Mission_Improper

by Bec McMaster

  wear a rut in her floorboards.

  Byrnes. She'd woken several times since the

  vampire tore her apart, and every time he'd been at

  her side in a heartbeat, demanding to know if she

  was all right, if she was in pain, hungry... what?

  Ingrid didn't know what to make of it. She

  wasn't used to being fussed over, and if she were

  being honest with herself, Byrnes was fussing.

  He'd even fed her soup. Soup! And her favorite

  too.

  How he knew this.... She suspected Rosa’s

  help, which meant a conspiracy against her, but

  then again, who knew when it came to Byrnes? He

  was always watching. Always filing little pieces

  of information away in that brain of his.

  It left her feeling distinctly uncertain about the

  way things were between them. They'd agreed,

  damn it. They weren't going to take that step

  forward, but it seemed that she'd missed some vital

  change of mind.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  "Still here?" she asked, tossing back the

  covers and trying to stand.

  She barely had a chance to do so before his

  lean body was pressed against her own, gently

  easing her arm around his shoulders as her legs

  wobbled.

  "Byrnes.” Her exasperation showed. “I’m not

  an invalid.”

  He sat them on the edge of the bed with his

  arm around her waist. "You've barely gotten your

  feet back under you. I'm not letting you out of bed

  until you're completely healed."

  "I need some privacy, Byrnes."

  "You can barely stand—"

  "Byrnes," she growled, deep in her throat.

  "Five minutes," he finally said, and then left

  the room so that she could take care of the

  necessities and then scrub her teeth.

  Ingrid paused in front of the mirror, then

  rolled up her nightshirt, tentatively untying the

  bandages there. Smooth skin met her gaze. No sign

  of the vampire's attack. She touched the area

  lightly. "You survived," she whispered, meeting

  her eyes in the mirror. It didn't feel like it though.

  Not deep inside, where a part of her had met her

  own mortality head-on. She'd always been

  invincible. Or felt like it.

  But this was the first time she’d borne such a

  grievous injury.

  It left her feeling vulnerable in more ways

  than one, and Byrnes wasn’t helping the situation.

  How could she deal with his sudden change of

  heart? What did it mean?

  "Knock, knock," Byrnes called, and Ingrid

  jumped.

  "I'm done," she called, scurrying back to her

  bed and slipping under the covers.

  He entered briskly, carrying a tray. "I brought

  you breakfast," he said, as though she couldn't

  smell the beefsteak. "Jack told me you're not worth

  dealing with before you've eaten, after one of these

  episodes."

  "I'm not hungry."

  "Actually he warned me not to deal with you

  before then." Byrnes lifted the silver tureen off the

  self-heating platter. Steam wafted off it, and the

  smell hit her like a punch to the gut. Her stomach

  chose that moment to mimic the sound of whales

  mating. Loudly. Curse him.

  "Pity," Byrnes said, wafting the steam toward

  her with the most evil smile she'd ever seen.

  "Herbert went to a lot of trouble to cook this up for

  you. Now what am I supposed to do with it? Hmm,

  there was this scrawny young cat out the back. I

  suppose I can just feed it to her."

  Ingrid ground her teeth together. "There are

  times when I'm tempted to do... something to you."

  Byrnes swung into the chair beside her bed,

  still fanning the steam her way. "Oh? Do tell?

  Something... wicked? Something involving the pair

  of us getting naked? Again?"

  "Something permanent," she growled, and

  then took the plate off him, and the knife and fork.

  If she didn't eat then she was going to be too weak

  to get out of bed. It had nothing to do with him

  getting the better of her, and then acting all smug

  about it.

  Besides, it felt good to have the fork in her

  hand.

  Byrnes very subtly moved his leg out of the

  way when she glanced at it. Perhaps it was the way

  that her fingers curled around the fork? Or maybe

  the expression on her face?

  "Just remember," he warned in a mild tone,

  "you like those bits of me."

  "Do I? I find I can't quite recall why at the

  moment." Which was a blatant lie. She very much

  liked those bits of him, and her memory chose that

  moment to remind her in precise detail about what

  those bits looked like. What they felt like against

  her skin.... Ingrid smothered a groan, and stabbed

  the beefsteak instead.

  It wasn't fair. Here she was trying to play by

  the rules that he'd invented—the rules that said that

  they couldn't do this—and he was doing his level

  best to dash all of her best defenses. Ingrid shoved

  a piece of steak in her mouth. She didn't understand

  any of it. She chewed thoughtfully. She needed

  Jack to talk to.

  "Why are you here? Why are you bringing me

  breakfast? And why were you even sitting by my

  bedside at all? Don't you have a vampire to hunt?"

  "Kincaid's waiting downstairs. I just wanted

  to see...." He paused then, and a half dozen

  expressions flitted across his face before he

  managed to soothe his expression back into a blank

  mask. "What do you remember?"

