Page 17 of Vampire's Choice

He wore the same kind of battle skirt the incubus had worn on the island, a crimson red linen skirt beneath the leatherlike straps. A sword harness crossed his bare chest, the weapon evident over his shoulder. Set in the hilt was a blazing red jewel, surrounded by black stones. A faint scar ran beneath the hold of the harness.

“My father said it’s your woman I’m here to help protect.” Again, she might be running her mouth without thought, but she went with her intuition. He didn’t confirm or deny, so she continued. “I’ll do whatever’s needed. I have no experience in this kind of work, but I’m a good fighter. I pay attention to details, and I think things through before acting.”

Mostly. When it was important to do so. And when her head wasn’t clouded by psychotic winged incubi.

“Your desire to prove yourself, that kind of pride, can lead to mistakes. Most of being an effective protector is being smart. Anticipating before a problem can become a threat. Knowing when to call for backup.”

Though Marcellus’s eyes made it hard to know what was going on in his head, and he could obviously dice her into salad fixings, he reminded her of her father, when he was teaching her something he damn well expected her to learn on the very first pass.

“I won’t let pride interfere with the most important thing. Keeping her safe, however you think I’m best suited to do it.”

Marcellus studied her. “How you fight says a great deal about how you think. I will see your skills.”

She was going to spar against an angel? Fucking hell.

“You’ll spar with Merc.”

Marcellus dipped his head toward the section of the tent she’d turned into a mental black hole, ordering all her senses away from who inhabited it.

Only her vision had successfully complied. Throughout the conversation with the others, she could smell his heated scent, hear the shift of his movements. She could feel him against her skin, like one of the sanctuary’s housecats when they twined around her. Even that scornful laugh had sent shivers up her spine.

Danger and an insane level of sexual vibes had never been part of that feline attention, but the overwhelming insistence to be the center of it? He excelled at that.

“She hasn’t noticed me, Marcellus. Before she can be trusted to watch your gypsy fortune teller, her observation skills need improvement.”

You absolute prick. A cannonball of irritation knocked those ten pins of sexual attraction flat. Deliberately, Ruth pivoted toward him.

“I’m sorry,” she said sweetly. “You seemed…invisible to me.”

The exchanged glances between the others covered the several strong heartbeats where she lost awareness of anything but her first visual impression.

The irises were so dark red they were almost black, like dried blood. While not covering up all the whites like Marcellus’s, they did take up more space than most humanlike species. Traces of silver bled into the white. Lightning.

His hair had thick waves and some curl on top, but was shorn at the nape and sides. The color reminded her of fallen leaves in the mountain habitat. Particularly once they’d been on the forest floor long enough to pick up deeper shades of brown. After rainstorms, the angles and tips gleamed.

His wings were folded close to his body, cloaking his shoulders. They weren’t as broad as Marcellus’s, but wherever skin was visible, he was smooth, touchable muscle.

Marcellus wore what she’d associate with a biblical angel. Maybe the authors of those texts actually had seen angels.

Though Merc had worn something similar on the island, today he had a different fashion statement. Grunge rockstar angel sex demon? A day or two’s growth of beard added to the look.

A black tank shirt revealed distracting biceps and nestled close to his upper torso—she didn’t blame it. She assumed it was altered in back to accommodate his wings. His jeans fit the way any man with a mouthwatering lower body to share with the female world should be required to wear them. Snug over hips and thighs. Creased around the groin area without being too tight, but suggesting what was there needed more room than it had.

No shoes. Long toes, elegant arches. The man had nice feet. Jesus.

When her gaze returned to his face, her attention was caught by something she’d missed on the first pass, because his wing had shadowed them. Four long scars disappeared over the curve of his shoulder.

She knew that wound pattern. One of their big cats had gotten him. Alarms went off, but if any of the cats had been harmed, she would have known before she left home. Every one of them was checked daily.

She hadn’t forgotten she was in the middle of an interview, but she wanted to know who he’d wrangled with. As she opened her mouth to demand an answer, his gaze flashed, a warning.

He didn’t want the others to know about their meeting. Interesting. For his benefit or hers?

Until she knew, she would stay silent. But they were going to discuss that smartass comment he’d made, too.

As he held her gaze, the pulsing need in her body increased. Perspiration brought coolness and heat both to her nape, planting the thought of having his mouth there.

Son of a bitch.

---