That Killer Smile

by Juliet Lyons

  He drops the bag onto the sofa, his eyes roaming my body like a warm caress. “I haven’t thought of anything else.”

  I swallow. “Me neither.”

  “Will you forgive me for wanting to murder your neighbor?” he asks.

  “What neighbor?” I say, only half joking.

  I’m not sure who makes the first move, but suddenly our bodies are slamming together like two magnets and my hands are all over him—under his jacket, in his hair, caressing his steely butt. Mouths glued together, our tongues lash wildly, as if we’ve been starved of each other for years instead of hours. As his hands find their way under my dress, his mouth stills on mine. A loud groan escapes his lips as he palms my bare ass.

  “Please tell me the lack of underwear is for my benefit and not the doofus next door.”

  I stifle a smile. “That’s for you to decide. And don’t call him that. If anyone’s the doofus around here, it’s you.”

  He presses a hot kiss into the hollow beneath my earlobe. “If you didn’t have me held to ransom with this no-underwear thing, I’d make you pay for that comment.”

  The spot between my legs begins to throb, my nipples so rigid they threaten to bore holes in the material of my dress. Ronin leans down, rubbing his stubbly jaw against each of my breasts in turn, his hair tickling my chin. He places a hand between my thighs, making my breath catch in my throat as he lifts his head and stares deeply into my eyes. There, in the swirling, blue depths, I recognize my own desire reflected right back at me. Maddening, impulsive, and senseless—the kind I’ve been afraid of ever since Jonjo died.

  “What are you waiting for?” I ask, aching for his touch, seconds away from grabbing his hand and guiding him inside me.

  “I’m savoring the moment.” His voice is gravelly yet soft, a dagger slicing through silk. “I’ve wanted you for so long, Catherine.”

  For the first time since turning into a vampire, I seem to be having difficulty breathing. “But isn’t that just because you thought I didn’t want you?”

  He shakes his head, copper brows drawn, jaw clenched. “No.”

  I sigh with relief as he presses his lips to mine, drawing me into a deep, sensuous kiss, burning away my fears with the heat of his mouth.

  When his fingers find their way between my slick folds, I groan. His rough hands on me feel better than anything—my own personal heaven. He breaks the kiss, leaning his forehead against mine, his face contorted with pleasure, as if he’s the one being brought to the brink and not me.

  “Say you’ll let this continue,” he says, his voice raspy and broken. “Promise me.”

  “Stop talking,” I say, my breath ragged as he circles my clit.

  He increases the pressure on my aching nub, never taking his eyes from my face. “I want this, Catherine,” he murmurs. “I want everything and more with you.”

  I close my eyes against a wave of pleasure, trying not to let my mind dwell on what he’s saying. The implications would be too much, too far-reaching.

  With his other hand, he works loose the buttons on my dress and then his fingertips are inside. He latches on to a nipple, rubbing it between his forefinger and thumb. My mouth drops open. I’m boneless, my legs wobbling as my whole body begins to tremble.

  Then suddenly he stops, a cold draft swirling around the places he touched me. He cups my face in his hands, circling his thumbs on my cheekbones. “The bedroom,” he says in a low voice. I nod mutely, allowing him to lead me across the floor into my room.

  He shoves aside the discarded outfits strewn across the bed and peels back the covers. I sink down onto the edge of the mattress, staring up at him in wonder.

  “What was that bag you were holding when you came in?” I ask, attempting to break the tension.

  He kneels on the floor before me, pushing my knees apart and positioning himself between my legs. “A new camisole from that place, La Perla. I stopped off on the way to the club.”

  “You bought me lingerie?”

  His eyes widen. “Don’t start yelling.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you buy it for me?”

  He reaches up, tucking curls behind my ear. “Because I like you, Ms. Adair. Haven’t I made that abundantly clear?”

  I nod, placing hands on his broad shoulders, feeling the tight, hard muscle through the material of his jacket. “Are you going to take that suit off, or shall I?”

  He jumps up, smiling broadly, and in a blur of speed, he’s suddenly naked, his clothes flung over the tub chair beside the window.

