She again stared at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. He wanted a closer look at the gold flecks in her eyes, but didn't dare move. “What's Ankeny?"

"Inkani,” he corrected automatically, hearing the strange accent in the word as if for the first time. “They're the upper echelon of demons, the people that have made deals with them in return for privilege and power. The Order—the Malik and Drakulein—are the people that keep them in check, fight them off, and keep the rest of you skins from becoming slaves."

"Skins?” she whispered. At least there was no more of the get-out-of-my-house stuff. But she was alarmingly pale again, and he began to worry that he should have fed her before questioning her.

"People with no sorcerous ability. Humans. The people we protect.” He was beginning to feel a little less woozy. If Paul was still alive, he was likely to stay that way, having found a good bolthole; if he wasn't, there was nothing Ryan could do about it now. The Inkani were bad, but he'd fought them before, and with this little prize to bring back to the Malik he could probably escape a black mark on his record. He could handle this.

Maybe. With a miracle or two he might even be able to pull this one off.

"I'm a… a skin?” Her eyebrows drew together, and she put aside the jar of sparkling ointment, on a teetering stack of books. A few reference texts about old bookbinding, Carlyle's The French Revolution, a few herbals, and a battered leatherbound Mark Twain, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn in one package. Odd, but he'd come to expect that from her.

"Not any more,” he said shortly. “Now you're a Malik recruit. Congratulations."

She pushed the down comforter—dragged off her bed, he thought, seeing it was blue like the rest of her bedroom—away. The boxers rode up, exposing very interesting legs, sleek and smoothly muscled, the horrible scrape on her knee already looking much less serious. Her toenails were painted with crimson polish, and there was a smear of dried mud on her left ankle. Add to that her torn T-shirt, slipping down and showing a slice of her bruised shoulder as well as the top slope of a perky C-cup that most definitely wasn't trapped in a bra, and he suddenly found it a little difficult to breathe. “That's an honor I can do without,” she said, dryly, and he recognized the tone as “professional".

He knew enough from watching her to guess that meant trouble, especially with the way her shoulders went back and one eyebrow arched, the equivalent to a cobra's hood spreading out or a mama bear's warning growl. Uh-oh. “Look, sweetheart—"

"I've had enough,” she interrupted, making it to her feet and wincing as more aches and pains became apparent. “I'm going to the bathroom and I'm going to get dressed. Then I'm going to have some breakfast. We're even, you yourself said so. You can go looking for your friend and I'll take care of my library. I don't like being spied on, and if your friend Paul hadn't been such an arrogant idiot he might have had better luck. He quit paying attention to me and spent his time flirting with my coworker and then proceeded to stand her up. I don't think much of either of you. By the time I finish in the bathroom I expect you to be gone. Lock the door on your way out."

Goddamn it. What part of this do you not understand, woman? He made it to his feet in one swift motion, a little gratified when she flinched. I don't like scaring you, but I will if I have to. “I am not going anywhere.” He folded his arms and glared at her. “You're going to help me find my Malik, and I'm going to keep you alive long enough to figure out how to keep the Order from making a mess of your life. Because they will, sweetheart. You have no idea."

"I don't think much of your Order and I think even less of you.” Her eyes lit up with what he recognized as incandescent fury. It made her even more beautiful, and he wondered how Paul could have ever thought her less than stunning. Or even been attracted to the sheela with this woman around. “Nobody tells me what to do, and nobody's going to try to steal my library! Where were all the rest of you when I was taking care of it? I've done all the work and now you want to ride in and take the credit. No, thank you! Where was your goddamn Order when I was hunting down the—ulp!"

He didn't mean to, but he almost knocked her off her feet. His arm locked around her throat, not tight enough to cut off her air but tight enough to pull her back against him. She struggled and raked at his forearm with her short fingernails, also tried stamping on his foot. But there were advantages to being Drakul: enhanced strength wedded to quicker reflexes, reinforced bones and superior musculature. Besides, she'd taken a hell of a beating and was in no condition to fight him.

Time to put this in terms you can understand. “I don't want your goddamn library,” he said in her ear, getting a good lungful of her. She smelled, even after last night's dip in alley water, of clean herbal shampoo and that maddeningly elusive warm, fresh golden scent that made it difficult to concentrate on what he was saying. “As far as I'm concerned, the Order won't hear about your books from me. You're just talented enough to have picked up a lot of this as you go along. What I do want is to find my Malik and keep you alive, sweetheart, and if you make it difficult for me, I'll make it much more difficult for you. Trust me, you don't want that. Since I'm prepared to play it nice and easy, I suggest you do the same."

She even tried to elbow him, but the fight gradually went out of her. She went limp. He could almost feel her vibrating with fury nevertheless. “Deal, Miss Barnes?” I kind of like this, having her struggle. She's so damn bossy. But I like that about her too.

One last frantic burst of effort, then she sagged exhausted against him again, and he had another problem—he was starting to respond. Starting to?

No, he already had. His skin flushed with heat and the demon part of him—suspiciously quiet for too goddamn long—roared into life. He had to clamp down on his control, trained into him harshly the instant the Malik found him, and hope she didn't notice that the man holding her still was not only shaking slightly and sweating, but also sporting a serious hard-on.

Without a Malik around to remind him of his duty, he was about to get very attached to this bossy little librarian, and that wasn't something the Order would look kindly on at all. If his instincts were triggered things could get messy indeed.

If? It's too goddamn late. I'm in too deep already, and this has barely gotten started. She's mine. Nobody knows it yet, but she's mine.

"Bully,” she said harshly, and he hoped he wasn't choking her. “You're nothing but a big bully, and I hate bullies."

"You were pretty glad to see me last night. Do we have a deal, librarian?” If she moves, if she leans back or even tries to struggle… The world narrowed to a single thread, Ryan fighting to stay perfectly still, perfectly calm, controlled. I am Drakulein. I am of the Order of the Dragon. I do not force myself on women, nor do I hurt them. I am Drakul.

The mantra helped, but only a little.

"Fine.” Her voice broke. “Deal. Let go of me."

I don't know if I can. But he did. As soon as her feet touched the floor she scrambled away from him, pausing at the edge of the living room, in her bedroom doorway. The bathroom had two doors, one to her room and one to the short hall leading to the kitchen, but she was probably instinctively retreating to the place where she slept. “Don't ever do that again,” she said tonelessly, rubbing at her throat with gentle fingers.

Though he knew he hadn't come close to choking her, he still felt a sharp spear of that new, aching feeling. Guilt. “Don't give me reason to.” He earned himself a glare that could shatter a clock face. “I'll make you breakfast. How do you like your eggs?"