“Chill,” she rasped, her dark eyes flashing with irritation. “And watch what you call me.”
Such stubborn courage.
Such exquisite beauty.
With a growl, he abruptly dropped her back to her feet, taking a step away from her sweet temptation. “What I call you should be the least of your concern.”
She stumbled before regaining her balance, tossing back her brilliant autumn hair as she glared at him in frustration. “What do you want from me? My promise? No freaking problem.” She drew an X on her sweatshirt, directly over her heart. He clenched his hands as the gesture emphasized the soft curve of her breasts. “I cross my heart and hope to die that the spell is gone.” Her hand dropped. “If it was still active don’t you think I would be making you lead me away from here, not freezing my ass off in this nasty . . .” She glanced around the warehouse where he’d brought her before the sun rose hours ago. “Where are we anyway?”
He stiffened, grimly allowing the humiliating memories of fleeing through the tunnels to escape with this female to rise to his mind.
At the time he would have done anything to keep her safe.
Anything.
And then he’d climbed out of the tunnel and the driving compulsion had been gone. Just as if a spell had suddenly been broken.
He shook his head. No. This had to be a trick.
What could be more clever than to release him from the greater compulsion so he would presume the spell was gone, while all along keeping him tied to her by far more subtle means?
A Manchurian candidate ready to be triggered when she felt the urge.
“That’s impossible.”
She shivered as his power wrapped around her in icy warning. “It’s the truth,” she protested.
“No.”
“Dammit, why are you so convinced I’m lying?”
“Because I can still feel you.”
“I . . .” Her words trailed away, her already pale face becoming downright ashen.
The sight wasn’t reassuring. “No smart-ass denial?”
“The spell is gone.” She hunched her shoulders, rubbing at her arm. “It has to be a—”
“A what?”
“Just a lingering side effect,” she said. “Yeah. A lingering side effect. That has to be it.”
She didn’t believe her excuse.
He knew because he could actually feel her growing agitation.
As if it were his own.
“Sally.”
She scrambled back as he reached to grasp her shoulders, her breath coming in short, painful pants.
“Look, I don’t know, okay? I told you I haven’t had much practice at being a demon.” She gave a sudden cry, yanking up the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “Dammit. Why is my arm itching?” There was a startled silence before Sally released a strangled moan. “Oh . . . shit.”
“Now what?” he growled, wondering if she was trying to distract him.
“I think I have a disease.”
She turned her arm to reveal the intricate red scrolling that crawled the length of her inner forearm. The marking wasn’t a disease. Or a reaction to his cooties. Or even the result of a drunken trip to the local tattoo parlor.
This mark was beneath the pale skin and only one thing could cause it.
A mating.
Swearing in several languages, Roke ripped off his leather jacket to glare down at the matching tattoo that marred his own arm.
The demon in him howled in disbelief.
“God . . . dammit.”
Sally glanced at him in confusion. “Am I dying?”
“Only if I decide to kill you.”
“That’s not funny.” She tried to meet him glare for glare but she couldn’t hide her growing fear.
And for some stupid reason that pissed him off more than the mark of bonding on his arm.
“Nothing about this FUBAR situation is funny,” he roared, moving with lightning speed to slam his hand into the brick wall.
His knuckles split open beneath the impact and the bricks crumbled to dust. Ignoring the blood dripping onto the cement floor, he slammed his hand into the bricks again, allowing the pain to hold back the blinding fury that threatened to consume him.
“Stop,” Sally cried from behind him. “You might be immortal, but I’m not so sure I am.”
Belatedly realizing his temper tantrum was sending a shower of dust and plaster from the ceiling, Roke turned to glare at his companion. “Do you know what you’ve done?”
She jerkily brushed the dust from her hair. “I haven’t done . . .” She seemed to forget what she was going to say as her gaze shifted over his shoulder. “What’s that?”
He turned back, startled to discover the large hole he’d punched into the wall had revealed the top of an old-fashioned steel strongbox complete with a combination lock.
“A safe of some sort,” he said with a shrug.
What did he care? He’d discovered this forgotten warehouse during his first week in Chicago. It was not only isolated from most humans, but it was far enough from Styx’s lair that he could enjoy his nightly meditation without fear of interruption.