It was a battle she knew he was still fighting, but one they didn’t discuss. She’d never asked, and she doubted he would give her a straight answer if she did. It was his business, just like the changes she’d been implementing in her Meegra were hers. Although she knew he didn’t approve of them, he’d never once told her so, or tried to change her mind when she made a decision.

“You’re getting blood all over the floor,” she said, following him through the small crowd of rubendas—members of his Meegra—who stood waiting. Clearly the wound wasn’t serious, but the sight of it still made her nervous. Uncomfortable.

Especially since something deep inside her, some small part she refused to acknowledge, liked seeing it. Liked the contrast of dark red blood on the white marble floor. Wanted to touch it, to raise fingertips smudged with it to her lips and taste it, spicy and tinged with smoke.

Horrified, she looked away, swallowing hard. Her eyes caught those of one of the rubendas and saw the same yearning reflected there.

Her heels clicked on the floor as she hurried to catch up with Greyson, staring resolutely at his sharp profile. Malleus strode along beside him, carrying the overnight case he’d gone to her house and packed for her. Through the open door of the kitchen she saw Maleficarum and Spud opening a large bag and setting out silvery instruments on white cloths.

Malleus, Maleficarum, and Spud were guard demons—brothers—terrifically strong and tough, with self-healing powers accelerated even beyond those of normal demons; she’d seen them lose enough blood to kill a man and do a jig three hours later. But they’d spent some time learning emergency medical procedures as well, especially over the last three months. They were among the few demons Greyson really trusted, so their duties under his rule had increased from simple bodyguards to something more like personal assistants.

“Mr. Dante?”

Megan and Greyson both stopped. Megan turned around to see the rubenda who’d caught her eye earlier step cautiously forward and gesture to the droplets on the floor.

“Mr. Dante, can I have your blood?”

Angry mutterings broke out in the small crowd of demons near him. Megan’s mouth fell open, but when she looked back at Greyson he stood perfectly calm, as if the other demon had asked him about the weather.

“No,” he said, and strode into the kitchen without looking back.

Her feet sank into the soft pale carpet as she paced back and forth, trying to somehow walk the adrenaline out of her system. Whiskey had taken the edge off, but her mind still raced.

From the way Greyson’s eyes tracked her movements she knew he was well on his way to being drunk. He slouched in his heavy chair by the wall, shirtless, his bandaged arm resting on pillows beside him. His other hand clutched yet another drink.

“I really don’t think painkillers and booze are a great combination, Greyson, why don’t you—”

“Why don’t you let it go?” he snapped. That, more than anything else, told her how unnerved he’d been by their experience. Greyson almost never lost his temper.

She stared at him for a minute, then kept walking. Tension hung in the air between them, weighing Megan down even more fully than she was already. She’d found another of her demons exploded all over some suburban home, she’d been arrested, she’d gone to jail, she’d almost been killed…and she’d had the bizarre and unfortunately not unfamiliar desire to lick her boyfriend’s blood. A desire shared by at least one demon in the house, if not more.

“Sit down, bryaela,” Greyson said softly. “You’re making me dizzy.”

“I can’t sit. I’m too nervous.”

“We could lie down.”

Her laugh sounded slightly hysterical in her ears. “Is this really the time?”

“It’s as good a time as any, isn’t it?” He stood up and crossed the room to her, capturing her between his hard warm body and the heavy dresser behind her. “You’re here, I’m here…I believe you’re familiar with the bed—”

“We almost got killed tonight. After I went to jail!”

“Mmm, that’s so sexy.” His lips tickled her ear, then traced a path down the side of her neck, stopping so he could scrape her skin with his teeth. “You bad, bad girl.”

She didn’t intend to respond, but did, meeting his lips with a ferocity that stunned her. Her arms slid up under his so her fingertips could run over the tiny sgaegas—dull little spikes—covering his spine. Goose bumps broke out on his skin under her hands.

He gripped her waist with his right hand and pulled her closer, pressing his erection against her belly while his left hand tangled in her hair. She raised herself on tiptoe, forcing him to kiss her harder, wanting to forget everything and lose herself in him.

Heat exploded in her chest, in her stomach, working its way to points lower. Her fingers yanked at his belt. The entire night—the shame, the terror, her failure to protect her demons—disappeared in a haze of need so strong she thought she might die from it.

She shoved his pants down and grabbed his cock, hot and heavy in her palm. His breath rasped into her mouth, onto her throat, as he pulled away enough to lift her shirt.

One quick move slid it over her head, and another adroit twist unfastened her bra. It slid down her shoulders and he pulled it all the way off, then pressed his chest to hers, forcing her hips harder against the dresser. She caressed his back, down the hard muscles of his behind, forward again to stroke him where she knew he’d appreciate it the most, and all the while her heart beat with fire and fear and the need for oblivion.

He lifted her up, his powerful hands curving under her thighs, and propped her on the edge of the dresser.

“Your arm,” she gasped. “Be careful.”

“Hush.” His mouth caught hers again while he undid the button of her trousers and lowered the zipper. Underneath she wore a tiny scrap of black silk he’d bought her on his last trip to Paris. Greyson liked to give gifts, especially gifts he could remove later.

She started to lower herself from the dresser but he stopped her, bracing her back with one hand while he used the other to peel the panties off and drop them on the floor.

“I thought you wanted the bed,” she whispered.

“Changed my mind.”

Her head fell back as he thrust into her, gripping her hips with both hands. She clutched the short, soft hair at his nape, twisting it between her fingers and bringing him closer. His mouth hovered not half an inch from hers, his eyes glowing red and staring into her, through her.

“Meg…”

He dove closer, capturing her lips, invading her with his tongue, and the flames in her body leaped higher. Their mouths fused together as he thrust, keeping his pace steady, but she felt his arms shaking and the loose urgency of his lips and knew this wouldn’t last, couldn’t last, that the fear and pain which made her want to escape acted like an aphrodisiac for him.

Her hips left the dresser. She braced herself with her hands on the smooth, cool surface and wrapped her legs around his waist while he held her up, moving her pelvis in slow circles so he hit all the right spots deep inside her. She tensed, her thighs urging him on, begging for more.

His grip shifted, freeing his right hand so he could slide it down between them, and that was all she needed. Her back arched, shoving her hips farther forward, and she cried out as her body shuddered and clenched with release.

He joined her moments later, his fingers digging into her skin so hard it hurt, his entire body shaking, her name on his lips.

They stayed like that for a long, lost minute, their foreheads pressed together and their breath slowing in unison, until her arms started to cramp and she lowered her feet to the ground.

He brushed her cheek with his fingers, then bent to retrieve her panties, handing them to her as he pulled his trousers back up.