  "I know that you didn't like seeing me like

  that." Byrnes hadn't been at all himself. There'd

  been a frantic energy to him, as if the blue-blooded

  predator within him lay very close to the surface.

  Ingrid frowned. "And I don't think you liked

  Malloryn being in here."

  Which was a curious memory indeed.

  Byrnes flicked a piece of lint off his arm, then

  shifted his gaze to the window. "I'm having a slight

  problem," he admitted. "I know what I should do. I

  know why I should do it." Those blue eyes locked

  on hers, spearing straight through her. "But I don't

  want to walk away from you, and to be quite

  honest, I am dealing with some complex emotions

  at the moment."

  Ingrid stared back, working her way through

  what he was saying. "You don't want to walk

  away?"

  Byrnes stood abruptly and began pacing. "I

  don't do this, Ingrid."

  "Fetch a woman breakfast, you mean?" she

  asked, feeling a faint warmth wash through her, as

  if a part of her was starting to understand. She had

  to admit she liked seeing him so off-balance.

  Byrnes was always too composed.

  " That too."

  Ingrid swallowed another mouthful. "Are you

  trying to say that you have decided that we are

  going to pursue this little flirtation between us?"

  "It's not a flirtati
on," he finally told her. "Not

  for me. Not any longer."

  She nearly dropped the fork. Of all the things

  she'd expected him to say, this was not it. "But I...

  I... you...." Nothing. She had nothing to say.

  Byrnes eased onto the edge of her mattress,

  clasping his hands carefully in his lap. "I've gone

  above and beyond to prove that you and I meant

  nothing, and it turns out I've been lying to myself

  all along." He hesitated. "I missed you during this

  last year, Ingrid. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.

  And I said some stupid things about getting you

  into my bed and burning you out of my memory, but

  the truth is... I don't think I could ever forget you.

  You're one hell of a woman. And I don't know

  where this road will take us, or whether I can be

  what you want, but I do know that I want to explore

  that option."

  “I wish you’d make up your mind,” she

  whispered.

  “It is made up.” This time, there was no

  misjudging the expression on his face. “I am going

  to pursue you, Ingrid Miller, with the intention of

  never letting you go. So fair warning….”

  Words died in her throat. This was supposed

  to be a chase, a game. Byrnes wasn’t the sort of

  man that one started daydreaming about the future

  with. Except… that seemed to be his intention now.

  "I understand that you weren’t expecting this.

  Perhaps you don’t feel the same way that I do. I

  don’t know. We need to talk about this," Byrnes

  said, leaning in to kiss her gently, his hands

  cupping her face in a way that made her heart leap

  in her chest. "But this is not really a wonderful

  time, and I think you need some time to think. You

  keep making these incoherent noises." He grinned

  suddenly. "I'll take them to mean that you're

  flummoxed by my abrupt turnabout and not

  disgusted at all. Just know this: It's no longer about

  winning your body, Ingrid. When I finish these

  challenges, I intend to win your heart."

  Withdrawing gently, he stood and stepped

  away. "Rest and heal, so you can join me as soon

  as possible. Kincaid's not nearly as pretty as you

  are."

  And, after dropping that shocking statement

  upon her, he turned and left the room.

  LOCKING AWAY ALL of the doubts he felt about

  Ingrid and whether she felt even remotely the same

  way he did, Byrnes amused himself by toying with

  Kincaid.

  "So you're saying that there's not a single

  positive outcome associated with a man turning

  into a blue blood?" he asked. "Just to make your

  statement clear."

  Kincaid shrugged. "I don't know, bloodsucker.

  Is there?"

  Stalking across the rooftop, Byrnes paused at

  the edge, then leapt down twelve feet to the next

  rooftop and looked up. "Well come on, then. We

  haven't got all night."

  Kincaid examined the drop, then swung

  himself over the gutter and used his arm strength to

  lower himself a respectable distance before he

  dropped onto the roof at Byrnes's side. "Still can't

  see a benefit."

  Byrnes examined his pocket watch. "I can. It's

  called efficiency. I should have brought Charlie.

  We'd be nearly there by now. You're slowing me

  down. And we have a vampire’s trail to pick up."

  "Malloryn's got him doing something."

  "What?"

  "How the hell should I know? I'm not his

  secretary."

  “I’m faster than you,” Byrnes pointed out.

  “I’m stronger than you. I heal from practically

  anything. And let’s just say that when it comes to

  the ladies, I can go all night too.”

  "That's got nothing to do with being a

  bloodsucker," Kincaid spat back.

  Byrnes grinned at him.

  "So, I heard the chemicals in a blue blood's

  saliva can bring a woman to the edge of ecstasy,"

  Kincaid said, casting him a sidelong glance.

  "Your point?" Byrnes asked. "I assume you're

  not complimenting me."

  "My point is, a real man don't need no

  chemical enhancements to satisfy a woman."

