vampire. A knife to the gut would never kill you.” She stirred, the darkness still washing out detail, but Jack could see enough now to be sure it was Lark. “But everyone believes you died when you wrecked your Porsche. Or rather, when a gunman helped you wreck it.” She added the last bit more softly, as if she actually cared.
“I survived.” His words came automatically, almost devoid of feeling. Seeing Lark, hearing her, was too much. Every possible emotion was making a log jam in his gut. As if he was going to overload, Jack’s fingers began to shake. “I survived, but not all the shooters did. The body they found was one of theirs.”
“And no one noticed they had the wrong vampire?”
“My servant identified the remains and immediately went into witness protection. I owe him a big favor.”
She made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a whispered curse. The scent of her fear found Jack, giving him a twinge of satisfaction. She’d seen his demon side, and she knew she’d crossed him. She had every reason to tremble.
But vengeance wasn’t all he hungered for. What he felt was infinitely more complex, and simple revenge wasn’t going to satisfy him. He took two more steps, shock robbing his movements of grace.
“Jack?” she said cautiously, pulling her trench coat closer.
He raised his arms, his first instinct to touch her. She swayed forward, but the moment dissolved once her gaze flickered across his face. Whatever she saw there stopped her cold.
Jack let his arms fall. “How do I know it’s really you?”
Her full lips twitched. “Do you think I’m a warty goblin out to trick you into kissing me?”
“Your design studio burned the night you stabbed me,” he said, keeping his voice even. “I thought you died.”
She moved a step deeper into the shadows, keeping distance between them. “I almost did. It’s taken me until now to recover. Whoever tried to kill you got to me first. There was more than a simple robbery that night.” She lifted her chin as if daring him to doubt her. “Go ahead and say it. I should have let you stay.”
“Instead of sticking a knife in me?” This time, he let his anger show. “Don’t bother asking forgiveness for that one.”
Her head bowed, as graceful as a flower. “I won’t.”
“Good. It’ll save us both time.”
Silence fell. Jack could hear his own breathing, harsh with emotion, but Lark remained immobile as a mouse beneath a hawk’s shadow. After a long time, Jack found composure enough to go on. “But you survived.”
“I like to defy expectations,” she said, lifting her gaze. Her eyes held a trace of rebellion. It was a look he knew too well.
“Why didn’t I know you were still alive?” he demanded softly.
They were within a few paces of each other now. He could see the mass of her hair falling past her shoulders. Old memories prompted him to touch it, to feel the soft mahogany waves spring beneath his fingers. His hand reached out to her almost of its own accord.
She held up a hand, palm out. “Stop, Jack. Stop where you are.”
“Why?” He reluctantly obeyed, his fingers closing on nothing. He could smell her anxiety, sharp and tantalizing, but he could also sense her desire. Her clash of emotions resonated through him, at once delicious and heartbreaking.
“You know why.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.
Because you’re afraid of me. Because you know I don’t trust you. He clenched his jaw, rejecting everything but the urge to touch her. He’d loved her, loathed her, thought her dead, and now she was inches away. Faster than thought, his hand cupped her cheek. It was like silk, cool from the night air, but beneath that perfect surface, life beat hot and red.
He felt her flinch, but pretended he hadn’t. Right then, denying logic or even a decent sense of self-preservation, he needed her the way mortals needed breath. “Just this once, tell me the truth.”
But he didn’t give her a chance to speak. For a delirious instant, desire trumped his wrath. His free hand closed on her shoulder, pinning her against the rough stone of the wall. Although she was strong enough, he moved too quickly for her to struggle. Her sigh came out in a warm rush, fanning his face. She was so alive.
Almost against his will, his mouth closed over hers. Now that he had her in his hands, Jack knew beyond a doubt she was Lark and no fey trick upon his senses. His body knew her—the exotic scent, the rhythm of her breath, the feel of her skin under his. No glamour was that precise. Jack remembered every intoxicating detail, even if he’d tried to scour her out of his soul. “I mourned for you.”
“And I for you.”
But her voice cracked on the words. He could feel her pulse, speeding with the rush of her panic. She’d seen the demon in him, and it terrified her. The sensation of it went straight to his sex, making him press closer. She struggled a moment, but it was barely for the span of one racing heartbeat. And then she surrendered—or stood her ground—fitting herself to him as if they’d never been apart. Her kiss told him everything he longed for.
As a human, Jack had thirsted in the desert, and she was sweeter than the taste of life-giving water. But poetry wasn’t uppermost in his thoughts. Lust and hunger uncoiled inside him, bringing out his fangs. He braced his arms on either side of her, his fingers digging into the wall. Stone and mortar crumbled in a shower of dust.
Her body arched under his, the movement showing her smooth, white throat. His tongue found the spot where her skin was warm and fragrant, tasting the beat of her heart through the thinnest veil of flesh. He pressed his mouth there, teasing with the points of his teeth. Her skin held the tang of fear, though still she refused to show it completely.
At the sharp intake of her breath, he broke away. His head was starting to spin with the need for blood, and he didn’t trust his self-control. There was too much anger in him to be completely safe.
Slowly, Lark’s eyes met his, the low light turning their rich brown color to black. Her voice was hoarse with lust and regret. “I disappeared after the fire because I was hiding from the men who tried to kill me. And you were dead, or so I thought. Fiery deaths were trending last season, in case you don’t remember.”
Jack drew back with a noise of disgust, sanity crawling back like a whipped dog. “It was nice of you to grieve, after the knife and all. Although you obviously knew I was walking the earth, or you wouldn’t be following me.”
The sudden widening of her eyes said he’d caught her out. “There were rumors in the Light Court that you were in Marcari, but I didn’t let my heart believe it until I saw you on the street a few days ago. I don’t know what to think about you anymore, Jack. Not after our last conversation.”
“Conversation,” he mocked. “That’s a polite description for stabbing your lover.”
She was shivering, but he knew better than to think it was just the cold. Our last conversation. The magic in the knife had ripped away his self-control, and Jack had let his demon side show. It was the only slip he’d ever made in his long life, but she’d learned his secret that night.
That discovery had been her mission, the game between them, and she’d won. He’d loved Lark as he’d never loved anyone in all his long centuries, but she had been nothing more than a spy in his bed.
What she’d learned was a danger to him. In purely practical terms, her death that same night had solved his problem, even as it left a world of unresolved pain. Now he had to decide what to do about her sudden resurrection.
He cupped her face again—none too gently—his thumb stroking her cheekbone. “Who did you tell about me?” he asked.
“No one.” She pulled away.
“I find that hard to believe.