  “Have you ever considered a catwalk career?” I say, my gaze fixed on his fully erect length. “You could probably do fifty outfits an hour.”

  He kneels between my legs again, his chiseled face level with mine. “The only career I’m interested in right now is being Catherine Adair’s personal fucker.”

  I chuckle. “If that becomes a real thing, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Oh, it’s a real thing,” he murmurs, knotting his hands in my damp hair. “And I’m here for my second interview.”

  I loop my arms around his neck. “Technically it’s the third interview. I called you in a few years ago, but you didn’t quite meet the criteria.”

  Ronin smiles. “You mentioned our first encounter without getting angry. This is progress, Catherine, real progress.”

  As I explore the hard angles of his face with my fingertips, the straight nose, cheekbones sharp as knives, I notice a small nick of a scar right below his left eye.

  “What’s this?” I ask, brushing it with my thumb. “Shouldn’t that have healed?”

  Ronin takes my wrist, pressing a kiss into the palm of my hand. “Some scars don’t heal.”

  “I would have thought for an ancient demon, they’d close over.”

  “Half demon, actually,” he whispers.

  I jerk in surprise. “Half?”

  He nods. “Do you still want the life story? I can show you, if you want to see it.”

  For the first time since stumbling into the bedroom, something other than sex crosses my mind. “How?”

  His fangs extend, and sexy time is back with a bang. A human might be scared at seeing the pointed canines pressing into the soft tissue of his bottom lip, but I only feel a stab of arousal, my nipples tingling. “I can extend what you saw the last time. At least, I think I can. I’ve never really showed anyone before.”

  All I can do is nod. The idea that I’ll be the only person on earth to know his origins is difficult to get my head around.

  “It’s only fair,” he says, reading me like a book. “You’ve shared your past, and now I’ll show you mine.” He flashes a devilish grin. “Who knows? It might even get me a bit of sympathy sex.”

  I roll my eyes. “Like I need an excuse to have sex with you.” I gesture to his body. “This is reason enough.”

  He laughs, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Lie back on the bed, then. I want to be inside you when I bite.”

  I drop back onto the sheet, wriggling up the bed. He looms over me, russet hair tickling my cheeks, the muscles in his arms corded like rope as he places flat palms on either side of my shoulders. I glance between us, at the twitching length prodding my stomach, and I know beyond any doubt that life doesn’t get much better than this.

  “We’ll just dispense with this first,” he says, his Scottish tones husky as he slips my shirtdress over my head and tosses it aside.

  I guess I was right about it not staying on for long.

  He lets out a long, withering sigh as he appraises my naked body. “There are so many ways I want to take you,” he murmurs, stroking the underside of my breasts.

  “There are so many ways I’ll let you if you stop pissing me off all the time.”

  We smile at each other for a few moments until he gently
lowers himself onto me.

  “Are you ready?” he asks, a red glow burning at the back of his eyes.

  “For sex or the bite?”

  He chuckles. “Both.”

  “I’m always ready,” I say, hooking my legs around his hips.

  “Good.”

  I gasp as he enters me, his thick length filling me, sending waves of pleasure spreading through my body like wildfire. We both groan, and I tip my head back as his fangs scrape my throat.

  Right before he sinks his teeth into my flesh and I lose consciousness, I hear him say, “Don’t judge me.”

  But it’s too late to contemplate what he might mean. I’m losing myself as I tumble into oblivion, spinning into a blackness thicker than before time began, lost to Ronin’s innermost consciousness, to a place where I no longer exist.

  Chapter 16

  Ronin

  A long, long time ago…

  I’m woken by a loud bang, the clang of a pot hitting the floor. I open my eyes to the darkness, instinctively reaching for Tamlyn’s hand beneath the blanket. Fortunately, she is sound asleep, her fingers warm and relaxed in mine.

  The fire in the kitchen must be lit because a dim halo of light shines around the cloth separating the two rooms, suffusing the sleeping quarters in a soft orange glow. I exhale slowly, watching my breath puff out in the cold air like smoke. Maybe I dreamed there was a bang. Maybe it was just a pot falling off the table. Please, God, I pray, pressing my hands together. Don’t let him be violent tonight.