  "Don't worry. It's not the chemicals in my

  saliva that leaves my women satisfied. Jealous?"

  Byrnes arched a brow.

  "Is that why Ingrid's been casting big eyes at

  you—?"

  Byrnes stopped in his tracks, his easy languor

  fading off him as if it had never been there. The

  hunger within him surged, shocking violence

  suddenly rising to the fore, and he realized that a

  part of it was due to his lingering uncertainty about

  what Ingrid’s answer would be. "A blue blood can

  also kill you in a second and bury the body so deep

  that nobody will ever find it. And if you even

  breathe her name again," his voice dropped to a

  growl, "in a manner indicating anything less than

  utter respect, then I will take a lot longer to kill

  you than a second. I will make it last for days."

  "You know... I were starting to wonder how

  deep you buried it. You're more in control than

  most of your kind, but it's still there, isn't it?"

  Kincaid stepped closer, eye-to-eye. "You're still

  ruled by it, itching to smear my blood all across

  this roof, ain't you?"

  Itching to tear your throat out, at least. The

  pulse in his throat hammered. Kill him, whispered

  his inner darkness, his inner predator—the part of

  him that belonged in the shadows.

  "No matter how deeply you think you've got

  that monster buried, it's still there, and one day it

  will hold the leash, not you."

  Byrnes took a deep breath and swallowed it

  all. It was like flicking off a switch, like facing his

  father again and burying all of that rage, that fierce

  hissing need to kill deep within him.

  "You have no idea," he told Kincaid, "how

  much I want to kill you right now. But the problem

  is, you're wrong. I am not and never have been

  ruled by the craving. I am also not very much of a

  gentleman, but in this instance, you crossed a line

  in mentioning her name."

  Drawing his arm back, he punched Kincaid

  hard in the face before the man could even see it

  coming.

  "Fuckin' hell!" Kincaid bellowed, clapping a

  hand to his nose and staggering.

  Byrnes tugged his handkerchief from within

  his pocket. "No, I might have the hunger inside me,

  and the urge to make you little more than a smear

  on these tiles, but you're the one who can't handle

  your hate. Handkerchief?"

  Kincaid pinched the bridge of his nose and

  tilted his head back. "Shove that up your a—"

  "Stop your whining. I didn't break it. No

  matter how tempting it was. And you shouldn't

  bleed so enticingly in front of me." Byrnes smiled

  a nasty smile. "Who knows? I might lose control. I

  might let all of that big, dark hu
nger inside me

  overwhelm me, and then leap at you."

  Kincaid wiped his sleeve across his face.

  "Anyone ever told you that you're a prick?"

  "Frequently. Can you not see the tears of

  remorse in my eyes?"

  Kincaid muttered something under his breath.

  "See, if you were a blue blood, you would

  have seen that coming," Byrnes pointed out

  brightly, and stalked off backwards into the fog,

  watching his adversary just in case Kincaid

  decided to do something rash.

  Kincaid muttered curses, wiping at the blood

  trickling from his nose.

  "So," Byrnes continued, "what happened to

  you?"

  "I'm fairly certain you punched me in the

  face," Kincaid growled.

  "No, not that." Byrnes looked at the burly

  mech. "People don't just suddenly decide to hate an

  entire species. Something happened, something to

  do with a blue blood in your past. What was it?

  Did one of them kill your mother? Or a sister? Or a

  father? Drain all of the residents in your

  neighborhood?" He paused. "Steal your woman?"

  "Go to hell."

  "I'm sorry, I didn't quite hear that...?" He

  cupped a hand to his ear.

  Kincaid glared at him. "You son of a bitch. It

  was my sister.”

  They both stared at each other.

  "They took her," Kincaid continued, in a

  slower, quieter voice. "The Echelon lords. Took

  Agatha right off the streets and used her at one of

  their parties as some kind of bloodwhore for the

  night. Three days later she killed herself, because

  of those men. I was the one who found her hanging.

  "And every time I look at you," Kincaid said,

  staring into Byrnes's eyes. "I see those men. Those

  monsters. And I see Aggie, staring sightlessly at

  the sky. Forever." He wiped at his bloodied nose.

  "That's what you are to me. But that's also why I'll

  work with Malloryn, because I remember what it

  was like before the revolution. I don't ever want to

  see my people, my friends, go back to that."

  Silence fell. Byrnes actually felt a worm of

  guilt twist deep inside him. "I'm sorry," he said. He

  spread his arms wide. "Occasionally I can be an

  asshole. You get one free hit."

  "What?"

  "You mentioned my woman," he replied, "and

  I didn't like your tone. Now I've brought up your

  sister, and I was less than respectful too."

  Kincaid mulled it over for all of a second,

  then swung. The full metal crunch of his mech fist

  slammed into Byrnes’s nose. Byrnes fell onto the

  roof clutching at his face as pain speared through