Demon Possessed (25 page)

“But psyche demons are better against angels.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you just get the nonhuman-looking ones to help you? The ones people can’t see?”

“Because they’re very rare, as I said. Their populations are negligible, fractions of ours. They tend to be like Yezer. Small. Fragile. Or they’re uncontrollable. They’d kill the angels, yes, but they’d also kill anything else they came across. And because of the way . . . well, let’s just say most of them aren’t really fans of those of us who pass for human.”

“And someone knew this. They knew they’d have an angel here and that I could be useful against it.”

“I assume so, yes. Especially since they assumed you’d—well, never mind. The point is you’re useful, and that would be reason enough.”

“Then it had nothing to do with—” She snapped her mouth closed. This was much bigger than Winston wanting to get her out of the way of the marriage he wanted or Justine doing it simply because she didn’t want a human involved with demon business. If he thought that wasn’t it, she believed him.

“What?”

“Nothing. You really think this is why?”

He nodded.

“Who’s behind it, then?”

He shrugged. “I have my suspicions. Nothing concrete, but I’m fairly sure I’m right. I usually am.”

“And so modest too.”

“Modesty is overrated.”

This time they were both smiling; their eyes caught and held for a second too long.

He stood up. “You should probably get back to your room and let Nick know what’s happening. We’ll need his help. Oh, and of course, don’t let any of them in, okay? Don’t open the door to anyone but me or the brothers or Tera.”

If his voice changed slightly when saying Nick’s name, she didn’t comment on it. But she did have one more question.

“Greyson.”

He was almost at the door. “Yes?”

“So—the ritual. The other night, when you said you thought it would protect me, you weren’t—I mean, that wasn’t just because of . . . us.”

His hand rested on the doorknob; his eyes studied the floor. “No. Not entirely.”

“Oh.” Not that it made a difference, except to increase the pain levels in her chest. But she was glad she knew.

He still waited by the door. Her steps faltered as she crossed the room. “Okay, well, I guess I’ll see you later, then. I’ll call you after I’ve talked to Nick. Unless you want him to call.”

“Sure. Whatever.”

The door opened; she stood for a minute, not even bothering to keep her eyes from greedily taking him in, studying him, trying to burn his face deeper into her memory than it already was. He wasn’t looking at her anyway. “Okay. Bye, then.”

He nodded. “Bye.”

She’d just stepped fully into the hallway when his hand closed over her arm and yanked her back into the room, against the solid heat of his body. The door slammed shut behind her.

“You didn’t really think I’d just let you walk away, did you?” His voice was low and urgent; his breath was hot on her skin; and before she could formulate an answer, his lips were on hers.

Chapter Twenty-six

Her entire body went up in flames. Not literal ones, not like the ones already blazing near the ceiling and around the room. Not the ones flaring in her mind as the first rush of energy invaded her. But deeper ones, hotter ones, flames tinged with ice-blue edges of pain and sorrow.

She gave them back to him when his tongue slipped into her mouth, sending more sparks dancing through her veins, sharp hot bolts of pleasure and need racing down her stomach to pool between her legs and make her muscles tight.

For a second she thought she should stop this, push him away. It wasn’t healthy. It wouldn’t change anything. It would only make it harder.

But she couldn’t. Not just because one hand had grasped her bottom and the other tangled in her hair, pulling her tighter to him. Not because kissing him made her feel alive again, safe again, for the first time since the horrible scene the day before. But because she didn’t want to. She wanted him. She loved him. How could she say no to this, when she’d already said no to everything else, and that would haunt her until the day she died?

Instead she wrapped her leg around him, yanked his shirt up from his waistband, and shoved her hands beneath. This time the feel of his bare skin, of the spikes of his spine, didn’t make her cry. She was too far gone to cry. She was already crying, somewhere deep inside herself, and she suspected—was terrified—that she would never be able to stop.

He kissed her harder, almost hard enough to hurt. His fingers left her hair to touch her face, tracing for a second the curve of her cheekbone before sliding down her throat and farther down again to cup her breast through the thin jersey of her dress.

She gasped. Her head fell back; he dipped down to kiss her throat, nibbling it, muttering things she couldn’t quite hear. Things she was almost afraid to hear.

