Her voice was sharp with anger. “You’d need a hell of a lot more than just a sword to even make my scary meter twitch. Some ugly teeth and at least a few claws for starters.”

“Good. Then you won’t mind.”

Before she could ask what she should mind, he slid her arm over his shoulder and gripped her waist, forcing her to lean on him for support. He didn’t want to touch her, but she wasn’t capable of making it to Logan without help, and the sooner Cain got her to safety, the sooner he could be on his way.

He was careful not to touch her bare skin with his, but even with the padding of fabric and leather between them, more pain dribbled away, giving Cain room to breathe. He hadn’t even realized how bad things had gotten for him until some of that agony eased with her nearness.

He glanced down at the ring portion of his luceria—the magical band that was meant to tie him to a woman, allowing her to wield the power swelling inside him. He’d been on his own too long, and now that power was killing him, crushing the soul from his body.

The swirls of colors in his ring were moving as if they’d been stirred—much faster than they’d ever moved with Jackie. There was no question. Whoever this woman was, she was a Theronai. And she was compatible with his power.

This small, ridiculously pink-haired girl who wouldn’t even tell him her name had the power to save his life.

Rory was broken. That was the only explanation as to why she was letting a stranger touch her—especially one as armed and deadly as this man.

She’d lied about his sword not scaring her. The proof of just how deadly it was lay on the ground behind them, leaking black blood. Not that she thought he’d use it on her. She didn’t. But she’d learned not to trust her own judgment when it came to hot men.

And Cain was definitely hot.

Pressed up against his side like this, with his arm around her, she could feel just how powerfully built he was. Every step made his muscles flex and bulge as he practically carried her toward the shelter.

He was so warm. Wave after wave of heat sank through her clothes, each one warmer than the last. She tried to stifle her shivers of delight, but she was certain he had to be able to feel them.

“It’s cold out here,” she said, hoping he’d take those shivers for something other than her drinking in his delicious heat.

He said nothing, but pulled her tighter against his side, sliding his hand a bit lower onto her hip.

Rory stifled a groan of pleasure, biting her lip to hold it back. The urge to lean her head on him was driving her crazy. She was not the kind of girl who snuggled against a man for warmth. Or anything else, for that matter. She’d learned the lesson Matt had taught her. For all she knew this guy was some kind of Renaissance festival freak who lopped off the heads of demons for fun. Slay the dragon, save the girl.

Rory did not need saving. At least not usually. Though even she had to admit that tonight had been a close call.

Flashing police lights filled her head between flickers of QVC and some guy surfing a porn Web site. “The police are coming.”

“They’re the least of our worries. You’re bleeding.”

“So?”

“You must be blooded. That’s why the Synestryn came.”

She’d heard Hope talk about Synestryn, but she’d never heard the term blooded before. Besides, playing dumb was probably the much safer option here. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

A ragged howl echoed off of nearby buildings.

She felt more than heard a low, angry growl emanating from Cain’s thick chest, and in that moment, she became all too aware of just how formidable an opponent he’d be. She had no chance of defending herself against him, and hoped like hell that he was telling the truth about wanting to help. Because if he wasn’t, she couldn’t think of a single thing she could do to stop him from doing whatever he wanted. She couldn’t even run.

His arm tightened around her waist a bit more, and she could feel his hand through her clothes, leaving patches of heat wherever his fingers touched. For one brief moment of total insanity, she wondered what his touch would feel like without all the denim and leather in the way.

Great. Apparently she’d lost enough blood to render herself stupid, too. Just her luck.

His hand was shaking. Or maybe that was all her and her quivering idiocy. She couldn’t tell. Whatever it was, the vibrating touch felt . . . nice. Right. And he smelled so freaking good, she was sure it had to be her imagination. If she leaned her head against him like she wanted and breathed in his scent, there was a good chance that she might be able to distract herself from the fact that he could be some raving mad, sword-wielding serial killer who wanted to use her skull as a coffee mug.

Their progress was slow and awkward, thanks to her injury. Each step hurt more than the last. The sharp, stabbing pain in her joint nearly stole her breath away, and now a fine layer of sweat was forming on her skin. She made it only a few yards before she could no longer put any weight on her knee. She tried to cover her flinch of pain, but she could feel him staring down at her.

“This isn’t working,” he said. “I will carry you.”

Part of her jumped up and down, clapping its hands at the thought of being in this man’s arms, but the rest of her was smarter than that. “We’re not far. I can make it.”

“Before the demons catch up?”

As points went, he had a good one. Normally she would have protested, but she was worn down by the pain and not at all ready for round two with a demon horde.

Her pride died a little as she accepted the only reasonable option. “Okay, but if you try to cop a feel, I’ll punch you in the eye.”

