She cradled her forehead in her hand. “This is not going to make me popular.”

“This isn’t about being popular. It’s about saving lives and protecting the city you swore to serve.”

She slanted her eyes at him from behind her hand and let the sarcasm drip from her words. “Thank you for that reminder.” She dropped her hand to the arm of the chair. “I’ll go with terrorist threat. I’ll set a curfew and get the chief to run patrols. Maybe they’ll catch whoever’s killing these comarré girls, too. You know there’s been a third victim? Three in three days.” Her city was being destroyed from the inside out.

John shook his head. “That’s not good. But you’re right, maybe the patrols will turn something up.”

“What about the child?”

He shrugged. “I really don’t know. The Castus, the ancient ones, they’re nothing I’ve ever dealt with before. Creek and his crew have. Probably best to let them handle it.” He paused, looking into her eyes more deeply. “They don’t want the ancient ones having that baby any more than you do.”

She stood, her head in a thousand different places with all the work ahead of her. “Get someone in here to take your place, then get back with them. I want you to make sure that’s the case.”

Chapter Twenty-six

The second the bathroom door began to open, Mal flashed back to the sofa, feet up on the coffee table, eyes closed. Liar. He listened as Chrysabelle’s soft footfalls grew closer on the thick carpet. Her perfume, stronger now that she was freshly out of a hot shower, wafted over him in warm, silky waves. His already thin control narrowed further. Not joining her in that shower had been test enough, but her words about not the time or place, whether knowingly for him or not, had stirred what little sense he had left. Their relationship, such as it was, held together by his willingness not to cause her trouble. Or drain her. Weakling. Getting into the shower with her would definitely qualify as trouble and probably earn him a few bruises. Plus, he had his suspicions about her physical well-being.

The cushion beside him sank down. He opened his eyes. She sat inches away. Wearing nothing but a robe. Son of a priest, didn’t she have any idea what she did to him? He might be a vampire, but he was also still a man. A dead one. He shifted away from her a little. “You really didn’t have to get out so soon.”

She shrugged. “It’s okay.”

Was it? Her pulse had risen and stayed that way since they’d gotten on the plane to come here. It had still been elevated when he’d met up with her again in Jackson Square. She’d been on edge. Maybe it was just the task ahead of them, but maybe it wasn’t. He’d seen her wince, and his gut said she was hurting and trying to hide it. He decided to take a risk. “The heat helps, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, but not—What? I felt grimy from traveling. That’s all.”

In this case, he hated being right. “You’re a bad liar.”

“No, I’m not. You’re just hard to lie to.” She picked up the empty glass she’d set on the coffee table earlier and turned it in her hands. “I’m fine.”

“You’re in pain. I’m sorry.” He was responsible for that pain, something not even the voices needed to remind him about. “Why don’t you have a shot of whiskey? It might help.”

She set the glass back down. “I can’t, you know that. I have to stick to comarré rules, at least a little while longer.” She pushed the sleeve of her robe up, exposing a glinting length of flesh. Her right hand curled, her fingers flicking open the hidden blade of the ring she wore for just this purpose.

“Wait.” No! Blood. Now.

Her brows lifted. “You don’t want to feed, that’s fine, but I need to drain anyway or I’ll get sick.”

“No, I want the blood. But I can’t stand seeing you in pain.”

“I said I’m fine. Leave it.”

He couldn’t. Not with her. He cracked his knuckles, flexing his fingers. Her gaze went to his hands, and the look in her eyes told him what to do next. “Turn around.”

“Why?” Suspicion replaced interest in her eyes.

“Relax.” He made a circular motion with one finger. Around you?

“I can’t.” She twisted a little, still trying to watch him.

He put his hands on her waist and turned her the rest of the way around so that her back was to him. “I’m aware of that. Which is why I’m doing this.” He moved her hair over her shoulder, reluctant to let the silky length out of his hands. Someday, he wanted to brush it for her. Like that would ever happen.

He started on her shoulders, pressing his thumbs into the pads of muscle on the slope of her neck. Her ragged inhale stopped him. “Too much?”

“No.” Her head dipped forward, giving him more room to work.

He began again with the same pressure, making small circles into her skin. This time, he stopped on his own.

Her head came up slightly. “What’s wrong?”

“Robe’s too thick.” Without asking, he slipped his fingers into the neck of the fabric and tugged it down gently, exposing her shoulders and upper back.

The scars shone more brightly than her signum, each one like a dagger to his own flesh. She pulled the robe tighter but made no effort to re-cover herself. His hands returned to her body. At first contact, she inhaled again, flinching a little.