Kinked (Elder Races, #6)(29)

He glanced around at the camp she had made. “That was not worth a twenty-six-year-old bottle of scotch,” he said. Still, he scooped up the hares and strode off, returning very soon with the carcasses skinned and cleaned.

By then the flames were burning steadily. She had already constructed a roasting spit from forked branches, with a third branch set across the fire. In no time, they had the hares set on the spit.

The wind had turned bitter as the last of the light fled, but the campfire threw off light and heat, and the liquor was a smooth fire that slid like golden lava down her throat. Aryal knew Wyr urbanites who would shudder at having to spend the night out in weather conditions like this, but they had been tamed so much by civilization, they had grown soft and dependent on modern conveniences.

She didn’t understand those Wyr. They had lost part of their souls, or bartered them away for their flat screens and hot tubs, electricity and refrigeration, and deadbolts that kept out other things but most importantly locked them in.

She loved the night.

After their supper had been set to cook, Quentin straightened from his crouch, turned and glowered at her. “Hand it over.”

He looked moody and pissed. But then he always looked moody and pissed around her. It always startled her whenever he smiled at anyone else. First, that he was capable of smiling at all, and second, that he looked so damn good when he did it.

Why did she feel the compulsion to constantly rile him? Honestly, she wasn’t contrary all of the time, just usually around people who made her crazy. She shook her head. “Finders keepers. Possession’s nine-tenths of the law. And besides, I don’t want to.”

“I hate you,” said Quentin, “so goddamn passionately.”

She shook her head and tsked. “You young Wyr feel everything too much—”

This time he didn’t launch at her. Instead he advanced on her slowly, his eyes full of intent. She smiled as she uncapped the scotch and held it up to her mouth.

He snatched at it, hooked his fingers around the bottom of the bottle and kept her from drinking. She pulled and he pulled, and amber liquid sloshed out of the top.

“I’m curious,” said Quentin. “Is every harpy like you?”

She braced herself and tugged harder on the bottle. She couldn’t budge it from his grasp. More liquid sloshed out. “We’re pretty rare,” she said cheerfully. “I’m considered one of the more sociable ones. Most harpies don’t tolerate living in society well. They get around too many people, and they get all whacked-out and slashy.”

“Sociable.” He barked out a laugh and advanced more, until the bottle was sandwiched between their torsos. He gripped the bottle neck, his hands sandwiching hers.

She tilted her head and assessed him. Hell if she was going to retreat just because he decided to get all aggressive and push into her personal space. Heat came off him in waves. It felt more delicious than the heat from the fire.

She said softly, “What are you doing, Quentin?”

“Honestly,” he said, just as softly. “What does Grym see in you anyway?”

She exploded. “How many times are you going to bring that up? We’re not lovers! Grym and I are friends. Here’s a newsflash for you. I. Do. Have. Friends. Maybe that concept is a little difficult for you to grasp.”

He put a hand over her mouth.

It brought his scent up close and personal under her nose. His palm felt hard and callused against her lips. She almost licked it to find out if his skin was salty.

She said telepathically, That’s got to be one of the more stupid gestures I’ve ever seen.

He growled, “But it looks so pretty.”

She remembered the woman who had been with him, soft and feminine, handcuffed and obedient. What would it be like to give control over to him? To feel his powerful body moving over hers, in hers, while he did anything he liked to her? Anything at all.

In her case, he’d probably take the opportunity to throttle her again.

What would it be like if he gave control over to her? Her skin prickled, a hot shivering sensation.

She jerked her mouth away from his hand and heard herself saying, “I was going to kill you.”

Well, she hadn’t exactly planned on admitting that. She watched his lean face warily as he laughed, a low wicked chuckle that vibrated through the bottle between them.

His gaze had turned reckless. “I was going to kill you too.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You might have tried.”

Actually he might have succeeded, just as she might have. There had never been a time when sentinel had fought against sentinel. Each of them had highly individualized talents. Even the gryphons’ talents differed from each other. But they were all comparable in terms of strength, agility and cunning.

He tugged again at the bottle and this time, losing interest in the tug of war, she let go. He took a long pull. She watched the long muscles of his throat work as he drank. When he finished, he said, “I still might try.”

Her smile turned mocking. Was this their version of détente? He wouldn’t be talking about it, if he really meant to try. Neither one of them would. They wouldn’t give away that much of their intentions. She told him, “Now you’re just flirting.”

Fat from the cooking meat dripped onto the fire and it hissed. One corner of his sexy mouth hooked up as, moving at a leisurely pace, he turned away from her.