kill him, Dominic had tried to reason with the guy. Unfortunately, the male had been intent on carrying out his orders. The fight left both of them bleeding and the angel missing his head, but only after Dominic wrested the soldier’s sword away. He’d learned to leave weapons scattered anywhere he spent time. Tonight’s flavor was a short sword because it was closest.
Every minute of every hour of every day, Death waited. Still, he was here.
Now he had to consider Rhyan. Did the Caste think to have him seduced and thus more vulnerable? No doubt she was skilled at both the No Pants Pelvic Dance as well as fighting. They wouldn’t have sent her otherwise. And she’d been smart, seducing him to lower his guard before engaging him. She’d also managed to draw first—and only—blood. But he had news for that celestial governing body. He refused to put himself at the mercy of another angel ever again, no matter how much he wanted her. Period.
Man, he wanted her, though.
Grabbing the pillow he’d initially thrown, he tossed it at her face.
Not even a finger twitched when it hit.
He retrieved the geode and pitched it at the softest part of her belly.
Nothing.
The longer he stood there, the more he believed he’d actually knocked her out. Only an idiot would wait around to find out what she’d do when she came to and found him standing over her sporting a raging battle hard-on, though. He was a lot of things, many of them undesirable, but he wasn’t an idiot.
Besides, he wanted answers. He’d get them here, on his turf, no matter what it took. Nothing and no one would run him out of his own house.
Shoving away memories of the way she’d responded to him, he retrieved a short sword and raced to the garage. Chains. He needed chains. Maybe tow straps. Padlocks, too. The off-roading bag he kept in his Jeep had it all and then some.
Silence greeted him as he reentered the house. Rhyan lay exactly where he’d left her. Soft spots of color infused her cheeks. The rise and fall of her chest came easier, more steadily. Dark, rosy lips were parted. Her lashes formed thick fans and swept down far enough that they brushed skin. Her nipples pearled in the artificially cool air.
Dominic moved forward with caution. No way would he announce he’d armed himself. She’d find out soon enough if she took the offensive. A dark, bloody vision of him taking her head with one hard stroke made him stop. Would he do it? Could he do it? The idea of killing Rhyan made him want to puke. But yeah, he’d do what he had to in order to survive. That didn’t mean he relished the thought.
Lemon and sunshine tickled his nose again. Why couldn’t she smell like canned dog food and dirty socks? A wry grin tugged at his lips. Women like her didn’t stink, though they usually covered up their natural scents with heavy doses of expensive perfumes. She was like pound cake and blue skies.
What the hell? His brows drew down. Considering her laundry-fresh, fresh baked smell was bad enough, but to do it while holding a sword in one hand and enough hardware to put a T-Rex in heavy bondage in the other? That didn’t spell “mentally balanced” in any language he knew.
He pressed the point of the sword against her throat. “Get up very slowly.”
She still didn’t move.
“Damn it, Rhyan. Get up. I can’t kick you out if you’re not willing to fight about it.” Yeah, that was definitely part of the attraction—that she had the balls to fight with him. No one but Griff and Seth had ever been brave enough to go head-to-head with him. Even with them he held back. Fear of once again becoming the cold-blooded killer the Caste had created him to be lived a rich and fruitful existence in his mind. He fed it with daily worry. Nurtured it with constant attention. Let it out to play every night when he went to work. Hid it behind humor’s facade. Walked with it in dreams.
A hard shiver raced over his skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake. Choices had to be made. Keep her here or send her...where? He couldn’t send her to her place because he had no idea where it was. He couldn’t set her outside and wait for the Caste to come get her because he had no interest in exchanging addresses with those asshats. He couldn’t...
“Shit.” The heartfelt curse cracked through the stillness. The only choice was really no choice. Scooping her up, he shifted her closer to his chest and stood. Couch? Guest room? Bedroom? “No choice at all,” he muttered, taking the stairs two at a time.
The master bedroom, his bedroom, lay at the end of the hall. Each guest room he passed whispered to him, encouraged him to stop, leave her. She was immortal. She’d heal. He kept walking, his grip
on her chilled skin tightening in defiance.
He stalked into the huge room and kicked the double doors closed. Living alone meant there was no one around who would bother him, but he craved the kind of privacy that closed doors afforded. Cocooned in this space, he finally slowed. His steps were less steady.
Awareness stabbed his conscience. He’d brought Rhyan here, used her and then accused her of nothing less than being a whore. Not his finest moment. But damn it, she’d essentially used him, too. The knowledge stung. He’d wanted her to want him. Just want him. No ulterior motives. No hidden agendas.
Dropping the off-roading bag beside the bed, he dragged a hand down his face. The past may have warped his reactions, but damn it all, the paranoia was justified. The Caste had started this conflict when he killed the first assassin they sent. No retribution had been forthcoming, unless he began counting the assassins that showed up an irregular intervals to first question and then kill him. And now? He’d hurt a woman for the first time in his existence. Bile burned the back of his throat. Shame settled around him like a leaden cloak.
Folding back the heavy comforter, he settled Rhyan on dark blue silk sheets. Her pale skin turned ghostly against the deep color. He pulled out length after length of chain, wrapping it around her wrists and ankles. He pulled the lengths tight. Padlocks secured the ends to the bedframe. Next he wrapped the heavy-duty tow straps across her body and around the bed. Cinching them down only took a moment.
A sheen of sweat slicked his bare skin. What he wouldn’t give for even a quick shower. Leaving her alone wasn’t an option, though. He’d stay at her side until he had the answers he needed.
Dominic grabbed a pair of nylon basketball pants, shoving his legs in them with enough force the seam on one leg split. “Shit.” The snarled vehemence was accompanied by his heavy breathing. Otherwise, the room was silent.
He dropped into a club chair facing the fireplace. Elbows on his knees and hands hanging loose, he stared into the empty firebox. So long he’d craved a woman like Rhyan, an adventurous risk-taker with a dark side. Someone who wasn’t afraid to call him on his shit. Just his luck she’d show up now, a representative of the very angelic body that had effectively handed him his pink slip and eviction notice. The Caste had hounded him for millennia to disclose the truth behind his abilities—abilities he worked very hard to suppress. He only tapped into that reserve to defend himself. It was a matter of keeping a promise, and loyalty meant more to him than anything.
Pure Desire Page 5