by Juliet Lyons
He quirks a brow, a devious spark in his eye. “Please, with this body, there’s no need. You saw the effect I had on Collette.”
I smack his shoulder. “Too soon for jokes, and by the way, her shoes are tacky.”
“I don’t recall paying too much attention to her footwear the night we—” He stops when he feels my death glare boring through him like a laser and smirks. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—you’re incredibly beautiful when you’re angry.”
I roll my eyes. “Ugh.”
He places a flat palm on my thigh, the heat of his hand burning through the blanket. “Angry and flushed from sex is my favorite look on you.”
Even though I want to curl into him, ditch the blanket by the side of the bed, and let him wrap his naked body around mine, I shove him away. “I need to take a shower. Alone.”
“What about your back? Someone needs to scrub your back, Silver. There’s still blood on it.”
I clamber off the bed. “I have a loofah with a long handle, so thanks, but no thanks.”
His voice drops dangerously low. “I have a long handle too.”
We both chuckle, dispelling some of the tension between us. For a moment, it feels like the way it was a couple of weeks ago—lighthearted banter and innuendo. I drag open a drawer and take out a clean bra and knickers. “Yes, I know all about your long handle, Logan Byrne, and I must concur, it does hit those hard-to-reach places.”
His grin widens, cutting into his dimples, and my heart sinks. Why can’t anything in life be simple?
“I’ll make you something to eat, then,” he says, standing up. “I could probably hear your stomach rumble from a mile away. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“You want me to leave?” He gives me a look like a puppy who’s about to get chased off the porch.
“Do what you like,” I say, chin in the air. “You always do anyway.” I shuffle in the blanket toward the bathroom door, and even though I don’t see it, I know he’s smiling.
Chapter 19
Silver
In the bathroom, I brush my teeth and stare into the round porthole mirror above the sink. My reflection sums up the events of this evening perfectly—knotty hair standing on end, makeup smeared around my eyes, and despite Logan’s healing, a splotchy neck from where Gerhard pinned me to the wall. My bright pupils tell the other side of the story, however. They sparkle with satisfaction, and I glower, trying to get the angry feelings back, thinking of this whole glamouring malarkey and how he deceived me. Try as I might, I can’t seem to isolate the bad from the good—Logan striking down Gerhard, the sex, saying he’s in love with me, the sex…
“You’re a total pushover,” I mutter under my breath.
I turn away and take a towel from the heated rail, violently twisting the lock on the door so that Logan hears it click. I yank open the sliding glass shower door to turn on the water, but before I climb in, I twist the lock back round again. What is wrong with me?
The pummel of hot water on my skin feels heavenly. I stand under the jets for ages, watching the water go from pink to clear, the horror of my bad date disappearing down the drain. Tomorrow, first thing, I will call Burke and Davies and tell them my foray into vampire dating is finished. I don’t see how they can find out anything new about Mum now the man who most likely held all the answers is dead. I’m still not sure whether to inform them their whole operation has been infiltrated. That depends on what I do about my other problem—the sexy vampire in my kitchen.
Squeezing shower gel onto my palm, Logan’s bombshell goes off in my head.
I think I love you.
My stomach clenches. In the past, if a man said those words, I changed phone numbers. Once I even faked an immigration to Australia. Logan saying it scares me for a whole different reason. That reason being that I’m pretty certain I could end up saying it back. Even more terrifying—I’d mean it.
When I’m done scrubbing my face and body, I lather my hair, all the while expecting the steamed-up glass to slide across and for a naked Logan to climb in. I’m disappointed when I finish rinsing my hair and turn the water back off, no vampire in sight.
I pat my hair dry with a towel and put the clean underwear on, wandering back into the now-empty bedroom. From the kitchen comes the sound of crashing pots and pans. A whiff of cooking hits my nostrils, making my stomach growl like a ravenous beast. I wrench open my wardrobe doors and pull out a pale-yellow T-shirt dress, quickly tugging it over my wet hair.
In the kitchenette, Logan is the picture of domesticity. He is back in black jeans, naked from the waist up, and holding a large mixing bowl in the crook of his arm. His dark hair is a mess, some bits sticking up, others falling in his eyes. The tiny gold disc around his neck catches the light, his green eyes glittering like sunlight on a river. He has never looked sexier.
“What are we having?” I ask, folding my arms.
I catch the once-over he gives me, gaze lingering on the hem of my dress. The whisk he’s holding stills in the batter as our eyes lock.
“Pancakes. You look beautiful,” he murmurs.
I pluck a wet strand of hair away from my face. “You’ve seen me look like this before,” I say, blushing.
He begins stirring again, his muscles tensing as he works the whisk. Sweet Jesus, how can one man make mixing batter look like sex on the beach?
“I was actually just thinking about that day we spent naked. Remember?”
My blush deepens. “Are you kidding? It’s burned onto my brain.”
He grins like a naughty schoolboy. “Mine too.”
I push myself up onto a high stool. “Too bad that will never happen again.”