One side of his mouth twitched with a hidden grin. “I’ll consider myself warned.”

He shifted his weight, and a second later, she was airborne. It was a long way up, and the motion spun her head and gave her a brief moment of vertigo.

Her fingers slid higher on his shoulder and brushed the bare skin of his neck.

Rory’s world went dark.

All the flashes, all the visions—they disappeared as if someone had flipped a switch. Peace settled over her, clearing her mind of the confusing, jumbled haze and leaving her thoughts blissfully clear.

He moaned, making a deep, purring sound, and said something she didn’t catch. She was too busy basking in the visual silence, in the quiet dark of the alley where the only thing she saw was coming from her own two eyes.

Rory’s eyelids fluttered shut in pleasure, and she saw nothing. Clear, perfect nothing. It was so peaceful, so beautiful. She didn’t dare move. She barely even breathed.

Her throat tightened with gratitude that she couldn’t utter. She tried to tell him not to move, that if he did she might lose this gift, but he’d already stopped dead in his tracks. She felt the heat of his body against her left side, felt his arms pull her tighter to his chest. The vibrations she’d felt before were stronger now—strong enough she could tell that it wasn’t the trembling of hands causing it. There was something more to it, a kind of living energy pulsing between them.

She felt his body clench. Heard his breath come out in a shocked rush.

She opened her eyes and saw him staring down at her. Even in the darkness she could see longing and hunger in his eyes, as if he’d been starved all his life and had only now found his first meal. And she was it.

The fact that such a crazy notion didn’t scare the shit out of her proved just how big a fool she was. Not even the lesson that what’s-his-name had taught her seemed to do any good.

Rory started to pull her hand away from his hot skin, but his grip tightened and a look of fear widened his moss green eyes.

“Don’t stop touching me,” he said, more a plea than an order. “Not yet. Not until I get you to safety.”

They were only a couple of blocks away from the shelter, and the truth was it didn’t matter if she touched him or not. If he intended to do her harm, she was screwed.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said as if sensing her worry.

She lifted her chin, giving him a hard stare. “I wouldn’t let you hurt me.”

“Of that I’m sure. Come on. Let’s get you inside and out of those clothes.”

Chapter 3

“Excuse me?” Rory nearly shouted.

“That’s not what I mean,” he said, a hint of embarrassment in his deep voice. “The blood on your clothes will draw the demons. I’m sure Hope will have something else you can wear.”

Oh. Well. That was different from what she’d first thought—that he had other, less noble intentions. Though with waves of delicious heat sinking into her wherever he touched, and those tingling vibrations dancing between them, maybe less noble intentions would be fun.

No. Bad Rory. Remember Matt?

Yes. She did. She also remembered those endless hours of fighting for her life, not knowing if she’d ever be free, or if she’d die as a snack for some monster lurking in that filthy water. Matt had caused that torture, and even though he was dead, Rory would not forget that lesson.

“You know Hope?” she asked, hoping to distract herself from hellish memories.

“Yes. How do you know her?”

She could feel the low rumble of his voice all along her left side. He had the faintest hint of an accent—one that came out only with certain words, like he’d been raised somewhere else. She found it intriguing and sexy as hell. If circumstances were different, she would be happy to simply close her eyes and listen to him for hours. It wouldn’t even matter what he said. Let him recite his recipe for stewed Rory brains for all she cared—she’d bask in his voice all the same.

After a moment of collecting the few scraps that were left of her wits, she cleared her throat. “I went to the old shelter where she worked sometimes. Before it burned down. Back when Sister Olive—” Rory couldn’t finish. Her throat tightened with grief, cutting off her air. She swallowed, trying to work through her feelings of loss and anger at the nun’s murder, but she wasn’t that strong. It was too soon. Only a few months had passed, but every minute had been lonely and isolated. She hadn’t spoken to anyone about what had happened in that abandoned building those demons had converted into home, sweet home.

Words could not make the pain of memories like those go away. Nothing could. She’d carry that grief and terror around with her for the rest of her likely short life.

His thumb slid over her side, clearly an offer of comfort. “Hope told me about her. Her death was a true loss.”

Rory nodded, but that was all she could manage. She still hadn’t been able to shove away the memories of that night and all its lingering horror.

And monsters had found her the moment she came out of isolation. Story of her freakin’ life.

They reached the back of the shelter. The door was locked. Cain tapped it with his boot and a few seconds later, it opened to reveal Logan, Hope’s husband, who was way too pretty to have been born a dude. He had silky, dark hair, and silvery eyes that lit with recognition. The angles of his face were too perfect to be real, and he was much less gaunt than the last time Rory had seen him—back on the night Sister Olive had died.