Page 48 of Edge of Darkness (Night Prowler 4)
She managed a horrified, “Why?” but he shook his head.
“My turn. What are those?” His gaze dropped to the chain around her neck and the two gold rings that hung from it.
She whispered, “My parents’ wedding rings. Why did you kill those men…people…creatures?”
He lifted his gaze to hers. Very composed, he said, “Because if I hadn’t, they would have killed us both.”
Ember opened her mouth, but no sound came out. They would have killed us both.
Christian asked, “Why did you come to Spain?” and took another careful step toward her.
She realized dimly that she was dripping rainwater in a widening pool onto the floor around her feet. “To forget,” she whispered, feeling her legs solidify to something like cement as he eased ever nearer, very carefully, watching her for any sign she was going to bolt.
“To forget what?” he insisted, but Ember shook her head; her turn.
“Is that what you do for a living? You kill things? That’s what your ‘work’ is?” Her voice was faint, tinged with disbelief and horror, until she had another chilling realization and her voice actually cracked. “Is that what you were doing that night—when you were late for our date?”
“That’s four questions. And the answer to all of them is no. Now, answer me this and I’ll answer all the rest of your questions, as many as you want: why did you come to Spain? And don’t tell me ‘to forget.’ I want a real answer, Ember. Tell me the truth.”
He was close now, within reaching distance, but he’d stopped an arm’s length away and wasn’t making any moves to come closer. Ember’s entire body was shaking now, her knees and hands and even her lower lip were trembling. The bravado she’d felt moments before had drained away, leaving only the cold, cold residue of fear. Water dripped into her eyes but she was too frozen to wipe it away.
“I-I came to Spain to forget…to forget…” she stopped abruptly when he stepped closer.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Christian said gently. “You should know that by now. Hurting you would only be hurting myself, September.”
Hearing him say her full name reminded her of something. She swallowed around the lump in her throat and asked, “How did you know my real name that first day we met?”
“I saw it.” When her brow furrowed in confusion, he explained, “There’s a framed newspaper article on the wall behind the register, with a picture of your father and you. ‘American artist opens rare bookstore in Gothic quarter.’ Both your names were beneath.”
For some reason, this was the little fact that finally embedded itself into her consciousness as incontrovertible evidence of his un-humanness. The wall behind the register was ten feet back from the counter; the framed newspaper article printed in—as newspaper articles are—tiny, six-point type. Her father had complained when the article came out that he could barely even read it with his glasses on, the paper held close to his nose.
Unnatural speed, immense strength and heightened senses, combined with the ability to turn into some other, animal form…Elsething.
But God, this Elsething was exquisite. Was that another of his gifts? Symmetry of features so perfect it would stun his prey into submission, like cobra hypnosis? He was so painfully beautiful it was next to impossible to believe this man standing before her had wreaked the kind of havoc she’d seen in the crime scene photos on the internet, the kind of things only a monster would do. The blood—so much blood.
And how could she ever trust he wouldn’t do the same thing to her, even by accident? Maybe his bloodlust was affected by the tide or the weather or even the full moon—
In one swift motion, Christian tore open his shirt, exposing his bare, muscular chest. Buttons popped and went flying, clattering and bouncing against the floor. Suddenly imposing and large and angry, he closed the final space between them and growled, “Do it then! If you really think I would ever lift a finger to hurt you, you might as well go ahead and kill me! I won’t try to stop you.”
The hysteria rose to a peak inside her, burning bright, razor sharp. She sucked in a breath, every nerve and muscle poised to flee—
Then he reached out and gripped her arm. Ember twisted away with a high-pitched shriek that sounded like a mouse when it sees the cat in mid-pounce.
But he was too fast and too strong, and she was too human. She was no match for him.
His arms came around her in a crushing tight band. She struggled against him to absolutely no avail, twisting and bucking, trying to gain release, but he only held her as she struggled, silently, patiently, until she wore herself out and sagged to the floor, her legs folding beneath her. Christian slid down behind her and continued to hold her as she gulped in lungfuls of cedar-scented air, her body wracked with tremors, her ragged breaths echoing throughout the quiet room.
“Breathe for me, little firecracker. Just breathe,” he whispered near her ear.
And she did. Shaking and hyperventilating in his arms, she did.
After a few minutes, Christian tentatively loosened his arms. Seeing she wasn’t going to make a move—she couldn’t, her muscles were frozen stiff—he peeled her soggy coat off her back and tossed it to a nearby chair. On his knees, he slid around in front of her and brushed her wet hair off her face.
“Look at me,” he said, when she didn’t lift her gaze to his. Childishly, she squeezed her eyes shut tight. “Look at me or I’m going to kiss you,” he warned.
Her lids flew open and she stared at him, wide-eyed and shivering with shock.
“You told me you wanted all of me,” he murmured, stroking a finger along her cheek. “Tell me that hasn’t changed.”