  My prayers go unanswered. From the other room, I hear my mother weeping. She always tries to cry silently, but it never works. I would hear even if she made no sound at all. There is a loud sniff and the trample of heavy boots crossing the dirt floor, then a hiss followed by the unmistakable crack of leather on flesh. I release Tamlyn’s hand, balling my own into tightly clenched fists. How many more times will I have to lie here, silent in the darkness, listening to the person I love most beaten to a pulp?

  I’m getting bigger by the day. Soon I’ll be taller than him. He doesn’t know I’ve been bulking myself up, using the timber beams in the barn to build strength in my arms. But someday soon, he will. I reach beneath the straw mattress, my hand closing around the wooden handle of an ax I stole from old McCreedy’s place. I will chase the bastard out of the village one of these nights, high into the mountains.

  And if he doesn’t leave then, I’ll kill him and fling his rotten body into the marshland where it belongs.

  Thwack!

  The leather cuts through the air again. There is a brief spell of silence before my mother shouts, “Enough! Enough now. You’ll wake Ronin and Tamlyn.”

  “They already know what a whore their mother is,” Father growls, his voice as jagged as flint. “You’re lucky I haven’t murdered you with my bare hands.”

  “I’ve said I’m sorry,” my mother pleads. “I just wanted to write it, explain to him in case something happens to me and I’m not here to tell him.”

  I frown in the darkness. Who would Mother be writing to?

  “Your dirty secret dies with you, Aila, like I’ve said a hundred times before. Now give me the letter.”

  Letter?

  As Mother’s quiet weeping turns to heavy, gut-wrenching sobs, anger rears up inside me, the kind of fury that strips a person of all reason. Although it’s freezing inside the house, I burn with rage. This cannot go on. My grip on the ax tightens. If he strikes her again, I’m killing him.

  I hear scuffling on the other side of the curtain followed by a dull thud, and then I’m ripping back the cloth and plunging headfirst into the room.

  The scene beyond is exactly as I imagined. Gloomy shadows flicker on the clay walls, and my mother cowers beside the table in her night slip. Her hair is wild and unkempt, loose tendrils sticking up from her thick, dark plait. An ugly, red welt has bloomed, puckered and bleeding, on one of the arms covering her head.

  My father stands beside the fireplace. I’m just in time to see him drop a folded square of paper into the flames. Without another thought, I raise the ax high above my head. I charge across the dirt floor so fast that dust kicks up, dancing in the light of the flames. My father spins around, shock swiftly hardening to rage as my intent dawns on him. He ducks as the ax whistles past his head, the iron head striking the clay wall with a clang.

  My mother cries out, “Ronin, no!”

  I spin around, swinging the ax wildly in front of me, but my father is taller, bigger. Arms around my waist, he tackles me, pinning me to the ground as if I were a rabbit in a trap. The ax clatters to the floor above my head. As he leans over me, a pungent stench of ale on his breath, his eyes are black with loathing.

  He spits in my face, hissing, “Pathetic. Perhaps there’s more of your mother in you than I thought.”

  My mother herself looms over us, a pale ghost in her slip, her dark hair ragged. She places a trembling hand on his shoulder. “Leave him alone, Quany. Or I won’t just write a letter. I’ll tell the whole village.”

  I stare up into her beautiful eyes. They’ve always reminded me of the sky you see from the top of a mountain—bluer somehow, purer, as if you’re closer to God being up so high.

  My father’s glare darts between us both, no doubt debating who to beat first. His gaze settles on Mother. “You can’t tell them if you’re dead.”

  Then he pulls back the fist I know so well and swings it at my jaw. The last sound I hear before plunging into oblivion is my mother screaming at him to stop.

  * * *

  Two years later…

  I’m woken from sleep by a soft hand in the darkness—my mother, her face pale and drawn in the soft light of the candle she’s holding.

  “Ronin,” she whispers. “Get dressed and meet me outside.”

