tangled together in passion …
Stop it! Jamie sprinted away, but he easily kept pace.
“Haven’t you ever heard of a hotel? Or if you can’t afford one, there’s an animal shelter around. They take in strays,” she grated out.
Six feet of muscled werewolf stared her down, until she was forced to blink and look away. “You’re my mate, Jamie. Pack. Pack bands together. It’s how we survive. I won’t abandon you so get used to the idea of having me around for good.”
Damian held her elbow, a courtly, old-fashioned gesture with a greater intent behind it. Trapped, his prisoner. Too weary to fight, she walked. As they crossed over to Jackson Square and neared the cathedral, he ground to an abrupt halt. A cruel, ruthless smile curved his lips.
“Ah, I see an old friend. Stay here,” he ordered, guiding her over to a park bench.
Grateful for the reprieve, Jamie sat. Interest sparked as she watched the Draicon stalk over to the doorway near where he’d kissed her. The doorway was open. Odd, because that building was empty and …
The hell with it. She didn’t take orders.
Inside, dust and debris littered the empty room. Damian was standing in the far corner, crowding a short, elderly man in faded khaki trousers and a plaid short-sleeved shirt. She recognized him. The vendor who sometimes set up shop on the street near Café du Monde, sold fresh crayfish and then vanished before the police could order him away or question him about a permit.
Nice man, struggling to make a living after his shrimp boat had been washed away during Katrina’s awful storm surge. Originally from Slidell, he …
Jamie gasped.
Damian was picking the man up by his throat, shaking him like a rag doll. The vendor uttered a dry squeal. A dagger appeared in Damian’s hand. Horrified shock slammed into her as the Draicon thrust it into the man’s chest. Then Damian flung him, dear God, flung him, across the room. The little crayfish vendor’s head hit the wall with a sickening crack.
He was dead.
A scream died in her throat. Only a strangled moan arose as Damian turned, saw her and sped to her side. He cupped her cheeks in his hands, searching her face.
“Ah, Jamie, I wish you hadn’t seen that.”
“Y-you killed him,” she whispered.
“Watch,” Damian said quietly.
Before her eyes, the crayfish vendor’s body turned to ash. Gray ash.
“He wasn’t human. He was a Morph, disguised as a human.”
“But I knew him! I’ve known him for a year now, I used to buy crayfish from him, he lives in …” Her voice trailed off. Jamie rubbed her arms, suddenly chilled.
“The Morphs killed him, and one assumed the man’s identity. This is the second one I’ve killed today. I think the city is crawling with them, Jamie. Even people you know are really Morphs in disguise.” Damian released her.
“How do I know you aren’t one, as well?”
He waved his hand and a dagger appeared in his palm. Damian handed it to her, hilt side first. “Cut me. I bleed red, same as you. Not acid. The Morphs disguise themselves as humans, but they can’t disguise their blood. That’s how I knew the vendor wasn’t human. He bled acid.”
Hedging, she studied the knife. Calmly, Damian held out his hand. Then she slashed his palm. He didn’t even wince. Crimson droplets welled up, bright and viscous. Grimacing, she touched the fluid. Just blood. Fascinated, Jamie watched the wound slowly close.
Damian waved his hand and the dagger vanished. “I suppose that’s a good sign that you didn’t take the knife and thrust it into my heart,” he said with a wry smile.
“The thought occurred to me, but I think it would take a steel drill bit to pierce your hide.” Jamie leaned back against the doorjamb, suddenly weary beyond words.
His expression changed to concern. Taking her arm, he guided her out of the building. They went to her house, each step feeling as if she slogged through heavy mud. Finally she reached home. She unlocked the gate and he escorted her inside, taking the key and locking the gate. Damian pocketed the key and released her. Exhausted, Jamie headed for the courtyard and sat in one of the faded wicker chairs.
Approval flared on his face as Damian followed. He looked around, his hand resting on the redbrick wall. “This is a good house. A safe house.”
Jamie shoved out of the chair. “Find yourself somewhere else to sleep tonight. You’re a Draicon, the ground should suit you fine. Don’t howl at the moon. You’ll wake the neighbors.”
“Howling at the moon is an old wives’ tale. I only howl when I want sex. So don’t be alarmed if you hear me in the night.”
Startled, she turned to find him offering a charming smile.
“Howl at me all you want, Draicon, but you’ll have to force me to get me into bed with you again,” she snapped.
“I won’t ever force you. You’ll come to me. Soon, you won’t be able to resist any more than I will,” he said gently.
When wolves fly.
Damian followed her upstairs, but she ignored him. The bedroom door locked behind her. Jamie collapsed on the antique four-poster, clutching her pillow and staring at the yellowed ceiling. A cool night breeze drifted through the French doors open to the garden. She always hated this room with its dreary heaviness, but Mark had liked it so she left it alone.
Her body felt leaden. Was she turning to stone? Impossible. It’s a trick to get you to trust him, so he can sleep with you again.
She hugged the pillow to her chest. Tears didn’t come. They weren’t allowed. She hadn’t cried since, wow, when?
One single tear, shed from guilt and shame when she’d gone to Damian’s deathbed and saw him lying there. But real, honest, grieving tears?
Since the day her parents died. Since then she hadn’t wept. Not even for all she’d lost. And doubted she ever would again.
Small sounds barely audible to the human ear alerted Damian. He paused outside Jamie’s door. Hovering, he waited, instinct screaming to rush inside and hold her in his arms. She’d bite his head off. Tough Jamie didn’t want him seeing her break down.
Her breath was hitching in little gasps.
He broke the lock and went inside. Damian switched on a small Tiffany lamp. The soft yellow glow illuminated a crimson room smothered in ponderous furniture. Much too serious for Jamie.
She needed a light, airy room, with sky-blue walls and whimsical furniture.
Approaching the four-poster bed more suitable for a royal monarch, Damian silently assessed his future mate. Asleep, she lay curled on her side toward him, her shoulder-length black hair mussed. Little snuffling noises came from her, but she shed no tears.
Such delicate
