LITMIR.BIZ

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He stabbed him again…and again. He would never hide under his bed again, never hide in the closet, never feel pain or fear or shame…John deserved to die for all that he had done, for all those days, weeks, months and years of shocks and cords and prods and the ripping apart and the final submission. Now he recalled every atrocious act. Now he recalled the fear and the pain, merely repressed and buried deep. For fear and pain were who and what he was. But most of all, he recalled the loss of his humanity and sanity, which he would never have again. Sweat and tears blinded him as he raised the knife again.

      “He’s dead.”

      He heard her but couldn’t stop, even though he realized that the demon was dead, his eyes entirely sightless now, his bloody and mangled body unmoving and still. He buried the knife to the hilt and it quivered in John’s chest.

      “Ian. He’s dead.” She clasped his shoulders from behind but merely held him that way, instead of attempting to pull him off.

      He became vaguely aware of her grasp. He let go of the knife. Slick with blood, it stood up gruesomely in John’s chest.

      “Ian?” she asked very cautiously.

      He was panting uncontrollably, straddling the corpse, wiping the moisture from his face, too late realizing it was tears, not sweat, and his hands were covered with blood. He remembered it all.

      The pain threatened to kill him.

      He turned away and vomited violently.

      He didn’t know how long he remained there, on his hands and knees, the tears sliding helplessly down his face. But by the time he sat up, the demon was half gone, his physical presence rapidly disintegrating, leaving a glowing wake of what looked like embers behind. And a terrible silence filled the library.

      Comprehension began. Sam Rose had just witnessed his insanity.

      He inhaled, seeking composure. Aghast, he launched himself to his feet. To his surprise and relief, she was gone.

      He reeled and used a bookcase to steady himself. The relief vanished. She’d been present and had seen what no one had ever seen, except for Gerard. And she might even be smart enough to figure out the truth…

      At the wet bar, he washed his hands, wiped the last drops of moisture from his face, dried his hands. As he poured a huge scotch, he heard her returning to the room. Tensing—wishing she’d gone home—he looked up.

      She stood in the doorway in her bloody red dress, her expression somber. Her blue eyes were wide and trained on him.

      He did not see pity or compassion on her face, for which he was thankful. He’d kill her if she dared to pity him.

      He was so tired. He hated this fucking miserable life. “Leave.”

      She started.

      He slowly smiled, hoping she would stay so he could take his rage out on her. He’d do to her what they’d done to him and enjoy it. “Ye really should take warning. My mood is foul.”

      She didn’t move. “No kidding.”

      She wasn’t afraid; she was being sarcastic. Briefly he was amazed.

      She glanced at the mostly disintegrated corpse. “Remind me not to piss you off too much.”

      There was more control. Not a lot of it, but more. He didn’t want to hurt her or torture her—he wanted her in his bed, catering to his every damnable desire. But he did not trust himself.

      When he felt like this, he was careful to stay away from women, from humans, from the Innocent. “Go away. Before I do what I want to do.”

      “If you think that tantrum scared me, you’re wrong.” But she wasn’t mocking now. Her tone was thoughtful. “You could give lessons in payback.” She slowly approached.

      He jumped into her mind. She wanted to comprehend him. She wanted to know why he had acted as he had, why he had mauled the demon to death. She wanted to know if he was okay?

      He was fine. He might be crazy, but he had the bank accounts, cars and homes to prove he was okay. This was his life! And none of it was her affair or anyone else’s! His secrets were just that. His life was just that—a dirty, dark secret.

      The rage returned and he crossed the room, seizing her wrist hard. The average woman would have protested; she did not. Her gaze slammed to him. “Don’t even think of manhandling me. I’ll kill you,” she warned.

      “Try!” He relished the fight.

      She saw it and backed down. “Whatever he did to you, I’m not a part of it.”

      The rage blinded him. “He did nothin’ to me!”

      “Yeah, and that’s why you hacked him apart after he was dead.”

      He pulled her up against his hard, explosive body. “An’ how will you stop me from hurtin’ ye?” As adept at martial arts as she was, as powerful as she was, he was stronger—she didn’t have half the powers he had. To make certain she understood that, he whirled her around and pushed her hard against the bookcase. Then he leaned into her, the position sexually aggressive, dominant and threatening. “Can ye really stop me now?” he taunted, pulsing against her buttocks.

      She had become still. He delved deeply into her mind and couldn’t find a single shred of fear. In spite of his rage, he was amazed. Instead, she calmly debated the worst scenario—his raping her and her killing him for it, one way or another. And in that moment, he knew she’d succeed or die trying.

      He didn’t want her dead.

      Some of the anger receded. He had his entire body pressed against hers, from knee to shoulder, his mouth against her ear and the tendrils of hair curling there. As they stood that way, with only two layers of fabric between them, the anger shifted again, this time into an awareness of her body, what it offered him and how desperate he was for escape.

      “Sam,” he said harshly, tightening his arms around her waist. As desire and lust took over, he felt her response in her heavy breathing and quivering body.

      He closed his eyes, ashamed. For threatening her sexually, as if he’d learned how to behave from his tormentors, and for her having witnessed him in such a maniacal moment. It was hard to breathe. There was so much pressure now. In a moment, there could be so much pleasure, so much relief. “Sam.”

      Her ribs rose and fell heavily now, beneath his grasp. He raised his arms until her heavy breasts rode them. “Dinna move,” he said, reaching down. He freed himself and pushed between her legs, the jersey dress entangling with his length.

      She gasped at the contact and grasped his hands. “Damn you.”

      He moved his mouth against her ear, using his tongue. She trembled violently. “I’m not one of them. Give me permission. I want ye, Sam.”

      For one heartbeat, when she didn’t move or answer, he thought she would submit. But then she turned around—and jammed her knee into his groin.

      Shocked, he gasped as pain flooded him, clutching himself.

      “Never means never,” she cried. “And I won’t be a warm body to make you feel better.”

       CHAPTER FOUR

      SAM MEANT IT.

      He somehow straightened, flushed. “Did ye break yer kneecap?” he mocked.

      “Right,” she shot back. But she was instantly sorry. It had been a desperate move. She’d almost caved in to him—her body was that demanding, that hot for his. The raging attraction was getting worse. After what she’d just seen, it should be gone.

      She’d never seen so much rage. She was shaken, even though she’d witnessed a lifetime of murder

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