“I’m not sure your version of never is the same as most people’s, Silver,” he says, smirking. “Didn’t you say earlier, Oh, Logan, you’ll never touch me again; then, minutes later, we’re going at it against your bedroom wall.” He stops whisking to gesture at his body. “I think it’s fair to say you’re powerless against the lure of this.”
I grab an oven mitt from the kitchen counter and fling it at his head. “In your dreams.”
“Oh, I do dream. A lot.” He starts whisking again, making silly sex faces at me as he pounds the batter, and I can’t help but dissolve into laughter.
He steps closer and stops mixing, cupping the side of my neck. “The marks are fading.”
“Yeah,” I say, barely breathing as his thumb brushes my skin. “Thanks to your magical healing powers.”
Smiling, he begins whisking again, but he stays standing close, his groin pressed against my knees. I reach up and place a flat palm on his chest, my heart starting to pulse faster, as if it’s beating for both of us. I trail a hand up to his throat, taking the gold chain between my fingers and examining the tiny medallion. “Did you ever find out what happened to your family?”
Logan shakes his head. “It was harder to find people in those days—no Facebook. Also, chances are my grandmother put a protection spell over them. She was a skilled witch.” He pauses. “I do wonder though. Especially about my sister, Mary Beth.”
“You had a sister? I thought it was only brothers?”
“Four brothers, one younger sister.”
“What was she like?”
He frowns. “She was like an angel, though at the time people said she was simple. I got into a lot of fistfights over that.”
I smile, toying with the gold. “I bet you were a good older brother.”
“Mary Beth needed protecting. She had the gift of sight.”
“Sight?”
“She could see into the future. We all got something from our mother. Mary Beth read palms and had visions.”
My eyes widen. “Did she ever see what would happen to you?”
He chuckles. “She did say once I would live a long life, though I don’t th
ink she quite meant it this way.”
I let the circle drop back into the hollow of his throat. “I wonder why they never tried to contact you.”
“The way they saw it, I was no longer me. ‘Touched by demons’ is what my grandmother said.”
A glimmer of sadness flickers across his face and I reach up, touching his hair lightly, ghosting a caress along his jaw. He half closes his eyes. “Do you forgive me, Silver? For not being honest?”
“I think so,” I murmur. “Though you’ll never be completely off the hook.”
“I can live with that,” he says, a smile forming at the corner of his mouth. “I like having you mad at me. It turns me on.”
“I’ve noticed. Lucky for you, I’m the type of girl who’s always angry about something.”
He laughs, twirling the whisk. “Just one of the reasons I’m utterly mad for you.”
My tummy flutters and I break his gaze, worrying at my bottom lip. He puts the bowl down on the counter and reaches for me, his hands cupping my face as he leans down to kiss me.
The kiss is tender, questioning, his lips gentle and soft against mine. This time there is no urgency, no rampant need. I keep my eyes half-open and so does he. It feels a lot like that first time we kissed on the street, as if the world has stopped turning.
Then he says it, breathily, in between kisses. “I’m in love with you.”
I flinch, afraid, though not of being hurt or rejected. I’m scared because suddenly, there seems to be so much to lose. I don’t breathe for a few seconds. “I’m in love with you too.”
We stare at each other, locked into the moment, love and fear swirling around us like fog.
“I feel happy and sad all at once,” he whispers.
“I know,” I whisper back. “It’s terrifying.”
My stomach growls loudly, breaking the spell. We chuckle.
“I must feed you, love of mine,” he says, stepping toward the stove.
“Let’s get one thing straight, shall we, Logan? No pet names. No ‘babe,’ ‘hon,’ ‘sweetheart,’ and especially no ‘love of mine.’ Okay?”
He unscrews a bottle of oil, pouring some into a frying pan. “How about ‘darling’?”
I shake my head vigorously. “Not if you want to keep your balls on the outside of your body.”
“‘Baby’?” he asks, grinning.
“Silver. Just Silver. Say it with me, Logan: Sil-ver.”
“How about Silvie? I like Silvie. It’s cute.”
“No way. Silvie is an old lady name. Silvie pulls one of those bags on wheels along the street and can’t get her panty hose to stay up.”
Logan whips a sly glance over his shoulder. “From what I’ve seen, you’re not great at keeping your panty hose up either.”
I gasp as his broad shoulders shake with mirth. “Cheeky bastard. They’d stay up just fine if it wasn’t for you peeling them off and tying me up with them.”
He pours a perfectly round circle of batter into the pan. “Don’t pretend you don’t love every second.”
I lapse into silence, my cheeks burning. He has a point, of course—I do love every second. I watch him twist the pan, filling in the edges of the pancake with creamy liquid, enjoying the delicate play of muscles beneath the smooth skin on his back. My boyfriend. In spite of the heat in my face, I shiver. It’s true what he said—happiness and sadness go hand in hand. Because really? Where can this go?
“Do you want anything on them?” he asks, flipping the pancake.
I jump off the stool and cross to the cupboard next to him, reaching up to grab a bottle of chocolate syrup, and he drapes an arm around my waist, squeezing me through the thin material of my dress.
“Don’t,” I say quickly.
“Don’t what?”
“Make a joke about the sauce. I’d like to eat my food without your smutty comments.”
