“They’re fine,” he said quickly of his leather pants.
“You sure? I won’t look.”
The situation was getting intimate. Fast. And what was wrong with that?
You don’t do the intimate with someone you hardly know. You screw them and leave. You know this woman. It’s too late for a quickie, never see you again, sweetie.
She’d already nestled her ribbons and raspberry lips into a place in his brain. Good luck getting her out, buddy.
She turned and strode out of the living room.
“You don’t creep me out, Zoë.” He whispered the words as his brain fogged and his heavy eyelids fell shut. His grip softened about the pottery bowl.
“Pretty...” was the last word he could manage before surrendering to his body’s need to shut down while the spell worked to heal his wounds.
* * *
Zoë smiled to herself as she moved the clothes from the washer into the dryer. Pretty, eh? The man hadn’t been all there in the head when he’d muttered that. As he hadn’t been in full grasp of his senses when he’d muttered about creepy witches.
She hoped.
The blood had come out of his black shirt thanks to her homemade herbal detergent with an extra touch of earth magic. She tossed it into the dryer and sprinkled in some cloves to imbue a pleasing scent into the fabric, though she was a little sad she’d washed away the leather-and-licorice scent from his shirt. It still lingered on his skin, though. Goddess, but the man smelled like a treat.
But she had much better things to do than household chores and tending the sick, no matter how delicious the patient smelled. A whole lot of faery ichor needed processing and her time was valuable. But she couldn’t work while the hunter was in her house because that might tempt him to climb the stairs to see what she was doing. Her work wasn’t a secret. She just liked to keep her spell room sacred and never allowed others inside.
“Protect the magic,” she muttered. “Always and ever.”
Her parents had taught her that. One slip on her father’s part had branded him warlock. It was a hard life to live in the shadows with few friends, but there were days Zoë suspected her father preferred such a life. He’d always been quiet, almost to the point of reclusive.
As she wandered into the kitchen, curiosity over Kaz’s encounter with the vampires last night crept up on her. If he’d no intention of killing them, and had only wanted to talk with them, she wanted to know why. Because the pink-haired vampiress was involved in her life in an important way.
Had Kaz’s curiosity anything to do with something “Pink” had done?
“Couldn’t be related to me,” she muttered, while setting the breakfast dishes in the sink. “I hope not.” She and Pink had no relationship whatsoever; only business connected them. “I’m doing nothing wrong,” she said with a lift of her chin. “And hunters don’t involve themselves in the kind of stuff I’m working on, anyway. Do they?”
There would be no need to. Why, the hunter should appreciate her efforts.
She heard the shower running. The image of Kaz in the buff popped into her thoughts. Now, that would be a beautiful sight to take in. The way his eyes had danced up her legs and to her breasts after he’d first woken had made her feel as if he were drawing his fingers along her skin. Slowly, lingering, feeling out the curves on her body. And she’d felt every long gaze seep through her pores.
She smiled at the delicious notion that he had been assessing her charms. In that moment of assessment, she had wanted to kiss him, but he’d been out of sorts. Probably she misunderstood his interest in her as woozy discombobulation produced by the spell surging through his system.
She was rushing toward happily ever after and wasn’t even sure the man was on the same page. Well, of course he wasn’t. They’d only just met. But his kisses had definitely turned a few of her pages.
She placed the clean plates on the drying rack. She couldn’t condone anyone causing harm to another living being. Not unless it was justified. If a vampire had harmed a human, or even killed them, then yes, she had no problem with a hunter ending their life. But not if the vamp was merely drinking from humans to survive—as they must do, for cold blood from blood bags did not sustain life. If they did only that, never taking too much, and leaving the victim enthralled in a sensual swoon, then hell no, she would never stand for a hunter thinking he had the right to end that vampire’s life.
Kaz was not the sort to irrationally take another’s life. She sensed that. He wore honor like a flag, though he didn’t wave it blatantly about as if he needed the accolades for his bravery. He’d only wanted to talk to the vampires last night. And she had plainly seen he had done his best not to harm them. To his detriment.
“I feel one hundred percent better.”
Kaz strolled into the kitchen, dark leather pants low on his hips and droplets of water still glistening on his broad, wide shoulders. His short, wet hair was tousled this way and that, and where there had been bruises last night on his chest, ribs, jaw and temple, now there were none, save the fading mark over his kidney.
She studied the raised scar on his shoulder. It looked like a brand, some sort of symbol. Where had she seen it before? Recently. He’d gotten it when he was a teenager? The things kids did when they were drunk.
“How does your side feel?” she asked. “That was an awful injury.”
“It’s still tender, but I’m good to go. You have my shirt?”
“Another half an hour for the dryer cycle to finish. Let’s sit.” She strolled into the living room and sat, patting the couch beside her. “If it’s still tender, I want you to relax until my magic has completed its work.”
“It was a healing spell, eh?” he asked. “You witches are into that kind of stuff? Healing?”
She noticed his gaze strayed to her cheek, and the scar, and could read his unspoken thoughts. “Witches are enlightened beings. We’re all about resonance, harmonics and frequency. As is the body both mortals and immortals inhabit.”
Zoë again patted the couch.
With a sigh, he sat next to her, stretching his arms across the back. Zoë wanted to snuggle against him and draw in his darkly sweet scent, but, sensing she may not have judged him correctly for his comment about creepy witches, she sat forward, elbows on her knees, and twisted her head to the side to eye him.
“The paranormal breeds tend to heal instantly,” she said, “or very close to that. Humans, on the other hand, take a lot longer. Without my magic you would have been swollen and groaning this morning.”
“Whatever you did, I appreciate it. You’re not at all creepy.”
She smiled and that summoned a smile on his lips, which were oh so thick, and his teeth gleamed like some kind of movie star.
Kissable was the word at the tip of her tongue, but Zoë feigned disinterest.
“You must have encountered a creepy witch at some time?” she asked.
“When I got this.” He tilted his head to reveal a curved tattoo behind his ear half covered by his hair.
Zoë inspected what looked like black tribal markings about an inch long and as wide as her finger. “Is that a spell tattoo?”
He nodded. “Keeps vamps from biting me. Not sure how it works, only that it does. Comes in handy in my line of work.”
“I imagine so. The only witch who does spell tattoos is—”
“Sayne,” he offered. “And if you don’t agree that dude is creepy, well then...”
Sayne, an ink witch who had no known home and traveled the world, inked spell tattoos. He was known