"Anything. Keep talking and stay still."

Are you kidding? I want to brush my teeth, and I have to pee, and I want to go back to bed and forget about all this. Goddammit, Rob, of course you would come by and ruin everything. I was just starting to like this guy, too. Note to self: don't let mean old demon hunters help you get rid of old boyfriends. It only ends in disaster. What am I supposed to talk about? Her mouth was dry, and for once in her life Chess couldn't find a single goddamn thing to say.

His eyes closed. He was sweating, and she didn't even try to move. “Talk… to… me.” Now he sounded pleading.

Books. Let's talk about books. “My favorite book of all time is Jane Eyre. But I suppose Huckleberry Finn is the one I love the most. Twain was a genius, and the layers of symbolism in the book are just amazing.” The back of her throat tickled with the urge to cough; she settled for clearing her throat. “The river, for example. It can mean freedom or slavery, life or death and destructiveness, depending on which part you read. For symbolism, though, it's hard to beat poetry—Emily Dickinson. Baudelaire, who just happens to be the best there is at symbols right next to Rimbaud. But my favorite is Yeats. In particular, Sailing To Byzantium. When I hear it read, say, by someone with a British accent, I just get shivers.” I'm running out of things to say, help me, God. What's wrong with him?

He leaned in, his eyes still closed, and actually sniffed her hair, taking a deep whiff. This is the strangest thing that's happened to me lately. And that's saying something. He's smelling me. Why?

His fingers loosened. She took a deep breath. “Other poets.” Her voice sounded thin and breathless. “Shakespeare, for one, though I'm not really a fan of Elizabethan. I actually really like Marlowe, what little I've read of him. I hope you're okay. This is the weirdest thing I've dealt with in six months, and that's really saying something. Thanks for helping me get rid of Rob, but if I'd known it was going to do this to you I would have just let him bang on the door until he got bored. That or called the cops.” Another deep breath. It was damn hard to breathe with a big dark-eyed hunk of man in a NIN T-shirt looming over her. Even if he was shaking and pale, sweating and slowly, slowly letting go of her shoulders. He hadn't hurt her, but he was still standing too close. Way inside her comfort zone. And smelling her hair didn't help either. It felt too goddamn intimate. “Don't hurt me. Please.” For God's sake, Chess, you just faced down an octopus demon and the best you can come up with is “don't hurt me?"

"Last thing on my mind,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Hurting you is the last thing on my mind. Don't worry."

I am not comforted by that in the least. “Can I move now? I want to go to the bathroom."

"Slowly. Very slowly.” His hands fell away from her shoulders, curled into fists. “Then you'd probably better go back to bed. Couple more hours before dusk hits, that's when we'll get started."

I don't want to go anywhere with you. “Yeah, sure. Like I can sleep now.” She edged along the wall away from him, toward the bathroom door. “Are you okay?"

He looked a little better now, his shoulders coming down and relaxing, his eyes still closed but his jaw not clenched nearly so tight. He nodded, his hands curling loosely into fists. “I won't hurt you, Chess. I just wasn't prepared for that."

"Prepared for what? Rob's a jerk, but he's just an old boyfriend. I know he's a sleazebucket, but even librarians have needs. And he got me tickets to a Rolling Stones concert.” The half-laugh she attempted fell flat. I'm trying to justify my taste in boy-tarts to this man. What the hell am I doing?

"I don't care about him.” The dismissive tone convinced her. “I just had a hard time with him threatening you. Go on, I'm okay now. I'm just going to breathe for a bit. You go do what you need to, get some rest."

Chess shook her head. “Fine. Great. Perfect.” It took all her self-control to keep moving one slow step at a time instead of bolting. “He wasn't threatening me. He's a big coward.” Keep talking, Chess. Keep him occupied.

"Just go, sweetheart. I'm okay now."

She got to the bathroom door. “Quit calling me sweetheart.” She shut it behind her, locked it—like that would keep him out, but it made her feel better—and slumped, trembling, against the counter, flipping on the light and exhaling shakily. Wow. I never want to do that again. He sounded fucking dangerous. What have I gotten myself into? I should have left those books alone.

But she hadn't had any choice, had she? It was as if the library had chosen her, and she'd felt compelled. The books needed someone to take care of them, and finding out about the existence of demons had cemented her responsibility to do something. He said she had a lot of talent, and there were people out there fighting to keep the innocent safe.

And any chance she'd had to walk away from this had fled the instant she'd run across the skornac feeding on the dead body of its nine-year-old victim. Nobody could see something like that and be unaffected.

Chess let out a shaky sigh. She was flushed and shaking, her hair tangled and tossed every which way, and she saw her eyes flicker nervously in the mirror. I look scared to death.

What a coincidence. I am.

Darkness was beginning to fill the windows as Chess slid the strap of the bag over her head. She pulled her hooded sweatshirt down over her hips, then adjusted the bag until it settled to her satisfaction. The Fang's sheath rode on her right hip, the bag on her left, and her hair was braided severely back. She wore old jeans and a pair of hiking boots that had seen better days but looked very comfortable. She was altogether too quiet, and Ryan didn't blame her. He hadn't meant to frighten her.

But dammit, the woman simply didn't know when to stop struggling, and the feel of her against him, leaning back and accepting his touch, had severely strained his control. Watching her sleep and wearing a shirt that smelled of her skin didn't help either—some of the deeper Drakul instincts were tied to scent. He could smell himself on her, and her on him; the mix was teasing and tempting. Not to mention the sudden chemical drift of fear coming up from her when the blond man had tried to push open the door. Her fear could trigger one of the deadliest rages known to the Drakul, the reason why they were kept so carefully segregated from Malik women.

I've really done it now. I've gotten attached to her. Far more attached than I should be. But who wouldn't? Look at her.

She bit her lower lip, digging in her bag. “Ziploc,” she muttered, the light from the fixture over the kitchen table touching the dark sheen of her hair. “Finest invention since comfortable shoes. God, I hate this part."

It was the first thing she'd said since he'd awakened her at dusk. He hadn't touched her, merely stood in the doorway to her bedroom and called her name softly until she'd stirred, yawning and flushed and looking absolutely…?

That thought didn't help his frayed control. Stop it. You know it's just instinct. Leave it alone. You're Drakul, you swore an oath, and your Malik is out there somewhere.

"What part?” He risked asking the question, wanting to distract her a little. If she got tense, he'd be tempted, and that would be hard on both of them. He had already had a hard time with seeing her in boxer shorts and that shapeless robe again. She'd made more coffee, then kitted herself out with such swift efficiency he was sure she'd been out patrolling for demons much more than she'd let on.

"Anticipating.” She blew out a long breath, closing her eyes. “Where are we headed?"