Demon from the Dark (Immortals After Dark #10)(37)

Perhaps she needed a binding ceremony to make him her husband. Perhaps marrying within her culture wasn’t as easy as within his. With a few words spoken . . .

At the end of those five days, would she be as anxious as he? Eagerly leading him by the hand to her home, to her bed?

Would she introduce him to her family? Hardened warriors weren’t oft valued in a soft world. Yet maybe her people would appreciate the fact that he’d saved her life.

Dreams of the future, Slaine? He knew better. No longer could he dream without dreading. The two were forever intertwined for him. Every time he’d dared to anticipate a change in his fortunes—even from the earliest age—he’d had his hopes crushed.

When his mother had sold him into slavery, he’d stupidly believed he was going to be adopted into a new family. And as much as he’d hated what the master had done to him, Malkom had felt betrayed when that vampire had turned him out in the streets.

But Malkom had made both of them pay, along with the guards who’d delivered him to the Viceroy and eventually the vampire leader himself. All were dead. Except for Ronath.

Reminded of this, Malkom realized he couldn’t depart Oblivion when she wanted. Unless Ronath attacked before then, Malkom would be leaving him unscathed, though he’d always meted retribution.

That bastard had cost him his best friend in Kallen. Malkom didn’t blame Kallen for what had happened in that cell. Malkom blamed the conniving armorer for the loss.

Nearly as much as I blame myself.

Could he forgo vengeance on Ronath? After awaiting it for so long?

Malkom gazed at Carrow. Hadn’t he been awaiting her for just as long, even if he hadn’t realized it?

She was no distant dream. She was here, real and tangible, a fantasy made flesh. He feared after one night inside her body, he would surrender his vengeance without a second thought.

One way to find out . . . .



The wheels were turning again. What was the demon deciding?

When Carrow stood, again intending to unroll the second sleeping bag, he scowled.

“No sex,” he said in halting English. “No bi-ting.” He held up his palm in frustration, so clearly saying, Then what am I to have?

Good point, she thought as she knelt on her new bed. The demon had fed her, given her shelter and protection. Though he came from a master/slave culture, he’d actually been negotiating with her, but she knew she was on borrowed time.

Change of plans. “Fine.” If she did give him pleasure, he might fuel her with more power. She glanced away and held out her own palm. “Hand shandy, anyone?”

He hadn’t moved. Great. Was she going to have to mime this one, too? When she faced him, realization lit his expression.

He narrowed his eyes, giving her a look of distaste. As if she’d just cheapened herself.

And Carrow the Incarcerated, party girl without inhibitions, was embarrassed. Then she remembered who she was with. “You’re giving me that look when you creamed jeans on me—twice? Maybe you should be embarrassed!”

“Carrow,” he said warningly.

Yes, he’d injured her and freaked her out, but she no longer believed his behavior was due to malice in his heart—it was because of what he’d become. He yelled at me to run.

Which meant that Carrow was the real villain here. She did have malicious intentions toward him. She planned to hurt him worse than he could ever hurt her.

Don’t think about that; think of Ruby.

He flicked his fingers at Carrow’s shirt, commanding her to remove it. When she merely gaped at him, he hit his fist into his other palm.

The demon wasn’t joking around.

Yet the idea of kissing him, or more, when he was so dirty skeeved her. “Look, it’s not you. It’s me, and my inability to dig dirty dudes.” Not to mention how filthy she was. Earlier, she’d swiped phicken juice off her chin with the back of her hand.

She had all the materials needed to get them squeaky. She just needed a tub and about fifty gallons of pure, grade A water. “Uh, I don’t suppose you have a place to take a bath?”





15




She wanted a . . . bath. He remembered the word because ’twas so abhorrent to him.

As a boy, he’d been washed by the master’s other slaves, had been wholly dunked in water as he’d choked and sputtered. He’d screamed with fear over the bathing, as much as anything else that the master had done to him.

Malkom would never forget the heavy, alien feel of liquid over him, or how the lye soap had burned his eyes like fire.

To this day, he’d never submerged himself.

She mimicked washing her arms. “A bath?”

Yet another habit of hers that was so similar to the vampires’.

Was this another of her conditions? Then afterward, she might do more than coldly offer her hand? She’d wanted to give him that release but to deny him the feel of her body—and he’d resented it.

Even as his member had swelled for her soft palm . . .

“Water? To bathe?” Now she mimicked pouring water over her head.

Oh, yes, wherever she hailed from, she was from a family of wealth—lots of it. He knew this with all the conviction of one who’d spent most of his life without any. He wouldn’t doubt if she were a noble, or even a royal.

Here a carafe of water could buy a slave—and she wanted a barrel’s worth of it.