by Bec McMaster
Coldness burned in his eyes. "Like hell. Not while I'm there."
She'd seen the look in the man's eyes when he threw that vial of blood all over her. The shock of it—the smell, the splatter against her face—had ignited the craving within her and it had taken her precious moments to get herself under control. Suddenly it made her feel sick. Ava tugged at the buttons on her coat, and started stripping it down over her arms. She wanted it off. "He looked at me like he hated me. He looked at me like I was a monster. Get this off me...."
The damned sleeve was caught on her wrist. She tugged and pulled, but to no avail.
Firm hands caught her arms, helping her with the sleeve. "Ava, you're not a monster."
No? She had to get the blood off her. The craving virus roused through her, bringing a rush of blood through her veins. "I've never felt that way before. I've never done a damned thing wrong, and yet—"
"Hey, now." His voice lowered, and he rubbed her arms even as she threw her coat on the floor.
She never wanted to see it again.
A sob caught in her throat. I never asked for this. But before she had time to try and choke it down, she found her face buried in Kincaid's chest, those strong arms wrapping around her, one hand cupping the base of her skull.
"You're not a monster," Kincaid said, gently stroking the back of her neck. "That man wasn't thinking clearly. He was seeing what he wanted to see—an enemy, someone to blame for the hellish way his life has probably turned out. And it's easier to see your pale skin and blame you than it is for him to take some responsibility for his own damned bad luck."
"How do you know that?"
"Because that man was me several years back."
Ava looked up, meeting his eyes. There was so much she didn't know about this man, though his body bore scars of a rough life. He hated blue bloods. Hated them. And people just didn't hate for no reason—even that man in the street had a reason for the rage that filled him the instant he realized what she was. Empathy filled her, and she realized her thumb was rubbing against Kincaid's side. Back and forth. Back and forth. The brush of his shirt was almost hypnotic.
"Careful, kitten," Kincaid whispered, his lashes lowering almost sleepily.
She didn't want to be careful.
She... she didn't know what she wanted. But something hollow ached within her. And he was so warm, so virile and full of life.
Frustrating, yes. Impossible, yes. But safe too, in a way she wasn't sure she wanted to explore. It was like having a tiger in her chambers, and wondering if she dared pet it.
"If you keep looking at me like that, then I'm going to have a hard time pretending to be a gentleman," Kincaid warned.
"You are a gentleman," she protested, for despite his roguish demeanor, he was very careful with her at times.
"I'm really not," he insisted, and his head lowered toward her, just the faintest of fractions.
Ava sucked in a short breath.
As she filled her lungs, the scent of him stole through her. Sweat and cologne, and everything male. Her vision went dark, the predator within her surging to the surface. Yes, it whispered, and her mouth watered as the stupidest urge filled her, one that wanted her to rub her face against that chest, to lick his throat and perhaps sink her teeth into the vein there.
Ava panicked, and shoved away from him. "I'm sorry."
Kincaid staggered, one eyebrow arching at her strength. They stared at each other and Ava swallowed, trying to lower her no-doubt-black eyes. The kitchen suddenly seemed far too small. What was she doing? What was she thinking? This was Kincaid. The man who despised blue bloods. The one who thought marriage was a trap, and who seemed to know every young woman in the neighborhood.
The one who roused that shiver of heat deep within her abdomen every damned time she looked at him.
"It's all right, kitten." His voice sounded like honeyed gravel. Amused. "Neither of us was thinking straight. And you've had a hard time, what with that man throwing blood at you, rousing the—"
"I wasn't thinking about...." She couldn't say it.
"Blood?" He scraped a hand through his unruly black hair. "I know."
The words jolted her. The craving virus unleashed so many foreign feelings within her, including a desire for blood or for... other things. Things that involved the heated stroke of his hand on her body, the trace of his lips against her skin.... "You do?"
"I told you. I'm not a gentleman. I know what was going through your head right then."
There was a wealth of meaning in those words, but before she had a chance to process them, footsteps echoed above and they both looked up.