His skin beneath her palms was hot and covered with goosebumps. She couldn’t decide which sounded more appealing, to run her hands over it and feel every inch of him or to dig her nails in, rip off his shirt, tug him to the floor because she didn’t want to wait. His power simmered in her blood, and she was about to boil over.

Instead she shifted position as best she could, sought his mouth again, and pushed it back to him.

He gasped. “Meg. Shit, Meg.”

Her feet left the floor. Her legs wrapped around his waist. They fell against the wall, cool against her back. It did nothing to soothe the fever in her veins or to calm the frenzied desperation of her thoughts.

His erection pressed against her; she didn’t know what the sound that escaped her lips was called, and she didn’t care. What she did care about was that in this position she couldn’t reach the buttons of his shirt, and in her dizzied state she couldn’t figure out how to get the damned thing off him. It was a crisp white barrier between her and what she wanted; she tugged at it, tried to pull it up over his head. Finally she gave up and dug her fingers into his hair, forcing him to kiss her harder still, until she tasted blood.

A rush of power came with it, even stronger. Somewhere she realized it was his. No time to think about it. No time to worry about it, because his hand was on her thigh, and it was not hesitant. It barely paused on the top of her stocking before continuing on, sliding beneath her bottom and forward to focus unerringly on the spot where she wanted it the most.

That one touch, coupled with her wild emotions and the power overloading her, was enough. Too much. She clutched at him as her back arched and her body shuddered, barely hearing her own voice or the low, thick sound of satisfaction he made in the back of his throat.

He swung her away from the wall, crossed the room in a few long strides, and opened the bedroom door. His mouth left hers; she felt him look up.

Malleus, Maleficarum, and Spud sat there, overflowing the small chairs that had been in the dressing area and at the corner desk. Their eyes were wide.

She probably should have cared that they were there, that her skirt was over her waist so her black silk panties were visible, that they’d probably heard her, and that they knew exactly what was going on. She didn’t. That would have required too much energy, and she needed it all for him.

Greyson’s voice was so close to a growl it was barely recognizable. “Get out.”

The brothers moved fast when they wanted to. Or, in this instance, when ordered to; Megan had little doubt that they would have been happy to stay and watch. Not out of some voyeuristic need but because they wanted to make sure everything worked out okay.

Which it wouldn’t. And which she couldn’t care about just then either.

They raced out of the room. Greyson’s lips met hers again before the door had closed.

Another shock. More flames, racing around the ceiling as if someone had sprayed the walls with gasoline. Flames tearing through her body as if she was made of gunpowder. She gasped, said his name. Said it again as he laid her on the bed, pushed up her dress.

She sat up, shifted position to kneel. Finally she had access to his buttons. Finally she could open his shirt, peel it back off his shoulders while their kiss continued, hard and hot. They broke off while he slipped her dress over her head and she did the same for his T-shirt, then found each other again as she tugged at his belt, working the buckle with fingers that felt swollen.

“My arms are like the twisted thorn,” he murmured, quoting Yeats, breaking the last word off with a sharp gasp when she pulled down his zipper and reached inside, finding him swollen and slick. She curled her hand around him, stroked him, bathed in the hot orange light of the raging fire around them.

Her bra slid down her shoulders. His hands roamed over her breasts, over her ribs. Her skin leaped where he touched her; she almost lost her balance trying to lean forward, to push herself into his palms. Instead she fell against his chest, his bare skin tantalizingly hot and intensely gratifying. She kissed it, scraped her teeth over it. Curled her body down to kiss his stomach, down farther to take him into her mouth.

For the last time. She forced the thought from her head. It wasn’t welcome. Instead she focused on the feel of him, the taste of his smoky skin. On his hands tangling gently in her hair, the sound of his breath catching in his chest and his voice saying her name.

She was just getting lost in it when he pulled her up, flipped her back. Her panties disappeared with one quick slip. He nibbled the top of her right thigh, urged it to the side with gentle pressure.

Her back arched. Her entire body buzzed and spun, her head cleared of everything but fire and smoke. Smoke drifting from her mouth, fire burning everything inside her, all the sorrow and misery and fear. It all disappeared when his tongue found her most sensitive spot, when he used the tiny cleft at the tip to tease and shift it and make her scream.

Her second climax roared through her, leaving her shaking with tears in her eyes. He didn’t move away. Gave every impression of a man who intended to stay where he was for some time.

