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His fangs grazed her lightly as he let his mouth drift away from hers, then lower, to the sensitive skin of her throat. She held her breath with a needful anticipation, her veins calling to him, hearing his own heartbeat-his unspoken thoughts-echoing through every electrified nerve ending in her body. Her head tilted as though pulled on invisible strings, granting him access to the throbbing of her pulse. He kissed her there, tender and sweet. Teased the delicate spot with his tongue and teeth and fangs. A moan escaped him then, guttural with denial.
"I can't," he murmured against her lips. "I won't turn the mistakes I've made with you into something irreparable, Dani." He drew back, pressed his forehead to hers as he held her against his naked body. "Time was never on our side, was it? Fate gives us nothing more than a taste of what might have been."
She couldn't speak. Couldn't deny him as he kissed her once more and led her toward the bed. They made love in a breathless tangle, no promises or denials. No words at all. Only passion.
Danika Sstiem" wept for the pleasure he gave her, and for the inescapable fact that these would be the last moments they had together.
Because she'd meant what she told him: She could not stand by and watch his hatred for Reiver destroy him. Her heart couldn't bear another loss.
So as he slept beside her in a heavy doze, Danika slipped out of bed to make a cowardly call on his cell phone from downstairs. "Gideon," she whispered when the scrambled number in Boston connected. "I need to get out of Scotland, and I need the Order's help."
Chapter Eight
It was harder than he cared to admit, leaving Danika that evening at sundown so he could be back at the club before Reiver showed up and wondered where his suddenly straying "Brandogge" had been all day. Malcolm bristled at the role he'd been forced to play. His collar was beginning to chafe-all the more so when he couldn't shake the feeling that it was costing him something he hadn't expected to crave so deeply.
Saying good-bye to her a couple of hours ago had a queer feeling of finality to it. Her kiss had been too resigned. Her embrace had been too tender, too lacking in demand.
He was losing her.
Hell, he'd practically pushed her away himself.
It should have come as a relief in many ways. Romantic entanglement was the dead last thing he needed. He'd been so careful to avoid even casual dalliances since he'd buried his innocent mate and unborn child. Months of work hammering the molten iron of his grief and rage into a resolve made of cold, unbreakable steel.
He'd had it all under his control. Until three nights ago, when he'd chanced to spot the pale, beautiful light that was Danika MacConn, standing mere yards away from him at the Darkhaven party. If only he hadn't seen her. If only he hadn't made it his mission to follow her all night with his gaze, torn between wanting to avoid her notice and wanting nothing more than to place himself in front of her and see if she would remember him. If she would know him, through the mask of his scars and the shield of his false name.
Calling her out that night through his knowledge of her talent had been a reckless move. An arrogant one that he'd known, even then, he would be unable to call back.
Now it was much too late to wish he'd kept his distance.
Too late to think he could go back to what things were like before she arrived in Scotland.
Too late to try to convince himself that he didn't care for Danika ... that he couldn't possibly have lost his heart to her all over again.
He loved her.
There was a part of him that always had.
The realization hit him with such staggering force, it was all he could do not to storm out of Reiver's damnable club and tell D V>Thanika exactly how he felt about her. Words he should have given her already today, when she was kissing him good-bye and he was trying to convince himself that he couldn't keep her. That it wasn't killing something inside of him to consider what he might be throwing away with Dani by holding on so tightly to the need to avenge his dead.
Malcolm cursed roundly and sent his fist into the side of a priceless Roman urn in one of the club's private salons. The ancient objet d'art exploded, shattering into a thousand tiny airborne shards.
"That's gonna cost you heavily with the boss."
Thane chuckled from behind him, and at the sight of the other guard, Malcolm lost it. He flew at the vampire on a roar, fangs erupting in his rage. In truth, no one was more deserving of his fury than himself, but he was ripe for a fight and Thane was the closest target. Besides, the son of a bitch had been giving him about a hundred good reasons lately to kick his ass. Mal snarled with violent intent. "You picked the wrong damn time to be in my face, Thane."
"I didn't come in here to pick a fight with you," he snapped back. "I came to tell you Reiver's drafted us as security for tonight's gathering."
Malcolm narrowed a glare on him. "What gathering?">Reiver grunted, toying with a lock of the brunette's long hair. "There was a house fire reported on the MacConn lands tonight. Packard and Kerr haven't come back."
"They're dead," Mal replied flatly. "By the time I got there, things were already going south. The woman wasn't about to go down easy. Turns out she had a child to protect too. She was putting up a hell of a fight. It was getting messy."
He didn't have to fake the bitterness of his report. It echoed a similar one that had occurred seven months earlier, in the filthy hovel of a pimp's dank flat. Only Malcolm hadn't reached that altercation in time to make a difference.
He muzzled his hatred and channeled it into a mask of cold indifference. "Packard and Kerr were botching your orders. I had no choice but to finish things as cleanly as possible and obliterate the evidence."
"The Breedmate and her child?"
Malcolm shrugged, nonchalant. "As was your concern, she would've been a persistent problem. So I made sure the situation was snuffed out permanently. Packard and Kerr were collateral damage."
