Grains of Stygian salt dotted the surface of the oak table—the remnants of the rail Darien had inhaled into his system through a rolled-up banknote of fifty gold mynet. His eyes were closed, his elbows were propped up on the table, and his laced fingers were pressed against his chin as though he were praying.
Between his elbows sat Loren’s phone, the cracked screen alit with a photo of Sabrine. Loren had snapped the photo at Her Infernal Majesty the night she was abducted. Sabrine was wearing a glowstick halo, her eyes squinted shut as she beamed at the camera with a smile brighter than the strobe lights behind her. The photograph would help Darien track Sabrine; it was the route most Darkslayers took if the target they were assigned had a name they could search up in the Angelthene citizen database. When photographs failed, or a target’s name or appearance was unknown, that was when something like bone powder came into play.
“How does it work?” Loren asked of remotely tracking. She crossed her arms on the worn tabletop. The ceiling fan that hung above the adjoined sitting room was on low, the current of air raising her skin to gooseflesh. She wished she’d changed into sweats, instead of the avocado-print pajamas that were far from warm. “I’ve never seen it done before. Can you explain it to me?”
The sigh Darien blew through his nose sent a few grains of salt gliding across the burned table. The eerie devil face seemed to track her, no matter where she sat or stood. Kind of like Darien’s stare, in a slightly-less-unsettling way. “The first step is very important,” Darien said, enunciating every word. His eyes were still closed.
“Which is?”
“Are you sure you’re ready?” he murmured. “I won’t tell you unless you’re listening very,verycarefully.” Despite that his eyes were shut, Loren nodded, leaning closer. Bits of salt dug into her elbows. Finally, he said, “Step one: annoying little girls named Loren must stop talking.”
The eager expression she was wearing instantly crumpled into a frown, and she recoiled as if he’d flicked her nose.
Darien opened his eyes to shoot her a withering look. She nearly flinched at the sight of them—gleaming like depthless sockets. So black, they seemed to suck the light out of the room.
But Loren stamped down her fright and found the courage to glare back at him. “I would’ve thoughtyouof all people would know how to focus through distraction.” Holy crap, those eyes reallywereterrifying. Even when they were blue, they had a way of scaring a person out of their skin—which was exactly why she had nearly peed her pants at the Avenue of the Scarlet Star.
“My line of work doesn’t usually involve someone prattling on and staring me in the face the whole time.” Clearly finished with entertainingandarguing with her, he closed his eyes again, and this time Loren buttoned her lips as he focused.
As the seconds wore on, his eyes began to shift below the lids, as if he were dreaming. And aside from the odd muscle in his impressive biceps flexing beneath the sleeves of his black shirt, there was no further indication of what he was seeing with his sixth sense, or whether it was even working. Loren’s foot was itching to tap out a beat; she had to curl her bare toes against the hardwood floor to keep them still.
Despite the complaint he’d made about being stared at, Loren didn’t look away from him once. And beyond his eyes flickering below his lids, she found herself noticing other things about him—and found herself biting her bottom lip as she noticed these things, especially now that he was in no position to catch her.
Things like the curve of his broad mouth, the shapes of his inky brows, the way the longest strands of his undercut—still damp from the shower he’d taken—fell to the tip of his nose. The shirt he was wearing fit him like a glove, drawing attention to every hollow and curve in his strong arms and chest. She caught herself imagining what those tattooed hands would feel like gripping her waist, that perfect face of his between her thighs, and that mouth…
That mouth—
She pinched the inside of her thigh really hard. Hard enough to make her eyes water. Hard enough to almost—almost—erase the thoughts that had invaded her mind. The thoughts that involved him spreading her out on this table and showing her just how good he was with his tongue.
The dining room lights flickered. Where Darien’s hands were laced below his chin, his fingers twitched, as if he wanted to reach for something that only he could see. The space between his brows knotted, and beads of sweat formed below his lower lip. That look of intense concentration had Loren imagining even filthier things that made her want to slap herself, made her squirm in her seat. Her heart was pounding fast and hard, and her palms were slick with sweat where they were resting upon her knees, her sharp nails making indentations in her skin.
Her palms weren’t the only things that were suddenly slick.
The dining room grew several degrees warmer as the lights flared so brightly, Loren swore the bulbs would burst.
When Darien’s eyes flashed open to look at her, there was something feral in them—something carnal. It sent a thrill up Loren’s spine and had her pressing her thighs together under the table. Heat pooled below her navel, making her head spin.
After a moment, the black faded out of his eyes, his irises melting back into that remarkable, steely shade of blue.
Loren dropped her gaze to a freckle on the inside of her left wrist. Despite that mind-reading was an ability no one in existence was known to possess, she had the horrifying feeling that Darien knew exactly why her face was turning tomato-red.
And when she peeked up at him, watching as black swallowed the whole of his eyes again with a blink, she realized that she hadn’t put the talisman back on after having a shower. Because of her absentmindedness, his hellseher senses were picking up on how her body was responding to him—identifying her aura and the telltale colors it was betraying. Colors that would tell him all he needed to know about the lust tearing like a force of nature through her traitorous body—and the filthy thoughts she simply couldn’t control, even with him staring right at her.
She tried to swallow, but it was more of a gulp. And that throbbing warmth at the apex of her thighs—
When Darien spoke, his voice was low and slightly husky, the sound so enticing that her bones turned to liquid. “Would you do me the extreme honor of telling me why you suddenly want to drop your panties?” Those eyes were feral in a way that had nothing to do with the Sight, feral in a way that set her whole body on fire. Feral in a way that made the throbbing between her thighs more intense—if that were even possible.
She tried to reply, but her tongue was a deadweight in her mouth.
And she swore she felt something—his magic, she realized—reach out and caress her mind. With his heated gaze fixed on her, the invitation in his eyes clear as day, that warm ache in her core continued to build, and in response to it, the stroke of his magic grew deeper. Harder. As if he could use his sixth sense alone to undo her—to give her release.
“You like that, don’t you?” Darien’s voice was deep and dark and sexy as hell.
“No,” she lied. She swallowed the whimper that bubbled up her throat. Her stomach fluttered, her lips parting, and when he zeroed in on her mouth with a predator’s focus, she found that she couldn’t draw air, couldn’t so much as move without the risk of combusting.
Was it possible? Could his magic really do such a thing to her without him ever having to physically touch her?
His magic pulled back a little. “Would you like me to stop?”