“Silver, would I do that? What you do with chocolate sauce is your own business.” He raises his brows. “Good to know where it’s kept though. You know, for future pancake making.”
I shove his arm, letting my fingers linger on the taut skin as he flips the pancake again. “Pervert.”
He bends down to plant a kiss on my cheek before shimmying the thick pancake onto a plate. “You can eat that while I start the next one. Try not to get sauce all over your face.”
“See?” I say, carrying the plate to the counter. “Here we go with the smut.”
He grins, shaking his head. “That’s not smut. It’s your horny mind twisting my words.”
Squeezing out the syrup, I notice him watching me over his shoulder, a smirk on his lips. “I like my food moist too,” he mutters.
“I knew you couldn’t resist.” I set the bottle down on the counter and pick up my fork, carving into the fluffy pancake and shoving a piece into my mouth. My stomach groans in gratitude. These past few days, what with all the drama, I haven’t really been eating. By the time Logan turns around, my plate is clear. He pushes another from the frying pan onto the plate, smiling as I wait to pounce, fork poised.
“Promise me,” I say between mouthfuls, “when the sexual attraction fades and we hate each other’s guts, you’ll send food parcels to me.”
He chuckles, setting down a large glass of orange juice next to me. “Is that what you think this is? Overwrought sexual tension messing with our brains?”
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
“I think,” he says, twisting the pan, “that I’ve lived for over 190 years and never felt the way I do now.”
The lump of pancake in my mouth slides down my throat half-chewed. I swallow loudly, lost for words.
“I should let you finish your food before I start openly exploring my feelings.” His smile is coy, dimples softening his rugged features.
For a second, I catch a glimpse of him as a child, full of wonder, a boy who wanted to travel, change his life for the better. There is so much of him I will never know, not just the past but in the future. All the years that haven’t been lived yet—years I won’t be around to see. It’s the first time I’ve considered the stark difference in our life spans—eternity versus old age. A pang of deep-rooted regret grips me in a cold fist. I finish the pancake in silence, avoiding his dark, round-eyed gaze.
He flips the last one on my plate and puts the pan in the sink, leaning back against the countertop, arms folded. “I’ve freaked you out, haven’t I?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s just…”
“Just?”
“What happens when I start to age? When I start to go gray and hit menopause and you’re still looking as hot as Ryan Gosling?”
He cocks a grin. “I like to think your bone structure will see you well into your sixties.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m serious.”
“So am I. Listen, I don’t know what will happen. All I know is this thing between us, whatever it is, doesn’t happen every day. Now we’ve found it, we have to seize it—even if it only lasts for ten years, even if it only lasts for ten minutes. Otherwise, what’s the point of living?”
“Is that one of Oprah’s speeches?”
“No, it’s a Logan Byrne original. Have you finished with that?” He gestures to my now-empty plate.
“What will we do?” I say, handing it to him. “About what happened tonight and your boss and the crazy lady who turned you?”
Sighing, he says, “I’m going to suggest something now and you’re going to ridicule it. You’re going to think I’ve gone all Romeo and Juliet, star-crossed lovers on you.”
“Kill ourselves?”
He clunks the plate onto the counter. “Run away together.”
My brow knots. “Define ‘run away.’”
Cutting the short distance between us, he holds me gently by the shoulders, the contact searing through the th
in material of my dress like fire. “We could go somewhere abroad. Somewhere with no ancients or vampires, and just live our lives. Together.”
I lay my palms on the corded muscles in his broad shoulders, his skin soft, like velvet over iron. “Do you really think they’ll be onto you after tonight? Will your boss care? You could say you rescued Jenna Gold—you wouldn’t be lying.”
His green eyes flicker with worry, his jaw set. “He might not care about Gerhard Johnson, but Anastasia will. If either of them connects the dots… Would you give up your life here if we had a chance somewhere else?”
For a few seconds I don’t say anything. I look into his face, dimples in repose, just two faint lines in the hollows of his cheeks. A muscle in the corner of his chiseled jaw twitches, and I brush a thumb over it absentmindedly. I’ve so rarely trusted anyone in my life that the words falling from my lips almost sound as though they’re coming from another person. “Yes. I think I would.”
His whole face lights up, eyes crinkling at the edges, the green of his irises softening to the color of a faded summer lawn. “There will be a lot of hand-holding involved.”
I squeeze his shoulders. “Just hand-holding?”
“Biting too.”
“Now we’re talking.”
“How long would you need? To get things sorted here?”
“Well, let’s see. I hate my job most of the time, I live in a different city from my dad, and my best female friend is a ninety-year-old alcoholic. That leaves Ollie… A day?”
He laughs, ducking his head to fasten his lips to mine, drawing my tongue slowly into his mouth, hands curling into my damp hair. I slide off the stool, winding my arms around his neck and molding myself to his body.
A hand breaks free from my wet, tangled hair and drifts down my back, pausing to stroke the bare skin around my neckline, fingers leaving a trail of tingly warmth in their wake. He cups my bottom, squeezing me through my dress, holding me to the stiffening length in his jeans.
“I want to show you something,” he murmurs, his lips leaving my mouth, traveling in aching slowness along my jawline.