She grabbed him, twisting his hair in her fingers and urging him up. Enough. It was enough, it was too much, she couldn’t wait any longer.

His lips traveled over her stomach, up her ribcage, and were joined by his hands. She shivered when they slid over her nipples, when he took them each into the heat of his mouth with a deliberateness that threatened to make her lose the last vestiges of her sanity.

“Greyson. Greyson, please—”

His lifted his head. Their eyes met; it hit her like an explosion in her soul. She couldn’t look away, caught by him, held there as he rose and drove himself into her.

Her eyelids fluttered. She started to close them, to tilt her head back in a vain attempt to get more air. His hands stopped her, hard palms on each side of her face. She had no choice but to look at him, into his eyes, dark in the glowing gold of his skin.

One slow, careful thrust. Another. It was torture. She wriggled beneath him, trying to get him to speed up, she couldn’t handle it—

He kissed her again. With that kiss came more power, more than she’d ever felt before. She wasn’t just the flame. She was the
only
flame, burning, incandescent, swallowed by the heat, both of her hearts pounding frantically. It wasn’t just the tiny fires sparkling high on the walls lighting the room, wasn’t just the dull sunlight filtering in around the mostly closed curtains. She glowed. They glowed.

Maybe not for real, she couldn’t tell, but something inside her was lit up like fireworks, and he shone so bright she couldn’t look at him. Shone like the only light in a world gone cold and dark, and she was the moth desperately circling it, and somehow with that energy came a frantic, fluttering impression of his thoughts, and she realized he was thinking the same thing. Experiencing it the same way.

“Meg,” he whispered, kissing her again, nibbling her earlobe. “Meg ?”

She responded by grasping him tighter and giving it back. All of it. Everything she felt, every bit of power she possibly could. All of her love and sorrow and passion. She held nothing back, and he shuddered beneath her palms and sped his pace.

Faster and harder. The bed shook. She shook, meeting his movements with her own. His arms circled her, slid beneath her, crushing her against him. Pressure built, the energy in her, the pleasure, the need—

His mouth took hers again, one final time. Power roared through her, a forest fire, filled with everything she’d given him and more that was just him. The same emotions, magnified, run through with helplessness and regret and desire and love like she’d never felt before, and she came, crying, opening her eyes in time to see him do the same thing.

His head fell to rest on her shoulder. She reached up, intending to touch his hair, to stroke his nape, but he lifted his head again. His dark eyes searched hers, as deep and sincere as she’d ever seen them, pink and slightly wet around the rims.

“Marry me.”

It would have been so easy to say yes. Easy because it was what she wanted. She wanted to, God how she did.

He must have seen her hesitation, her desire. “Megan, marry me. Please.”

What was her problem? Was her job really more important than spending the rest of her life with the man she loved?

But why couldn’t she have both, damn it? Why did she have to make this choice?

Not to mention giving up her humanity. That one she could have compromised on; she didn’t necessarily want to do the ritual, but she did want children, and if that was the way to get them, she’d do it. She didn’t even mind the idea of having them right away. The next day was her thirty-second birthday, and that seemed as good an age as any.

But why did she have to give up everything she’d worked for to be with him, in addition to her humanity? If she did that, she’d be . . . She didn’t know what she would be. She wouldn’t be equal anymore. She was proud of herself, of her achievements. Why did she have to give that up? If she did, what would be the point of having them to begin with, of all the work she’d done?

From the beginning she’d been aware of the disparity between them, the one thing she couldn’t get over or past. She’d stopped worrying that he didn’t really care about her, that she was just some infatuated girl, after the first few months. Once they’d both stopped seeing other people—or, rather, once he’d told her he wasn’t seeing anyone else, that he didn’t want to—she’d let that worry, that insecurity, go. At least as much as she could.

But she’d never wanted to have to depend on him in that way. Never wanted to find herself in such a position of weakness.

There were plenty of things she’d let him control. But her job shouldn’t have been one of them. It shouldn’t be a decision he made for her. If she let him do that, what was next? Would she have to ask for permission to go see Tera or Brian, to run out for an order of fries or something?

That was a bit ridiculous, she knew. But the principle was the same. She didn’t want to be his dependent, and she didn’t want him to think her life was his to control.

“I want to keep my job,” she said.

He sagged above her, then pulled away in one quick movement that left her cold and alone in the center of the bed. “I’m not enough, is what you’re saying.”