  I don’t ask why, but when I leave the room a few minutes later, I see Father passed out beside the empty fireplace. Snores erupt from his wide, fleshy mouth.

  Outside in the darkness, my mother says, “He’s had enough to fell an ox. He’ll not wake up until morning.”

  She takes my hand and smiles, lifting the candle to her face. She glows like a golden angel. Although there are lines on her face now, scars that will never fade, she looks younger tonight—happy. Her sky-blue eyes sparkle like the quartz stones we sometimes find at the bottom of the stream. I can only wonder what’s happened to break her from the cycle of misery she’s been living in for so long.

  “It’s a long walk. Do you have your boots tied?” she asks.

  “Yes, Mother.” Suddenly, I no longer feel like the sixteen-year-old lad who towers over her, who is nearly as tall as the man passed out in the hearth. I feel five years old again, following her everywhere she goes.

  “Good. We’re climbing Araneg.”

  I don’t ask any questions as I follow the flickering light of the candle. Tonight, the velvety sky is clear. A blanket of stars presses down on us as we walk, and the moon casts the bracken and shrubs in a silvery glow. When our eyes are adjusted to the gloom, Mother blows out the candle. We pick our way through the rocks and heather, sending the odd shrew scuttling off as we disturb its nest. When I look up, the tip of the mountain looms, dark and ominous, a huge crag at its crest pointing into the sky like a misshapen finger.

  Though my legs are beginning to ache, I don’t slow or ask to stop. Mother herself seems full of energy, hopping over rocks with the agility of a person half her age.

  “We’re almost there,” she shouts over her shoulder a couple of times.

  At the top, I collapse onto a boulder and stick my head between my knees. Sweat cascades down my spine, my hair slicked to my head. To think I felt chilly when we started out. Mother sits down beside me, waiting patiently until I’ve caught my breath.

  “Why are we here?” I ask through ragged breaths.

  Like the candle we snuffed o
ut on the way up, the light drains from her face. “Because there’s something I need to tell you, Ronin, before it’s too late.”

  She pulls her knees up under her chin and I think of that letter, flung into the fire the night my father beat me unconscious. Is she about to share what was written inside?

  “What is it?” I ask. “Mother?”

  She lifts her eyes to meet mine. “Quany McDermott is not your father, though that’s just the start of it.”

  I feel as if I’ve been pelted with stones, a mirage of conflicting emotions jostling for prime position—confusion, anger, relief. I think back to that night two years ago, when my father called her a whore.

  “Who is?” I whisper, thinking of the men in our village. There’s not one among them I could imagine turning her head.

  She breaks my gaze, staring at the jagged crag pointing up to the sky. “I met him here. When I was first married, I’d go on long walks every night. Just to clear my head, you know?”

  I nod, wondering what kind of man would be wandering around the mountain at this hour of the night. A shepherd. It had to be.

  “Is he one of the Tavish brothers?” I ask, naming the sheep farmers from the next village, whose animals graze our hills.

  She shakes her head. “I wish he were.”

  We’re silent for a few seconds, mother gazing out into the dark horizon as I clench and unclench my fists. I find myself praying silently that whoever my real father is, he’s a better man than the unconscious one we left back at the hut.

  “He isn’t human,” she says finally, her crystal-blue eyes round.

  The ground wavers beneath me, and my heart begins to thump. “Not human?”

  She reaches out, taking my cold hands in hers. “He’s a demon. Able to disguise himself as human. One night, I allowed myself to be seduced.” She reaches for me, and I can’t help but jerk away from her touch. She holds up her hands. “Don’t judge me. Quany McDermott is a monster too, just a different kind. No one had ever spoken to me with such kindness before. I never knew how it felt to be loved. I know you’ve had a bad time of it with Quany, Ronin, but you and Tamlyn have always known my love and affection. Growing up an orphan, I didn’t have anyone. I’m a fool, but it didn’t come from a bad place. He seduced me with chivalry and kindness, like a fairy-tale prince.” A brief smile touches the corners of her mouth. “You’re a lot like him, you know? That side of him anyway.”