Desire Unchained

“Shut up!” he yelled. “Just be quiet.”


He pushed the gag into her mouth, more gently than he’d intended, but hell’s fires, he couldn’t hurt her even when he wanted to. Which pretty much made all of this pointless unless he could scare her. Snarling in frustration, he threw down the mask and tugged on a leather glove studded on the palm with tiny, needlelike spikes, and on the back with larger, heavier ones. Next, he chose a nasty little whip with a barbed tip.

“What now, little wolf?” he asked, his voice going soft and dangerous. “What happens when I really start to work you over? I didn’t even give you a safe gesture.”

She made a noise deep in her throat as she eyed the equipment he’d chosen. Her gaze locked on his gloved hand as he reached for her, halting a scant millimeter from one breast. She quivered, her nipples tightening in response.

“Do you still trust me not to hurt you?”

Her head snapped up, and the resolve in her expression made him stumble back. She wasn’t going to back down. She didn’t smell of fear. He was holding implements of torture that could make her scream in agony or pleasure or both, and she wasn’t afraid at all.

He could love her for that.

Terror of his own cut through him in an icy blast. He hurled the whip to the floor, tore off the glove, and released her with clumsy, trembling fingers. He talked himself through it like a crazy man, unsure what he was saying, but hearing himself speak.

When she was free, he backed away as if she were a contagious disease. He knew how idiotic he must appear, but he didn’t care. And if she knew what was good for her, she’d keep her trap shut and her hands off him.

For a moment it seemed as though she’d read his thoughts, because she just stood there, rubbing her arms vigorously to bring circulation back. Then, because she was, after all, Runa, she had to go and ruin everything by talking.

“What are you doing? We aren’t finished.”

He turned away, pretending he hadn’t heard her. Maybe if he ignored her, she’d go away. He felt something strike his back, saw the ball gag hit the floor. She’d thrown it at him.

“I said, we aren’t finished.”

“Yes,” he growled, “we are.”

Something else bounced off his shoulder. A clothespin, fun little items for pinching flesh. “What’s Maluncoeur?”

Shade jerked around. “What did you say?”

She stepped back, but she didn’t drop her gaze. “You kept mumbling ‘Maluncoeur’ while you were releasing me.”

“Nothing.” He took a deep, rattling breath. “It’s nothing.”

“Stop lying to me,” she shouted. “Stop avoiding me!”

“Avoiding you? I can’t get away from you!”

“You’re such a jerk! Stop shutting me out.” She made a sweeping gesture around the room. “You won’t even let me be part of the things you’ve done with other females you say mean nothing to you. Does that mean I’m less than nothing?”

Hell’s bleeding, freaking rings. How could he tell her that he didn’t want to do to her what he’d done to all those females not because she meant less to him, but because she meant so much more?

“Remember what I said about not asking questions you don’t want to know the answer to?”

She recoiled, crimson splotches mottling her cheeks. “You can be such a bastard sometimes, you know that?” She stamped past him and into the bathroom. Had there been a door, he knew it would have been slammed hard enough to take it off its hinges.





Eleven





Wraith turned out to be pretty good company. He’d kicked Kynan’s ass in a couple of video games and had entertained himself by going through Kynan’s movie collection and making fun of it, but mainly, he just kept quiet while Kynan drank himself into a stupor.

Six beers and six shots of whiskey later, Kynan wasn’t nearly drunk enough. He glanced over at the demon, who was sitting in the leather recliner next to the couch, throwing potato chips at David Letterman.

“You’re getting grease all over my TV screen,” he said.

Wraith snorted and fell back in the chair, legs spread, black button-down BDU shirt gaping open. His clothes had been ruined during the battle with the African rebels, so he’d borrowed one of Shade’s paramedic uniforms to wear since he refused to wear scrubs—“damned pajamas,” as he called them. He sighed, ran a hand over his muscular chest.

Christ, Kynan had never seen anyone as well-toned and built as Wraith. It was as though the demon spent twenty-three hours of the day working out. And it wasn’t bulky muscle gained from countless reps with heavy weights—it was the functional stuff, the sinewy, ropey kind that saw regular use and not just from workouts.