“Why?”
“Because it’s killing you to be apart from me.”
The stark words hung in the air for a long, tension-fraught moment, then Sally was instinctively shaking her head in denial.
“Oh, my God,” she jeered. “Could your ego get any more bloated?”
“It’s not my ego, Sally.” He moved to touch the shadows beneath her beautiful eyes. “You’re fading away.”
She rigidly held her ground. “It’s just stress.”
“And if it’s not?”
“What are you trying to imply?”
He tucked an autumn curl behind her ear, the strands of gold shimmering in the moonlight.
“I’m not implying, I’m saying flat out that there are demons who are bound so tightly to their mates they suffer physical damage when they’re apart.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “So you truly believe I was pining for you like some cheesy Victorian bimbo?”
His lips twitched. “Yes.”
The dark eyes narrowed. “A toad. No, wait. A cockroach.”
“You’re babbling,” he murmured, his fingers skimming down the side of her neck.
She quivered, her pulse leaping beneath his fingers. “No, I’m deciding what I’m going to turn you into.”
He allowed his fingers to circle her throat. Not a threat. An intimate claim.
“Sally, we’re in this together,” he said, his voice low with a genuine weariness. “I’ve suffered as much as you have.”
The tough-girl façade wavered as she bit her lower lip. “I . . . know,” she muttered. “I’m trying to find a way to break the mating.”
“And I’m trying to help you.” His thumb absently stroked the line of her stubborn jaw. “Why won’t you let me?”
She held his fierce gaze. “I’ve been running from people who’ve wanted me dead since I was sixteen. I won’t walk into a clan of bloodsuckers who will blame me for harming their chief.”
He didn’t have to see the strength of her determination etched on her beautiful face; he could easily sense it through their bond.
If he wanted to take her to his clan, he would have to physically drag her there.
Always assuming she didn’t follow through on her threat to turn him into a toad.
“Oh, hell,” he growled, pulling his cell phone from his pocket.
“What are you doing?”
He scrolled through his contacts, then swiftly typed in his message.
“Sending a text to Cyn.”
She eyed him warily. “What’s a Cyn?”
“Not a what. A who,” he explained. “He’s clan chief of Ireland.”
The wariness only deepened. “Why are you contacting him?”
“He’s an expert on the fey.”
She glanced at the box he still held in his hand. “Why don’t we just find one of the fey?”
He curled his lips to reveal his fangs. “Because I don’t trust them.”
She folded her arms around her waist, the tug on her sweatshirt molding the fabric against the soft curve of her breasts.
“And I don’t trust vampires.”
He struggled not to be distracted by the thought of stripping off the sweatshirt to expose the exquisite beauty beneath.
“Do you believe I would deliberately try to hurt you?” he bluntly demanded.
“I—”
“The truth.”
She hesitated, clearly reluctant to admit that she might have the smallest faith in him.
“No,” she at last muttered.
“Then trust that—”
His soft words were rudely interrupted as the gargoyle stomped his way into the room, his tail twitching.
“Ha.”
Roke glowered at the unwelcome intruder. “What now?”
“I have sensed her,” Levet announced.
“Sensed who?”
“Yannah.”
Sally stepped toward the gargoyle in surprise. “She’s returned?”
“Non, but I can track her.”
Roke’s annoyance abruptly faded. It was about damned time.
“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” he told the demon who’d been a constant pain in the ass over past three weeks.
Sally sent him a chiding frown. “Roke.”
Impervious as always to being insulted, Levet moved to take Sally’s hand.
“Au revoir, ma belle,” he murmured, kissing her fingers. “I suspect that our paths will cross again.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Roke growled, trembling as he watched the tiny demon waddle from the room.
Logically he understood the gargoyle was no threat.
Sally had no romantic interest in the aggravating pest.
But the mating wasn’t about logic.
It was about raw male possession that couldn’t bear to see another man near his woman.
Tossing the music box on the nearby bed, Roke prowled forward. He needed to touch his mate.
To replace the scent of another creature with his own.
Easily sensing his laser focus, Sally inched backward, not halting until she was flat against the wall.
“What are you doing?”
“All alone.” He halted a mere breath from her stiff body, his hands gently stroking over her shoulders and down her arms. “At last.”
“Roke.”
Lost in the heady scent of peaches and warm female desire, Roke almost missed the distant roar of an engine.
Then, realizing there could be only one explanation for the sound, he charged toward the window and threw open the shutters.
“Damn,” he hissed.
Sally was swiftly at his side. “What?”
“That winged lump of granite stole my bike.”
Chapter Four
Sally watched Roke pace the claustrophobic confines of her childhood bedroom. She shivered. He was like a caged panther.
One that could devour her in one vicious bite.
If she was smart she would keep her mouth shut and wait for an opportunity to once again escape.
But of course, she wasn’t that smart.
The impulse to needle the annoyed vampire was simply too irresistible.
“I don’t know why you’re so upset,” she said. “It was just a motorcycle.”
His pacing came to an abrupt halt, his expression one of horror.
“Just a motorcycle?” he growled in disbelief. “It was a custom-built, turbine motorcycle that cost half a million dollars.”
“A half a million?” She gave a choked cough. Sheesh. Being a vampire obviously paid better than being a witch. She had less than twenty bucks to her name. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”