All the heat seemed to evaporate off Kincaid, and tension rode through his shoulders. "There she is." He raised his voice. "Orla, do you need a hand?"
Ava's hearing was exceptional, but she couldn't tell whether it was a man or woman. A slight crinkle drew between her brows.
"Liam? Is that you?" a woman called.
"Aye. Don't worry about fetching your pistol."
Liam? Ava silently mouthed the word, looking at him for confirmation. He'd never mentioned a first name. He scowled back at her, then lifted his voice, "Want me to put the kettle on?"
"Oh, that'd be dear." Whoever she was, she sounded tired. Soft murmurs echoed. "There's a pot of soup in the icebox. Could you set that to heat too? Ian's ready for lunch."
"Aye." He moved around the place as though he knew it well, gathering a teapot and setting it on the stove, then locating the icebox.
"Liam?" she repeated quietly.
Kincaid knelt in front of the heavy ceramic stove and stoked it. "Could we please pretend none of what you hear while you're in this house is going to make it to the ears of the rest of the Rogues?"
"It's just... I've only ever known you as Kincaid." She frowned. "Doesn't anybody else know your name?"
"No. And I'd like to keep it that way."
She folded her hands in her lap. "It's a lovely name—"
"Ava." A growl.
"I don't know why it bothers you so much, but I promise I won't reveal your dirty little secret."
"I've got dirtier ones than that, luv."
Heat thrilled through her. Ava swallowed. "I'll bet."
There was that look again. The one he often graced her with when he let his guard down, as if he forgot to remember he was supposed to stay away from her. Then it faded as rapid footsteps started down the stairs. "In fact, whatever you see or hear here, please don't repeat it. To anyone."
Ava had never been the overtly curious sort. She respected people's rights to their secrets—after all, she had her fair share—but the way he was acting set off her instincts.
Kincaid was hiding something, and that had to be the reason behind his tension on the way over here, and the stillness that lingered in his shoulders as he stirred the soup.
"I'll keep your secrets," she said quietly, reaching over and resting her hand on his forearm—the real one.
Kincaid looked down at that touch, then their eyes met, and something passed there that she hadn't felt since that night they shared in the Gardens of Eden six weeks ago, when she'd almost kissed him. Lust was one thing—she knew she was attracted to him. But there'd been something between them that night, a gentle sort of tenderness in his words and his touch, and now she was the one offering that to him.
He looked away. "You make hating blue bloods hard, did you know that?"
"Don't tell me I'm corrupting you to our side?"
There was a swish of skirts, and a breathless gasp as a young woman emerged from the stairwell. "Well, don't you look grand? Give us a look at you, Liam!"
"Orla." His expression and tone brightened, and he crossed to drag the small redhead into his arms, planting a kiss on her cheek. "It hasn't been that long."
"Two weeks."
"I've been busy," he protested, and the two of them shared a look that made Ava feel a little uncomfortable.
Whoever she was, this woman knew Kincaid in a way
she didn't.
"Busy with what?" the woman demanded, and those gray eyes narrowed on Ava.
"Orla, this is my friend and associate, Miss Ava McLaren. Come on over here. Orla won't bite." When Ava complied, he tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. "Ava, luv, this is my cousin, Orla Kincaid."
Cousin. She didn't know why that word eased the uncomfortable feeling within her. "A pleasure."
Orla turned back to Kincaid and arched a brow accusingly. "A blue blood? You've got to be kidding me."
Was it painted across her forehead?
His smile died. "Ava's a friend."
"Aye. I've met your friends before."
"That's enough." The abruptness of his tone shocked both of them. "It's not like that. Not at all. And I won't tolerate your rudeness to someone who ain't earned it."
Orla blinked, then turned to look at Ava again, as though seeing her for the first time. "I apologize. It's been a trying day."
"Oh, there's no need for apologies," Ava replied, though she didn't take her hand off Kincaid's arm. The animosity was something she'd seen happen to other blue bloods, but never experienced firsthand.
