Page 18 of Vampire's Choice

“Merc.” The warning in Marcellus’s tone drew Merc’s gaze toward him. When that intensity was replaced with indifferent insolence, the feeling lessened.

“Can you handle this?” Marcellus asked curtly.

Merc’s lip curled, showing the tip of one fang. “You trust me around harmless children. She’s no different.”

Anger spurted at the undisguised condescension, but Ruth was catching up. It was all a test. If she failed to learn the pride lesson after just being schooled on it, Yvette was right. She might as well go home.

Merc’s provocation might be planned. Even if it wasn’t, she adopted a flat calm, as impenetrable as a wall of black diamonds. Look at the pretty shiny stuff. The hardest substance on Earth. Whatever happening behind it was nobody’s business but her own.

“Shall we take the fight outside?” Yvette’s attention rested on her.

Lyssa rose, a tacit agreement. Ruth was tempted to lunge for the tent opening, to seek the hopeful lessening of Merc’s effect on her in the open air. Fortunately, she had enough self-possession not to shove in front of the Council head, the Circus owner and an angel.

However, before she could follow them, Merc closed in on her. She could have bolted. Maybe he hoped for that. Instead she spun to face him.

“Going to run?” he murmured.

She went still as he slid a finger with sure intent under the slim chain at her throat, though it was buried beneath the bolo strap and turquoise rosettes.

She could slap his hand away. She was staring daggers at him, but her heart thudded under his touch. He followed the chain past the tank shirt’s neckline, tracing one bra cup before finding the wing feather.

Merc stroked the feather’s edge while her breath shortened, and her body vibrated.

She couldn’t do this. Whether part of the plan or not, he’d taunted her in front of them. Questioned her ability. Did she want contempt from a man who could command her?

Not in this lifetime.

She stepped back and pulled the feather into the open between them. Yanking it free of the clasp, she let it fall.

“You’re about to lose more of these,” she said.

He smiled, showing both fangs this time. Most vampires avoided doing that, to maintain the appearance of civility. That didn’t seem like a big priority for him.

“You’re trembling,” he said. “I’m not worried.”

He didn’t understand her reaction. If ever she gave herself to a Master, he would earn the right. He would fight her for it; otherwise she wouldn’t respect him. She might be a submissive, but she would give that gift only to the Master who treated her as she deserved to be treated. She wanted the bond her parents had. And while it had to be with a being stronger than herself, he’d love and respect her. Even as he owned her in all the ways she desired.

There was nothing simple about her needs. But that lack of simplicity was her greatest protection from her own kind. And now possibly from a being she couldn’t identify, except to know he was more powerful than she was, at least on every physical level.

“Stop fucking with my head or I’ll tell them how we met,” she said.

Bull’s eye. His jaw tightened and he stepped back. After a brief staring contest, during which her trembling increased, but so did the jut of her jaw, he gestured to her with exaggerated courtesy. An invitation to precede him.

Not far from Yvette’s tent, a large square had been marked out. A trio of acrobats were using it to practice some impressive gymnastics. When Yvette informed them the space was needed, they withdrew without complaint, but they didn’t go away. Other Circus members not-so-subtly positioned themselves to watch the show.

Ruth moved into the sparring area as Marcellus stopped Merc outside it. As she stripped down to the essentials of leggings, tank and boots, she kept a peripheral eye on what they were doing. Perhaps discussing what tactics Marcellus wanted Merc to use, to prove her fight skills. Though in the yurt she’d noted a combative edge between the men, Merc’s attitude here was attentive. Giving Marcellus a short nod, he turned toward her. He stretched out his wings in a quick snap, showing the lightning pattern. The air currents from the movement reached her, feathering over her skin.

She ignored them, and braided the loose waves of her hair. By the time she’d tucked the braids into the top knot, he’d folded the wings in again.

“No hair pulling?” he observed. “Shame.”

He did a cartwheel from the outside of the arena into it, pausing on the palm of one hand and studying her from the upside-down position before he flexed his thighs into a split, bent his knees and brought one foot down into the sparring space, then the other, his body flowing back into an upright position, every muscle on rippling display. The feathers brushed against the jeans, his arms and shoulders, wings arching up and then settling again.

“I’ll pull yours later, while I fuck you up the ass,” she responded. “If you ask nicely. But we better do this first.”

A murmur went through the observers, punctuated by a bark of laughter. She didn’t know if the murmurs reflected disapproval of her trash talk, or shock at her taunting an opponent who could possibly do her real damage, but their reaction wasn’t her concern.

This was one of those important forks in life’s road. How she handled it would either take her forward or worse, leave her at the fork, with nowhere to go but back the way she already knew.

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