He listened while tapping his foot. “Is that all?”
She thought about it, a snap of time that seemed to last forever, then nodded. “Yes.” Now how about that kiss …
“Then I have a few rules of my own.”
Oh, no. They weren’t going there. “You can’t make any rules. This is my home. And now that that’s settled …”
“If we’re sharing, it’s my home, too.”
Frustrating man. “Absolutely not. The only reason you’re staying is because of my generous nature.”
“Rule one,” he said, ignoring her. “I will leave my—shit, is that what you called my precious weapons and clothes?—around if I like. But you may pick them up and store them somewhere of your choosing if they bother you. Two, you may walk around naked anytime you wish. Three, guests are allowed if I approve of them. Four, I’ll sleep in your bed. You may sleep on the couch if that bothers you, but I hope you’ll rethink that. Five, I have your cell phone, so I have no need of your home phone. Six, if I need someone added to the ID, I’ll add them myself. No worries. Seven, I have no problem with this rule. No crumbs. Eight, as I currently have no money, I’m happy to pay rent with my body. Nine, thank you for sharing your stuff. Ten, I promise to only invite delivery girls.”
Oh, really? “You can’t drink from anyone but me, moron.” And she’d never been more pleased by that.
“Then we can both strike rule ten from our list of demands.” How satisfied he appeared, as if he’d backed her into a corner.
Clearly, he considered himself a clever little boy. Well, she would show him. She closed the rest of the distance between them, his body stiffening a little more with every inch of ground she gained. Rather than hurt him, or jump him, the sexy bastard, she bent down and grabbed his bag. Then she marched to the only window, opened it, allowing moonlight to seep inside, and—
Blinked.
The bag was no longer in her hand. Was nowhere to be seen, actually. Worse, she was once again in front of McKell, and he was smiling that siren’s smile.
“Rule eleven,” she gritted out. “No manipulating me with your ability.”
“You manipulate me all the time.” Was that a … pout?
She gasped with affront. “I do not.”
He arched a brow. “Don’t you? You have only to look at me, and I’m putty in your hands.”
The confession went straight to her head. This was the first time he’d complimented her, truly complimented her, as if she were his equal—or perhaps even his superior. And she’d thought him irresistible before …
“Fine. Manipulate time. Can we seal the deal now?” She leaned into him, rising on her tiptoes, flattening her palms on his chest, ready to enjoy the kiss he’d promised her.
“First. My rule eleven,” he said just before contact. “No other men, Ava. I’m the only one for you, because you … you belong to me.”
She froze, popped her jaw, then fell back on her heels, ready to nail his ass to the wall. “Actually, I don’t.” He had reduced her to property, like a house or a car. Or a slave.
“You do.”
His insistence was both frustrating and flattering. She focused on the first and ignored the other. “So, are we hunting vampires tonight or not?”
He nodded. “We are.”
“Let’s go, then.”
“No kiss to seal the deal?”
“Fuck you.”
He gave her another butterscotch grin, and motioned to the door. “After you, darling.”
Sixteen
Apparently, vampires preferred inebriated humans. They were easier to lure, and no one took them seriously when they shouted about being bitten and partially drained. That was why, after a wardrobe change—the white button-up and dark slacks Ava had been wearing hadn’t been mission-compatible, in McKell’s opinion—she found herself leaning against a metal counter in a fetish bar.
Bubbles floated through the air on clouds of thick, dark smoke. Pounding music created a dizzying rhythm, and gyrating bodies littered the dance floor. Cages hung from the ceiling, and scantily clad alien females ranging in color from the brightest gold to the darkest silver writhed inside, as if they were captured in the throes of ecstasy.
How she envied them.
Pleasure was not on her agenda. “Buttered Toast,” she said when the six-armed, blue-skinned bartender finally approached her. BT, the only alcoholic drink that tasted like her favorite candy. A consolation prize.
He nodded, reaching for bottles, pouring, while fixing someone else a tequila shooter and someone else a rum punch.
When she had her drink in hand, Ava sipped and turned, surveying the crowd. Lots of faux black leather, face paint, whips and chains. How … cliché, she thought. She supposed the vampires could be themselves here, without worrying about fear and recrimination. They could blend.
Was this the fate that awaited McKell? What if vampires couldn’t live in the daylight? Would he be disappointed? Try and return underground? Or would he embrace this way of life?
She didn’t like the thought of him clubbing every night, all kinds of skanky girls trying to rub up against him, but she didn’t like the thought of him leaving the surface, either.
Just find a vampire and get this over with. Even though she doubted vampires they found at night could teach him how to live during the day, but a promise was a promise.
A few guys were watching her, waiting for her body language to morph from Stay Away to Mating Season. Who to encourage, who to encourage? All of them appeared human to her, but then, as she’d told McKell, so did he.
So, just how was she supposed to tell the difference?
She wasn’t, she recalled, as she continued to sip her drink. Okay, she drained it and signaled for another. She was just supposed to lead as many people as possible to the alley outside, where McKell waited. She was supposed to lead them one at a time to minimize the chance of placing herself in harm’s way. Ugh. One at a time would take forever. And how would it look if she kept going in and out of the club with a different person? Everyone would realize she was up to something. Or think she was a whore.
She didn’t mind the latter—that could actually work to her advantage—but McKell had told her to act shy, demure, and weak. And really, the clothes he’d chosen for her reflected that image. Clothes that had come from Noelle’s bag of laundry. Bitch hadn’t yet picked it up. Anyway, he’d liked the Naughty Librarian ensemble—white shirt, tie, barely-there plaid skirt. With added scarves and leggings, of course, so not an inch of her body was truly revealed, her skin somewhat protected. Ava felt ridiculous. Her curls were knotted on top of her head, and she wore a pair of cat-eye–shaped glasses.