At least not until today. Today had been a day of firsts, she thought sadly.
"How is he?" Kincaid let her hand go, and returned to the soup.
"The same," Orla replied.
"Ava, have a seat," he said, and gestured toward the scarred kitchen table. Dozens of copper pots hung over it, and someone had been chopping parsley. "I'll fetch you some tea as soon as the kettle's boiled."
"Tea?" Orla stated, as though she couldn't help herself.
"Ava doesn't drink blood," he replied, that heat turning his blue eyes stormy again. The cousins glared at each other. "She's created a protein solution that seems to be able to sustain her." His hands kept moving, stirring the soup, and then setting out bowls, as though the everyday tasks came naturally to him. "She's the laboratory assistant for the company I work for."
"And which company was that again?"
"Malloryn Enterprises," he lied blandly, ladling soup into a bowl. "Does Ian want bread with it?"
Orla grew curiously quiet. "He's not got the stomach for it anymore. The soup will be fine."
Kincaid handed her the tray, and Orla gave a curt nod in Ava's direction before she ascended the stairs.
Something was very wrong here.
"Is your uncle unwell?" she asked quietly.
Kincaid startled, then turned back to the boiling teapot. Every movement was carefully measured as he poured the fragrant brown liquid into chipped porcelain cups. They looked expensive and were clearly cherished, though Ava's father would have turned his nose up at the setting. "He's dying."
Dying. The word loomed in the small, cozy room. "Is he... Orla's father?"
"Yes."
"Oh, I'm so sorry." No wonder the other woman looked tired.
Kincaid brought the tea setting over, handing her the pink cup with its dancing shepherdess painted on the side. "Forgive her the sharp words. She's forced to care for him day in and out, and it ain't a kind death."
"What's wrong with him?"
"His... his heart's getting weaker." Kincaid's nostrils flared. He must have been close with his uncle. "I don't really want to talk about it if I don't have to."
Ava sipped her tea, searching for a new topic of conversation. "How long should we hole up here while we wait for the riot to be shut down?"
That seemed to ease him. He sank onto the stool opposite her. "It will blow over within an hour or two. I'll go out and check if it’s safe or not, before we head home."
"Back to Malloryn's safe house?"
He looked up. "Where did you want to go?"
"Well, if it was safe, then I wanted a look at that body," Ava protested. "The more time that ticks by, the less information I'll be able to gather from it."
"You do realize Malloryn's throwing us a bone here. This is a distraction. Nothing more. Just something to get the pair of us out of the house after so long trapped within."
"Well, I want a look at that body. It's the fifth one in two weeks. Whether the duke thinks it a diversion or not, he's granted me leave to look into it."
And damned if she wasn't going to do the best job she could.
Maybe it was just a disease that afflicted blue bloods, but Ava couldn't help feeling as though there was something more to it than that.
After all, blue bloods didn't succumb to disease. The craving virus was far too ambitious to allow something else to kill its host. They could heal from anything short of decapitation, burning, or a mortal blow to the heart, damn it.
What could be killing them?
Kincaid sighed. "You're not going to let it be, are you?"
This was the first case Malloryn had allowed her to lead. Ava tipped her chin up stubbornly. "Would you?"
"It's not as though we've got any other leads at the moment—only that sighting Gemma and Charlie are looking into."
"And don't you find that unusual too? After plaguing us for weeks, Lord Ulbricht and his SOG suddenly vanish into London's depths, never to be seen again? They're aristocrats. There's no possibility they'd be content in hiding, without their fancy manors. They have to be up to something."
"They will be." He looked unconcerned. "That's Gemma and Charlie's problem right now."
"They tried to kill Byrnes! They nearly killed Ingrid. And they were working with a dhampir woman who had vampires on a leash. I think that is cause for more than a little alarm!"
Kincaid leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "And does your outrage at the matter have to do with Ingrid, the vampires... or Byrnes?"
