Page 20 of Vampire's Choice

That was to him.

At long last, he gave a brusque nod. Whatever was driving her arousal, compelling her to release, started to ebb. She kept her gaze on his, fighting not to look away. If she did, she was sure he would ramp it back up, pushing what he was doing to its natural conclusion.

Marcellus had asked for a test of her skills. Physical, mental. Endurance, will. Merc had tested all of it in short order. Marcellus had said she’d passed.

She should be satisfied about that. But she was soaked with sweat and felt weak. The lightest touch would set her off. But then the reduction of sexual arousal brought back the pain in her shoulder.

“I can give you medical attention.” The female voice to her left spoke. It pulled her attention away from Merc, the soothing tone an oasis in the storm of pain, laced with lightning bolts of unwanted pleasure.

“I’m all right. I’m a vampire. Everything heals on its own.”

Well, most things. And not as fast as they should for her age. So if the woman could speed that along, that wasn’t a bad thing.

Merc’s focus had changed. She could tell he didn’t want her to look at him. Not when they had him on his knees, pinned down like that, the whip collaring his throat. It was in his burning gaze.

It didn’t make him look weak to her. He reminded her of the damaged cats they brought to the island. The ones who’d reached the limit of being told who and what to be, being forced to be what they weren’t. They would kill without thought, because tearing, rending and destroying gave them a taste of freedom, experienced in the most destructive way possible. It matched the rage in them, the terrible fear of ever being that helpless again.

Everything else, even the results of their own savagery, was bearable.

Because she understood it, she dropped to one knee, her other hand pressed to the ground, and dipped her head. An acknowledgement to a worthy opponent.

She could see it startled him. It also helped to calm him, though Ruth was pretty sure he’d never lost control. Proving it, at least to her, Merc turned his head toward Yvette and put his hand on the whip, gripping it firmly, no matter that it looked as if the contact burned. Yvette nodded, and the bespelled whip, glowing with a flame-colored energy, fell away. It left angry marks at his throat, as well as on his palm. Marcellus offered him a hand up, but Merc refused it, raising himself to a standing position.

Feathers drifted against his bare feet, because she’d attacked his wings several times to keep him from using them as a lift advantage. As the wind took them away, she wondered if others in the Circus would collect and keep them as she unwisely had.

The four slashes on his shoulder had broken open. Blood was in his right eye, probably from that head shot she’d landed. A cracked eye socket didn’t seem to bother him, and she wondered what his own healing abilities were.

He came toward her, ignoring how Yvette and Marcellus shifted, positioning themselves in case they needed to intervene. Lyssa sat on a chair someone had brought for her, no expression on her face. Jacob stood behind her. Ruth detected some anger in the servant, as if he thought they’d let the fight go too far. He was protective of women, she remembered. Even his Mistress, the strongest of all of them.

Ruth would reassure him later that she was fine. Right now, with the fight adrenaline draining away, it was hard to think past the dislocated shoulder.

The owner of the gentle voice was a woman so thin she made Catriona, whose core spirit tree was the willow, look like a voluptuous Mae West.

She was also barely five feet tall and human, but the energy she carried held…more. Her long reddish gold hair, freckles, and pale skin made her look young, but Ruth thought she was in her thirties. Her cloudy blue eyes and the way she tilted her head toward voices without eye contact said she was blind.

She was also someone’s second marked servant. Vampires could detect that ownership, though not always the identity of the owner. She might be Yvette’s. Ruth would figure it out once pain wasn’t screaming through her collar bone, shoulder and all the connected muscles.

When Merc moved in her direction again, she was ready to fight, but he shook his head and closed his grip over the limp fingers of the arm that was dislocated. He put a surprisingly light hand on her shoulder, telling her what he was doing.

Her skin vibrated around the touch. He’d turned down the sexual energy, but she still responded to his presence as if he were a magnet, drawing that reaction back to skin level, pulling her toward him.

But again…sex and vampires. While obviously not immune to it, she was a drinker with an exceptionally high tolerance. For form’s sake, she bared her fangs. “Stop doing that.”

“I’m not doing anything. The fight is over.”

“It’s over for now,” she corrected him.

She forced herself not to draw her hand out of his grasp as he dropped to his heels and supported the arm. When he slowly extended it, she fought not to throw up.

She wondered if he’d try to cause her more pain on purpose, since she’d kicked him in the balls and torn out more of his feathers.

“Charlie,” he spoke to the redhead, “Tell me when.”

“Let me give her something so it will be easier.”

Merc’s gaze rested on Ruth’s. “She doesn’t want easier. The muscles will heal.”

Charlie sighed. “You fighting types. You make things so difficult.” Her slim hand overlapped his, readjusted his grip, and she checked the position of Ruth’s shoulder.

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