Ava drew back abruptly, feeling like he'd slapped her. "He's my friend."
"Friend?"
"He is." She hid behind her teacup, the saucer rattling as she jerked the cup to her lips. "It's not.... It's never been more than that."
A cool, scrutinizing gaze locked on her. "Maybe not for him."
And there was the crux of the matter. Ava squeezed her eyes shut. "Can we not speak of this?"
"Just trying to figure out where you stand on the matter."
I don't know where I stand. I thought— I hoped.... "The last few years have been a little unkind to me. You don't know what it's like to have the rug pulled out from under your feet." She'd never told any of the other Rogues what she'd been through, and Byrnes was the only one who knew her story. "The one constant in all of that was Byrnes. He was my sense of safety when I felt adrift. He was kind when I very much needed kindness. And he... he never judged me. I never felt lacking when I was with him."
"Why would you feel lacking?"
"You might have noticed the distinct lack of suitors at my door," she said dryly. "I spend my days surrounded by dead bodies, laboratory equipment, and my orchid samples. I can practically see men's eyes glaze over when I get excited about the things that fascinate me. Who wants to hear about the latest advances to my protein solution? Or a test I've been trialing for a more accurate way to test a blue blood's stage of genesis? We have means to assess the craving virus levels in their blood, but what stage of metamorphosis are they at? With the dhampir, Zero, revealing that...." The words trickled to a halt. Damn it. She was doing it again. "You see? I'm physically incapable of holding a socially acceptable conversation."
"Well, we could discuss the weather if you wanted," he pointed out, with a slightly amused smile. "But I'll let you in on a little secret. Most men don't really give a damn about that either."
Ava groaned, slumping her head into her hands. "You're lying if you claim you'd rather listen to me rattle on about CV levels."
"True."
She gestured to him in despair. "And thus I have few redeeming social attributes. I am going to die a virgin, and—" Kincaid suddenly looked like he wanted to spray his mouthful of tea across the table. "Oh my goodness. I cannot believe I said that. I think the stress of the riot has gone to my head. My brain's not working anymore."
Kinc
aid succumbed to a coughing fit, shoving his teacup away from him. "Jaysus." His face went red, his eyes wild.
"Forget I said it. I'm not— I'm not going to die a virgin, I mean... I probably will, but I don't want to, and— I'm so sorry!" Ava slammed a hand over her mouth. Stop talking, you fool.
Kincaid had buried his face in his hands and his shoulders were shaking.
Ava stared at him, physically holding the words inside her. It was possible she'd been this mortified before, though she couldn't remember a specific occasion.
Finally he erupted into a bark of laughter, lowering his hands. "Jaysus Christ, you're going to kill me one of these days."
"Stop it!" she said. "Stop laughing at me."
That set him off again. "I'm not laughing at you."
"You are!" A little frisson of hurt worked its way through her, and he must have heard it in her voice.
Kincaid looked up, his eyes still crinkled with humor and shining with half-shed tears. Ava sat very still. It wasn't as though she'd thought them friends, but as she'd tended to his injuries in the last month he'd become not so gruff, a little teasing at times. And the more comfortable she found herself in his presence, the more her mouth started to run away with her.
She had the sudden, striking realization Kincaid was possibly the only other man—besides Byrnes—who made her relax to the point where she forgot to censor herself.
"Ava," he said, his voice lowering as he reached over and cupped her hand.
"I can't help myself sometimes."
"Please don't ever change, Ava. I find you intriguing, conversational gaffes and all," he admitted, though the admission might as well have been pulled from him. Almost grumbling under his breath, he added, "You're not like any other woman I've ever met."
Ava threw her hands in the air. "You see?" Hopeless. She might as well condemn herself to a nunnery.
Footsteps hammered down the stairs. "What's all that noise?" Orla called. "Ian nearly choked on his soup."
Ava sat back with a sigh. Kincaid looked like he was digesting a particularly troublesome meal.
"Just a rather lively discussion," Kincaid told her, that twinkle back in his eye.
