Page 40 of Vampire's Choice

His sarcasm made it difficult not to respond in kind. But it was too soon for her to get into another fight with him, no matter how appealing the idea was. “When you’re a born vampire, the title is bestowed at birth. My father isn’t ‘my lord,’ because he’s a made vampire, though he’s earned that respect a hundred times over. I haven’t.”

Merc chuckled, a warmer sound that shivered up her spine. He landed a few feet from her. When he’d been pressing her to the ground, his clothing had felt different. He was back in the battle skirt. His wasn’t crimson red like Marcellus’s. It was black, with the leather-looking protective straps over it—pteruges were their official name; she’d looked them up. His belt was silver chain links hooked to a buckle and bearing a scabbard for a dagger with a spiral hilt. His upper body was bare. Her gaze climbed the terrain with pleasure. He wasn’t as broad as the angel, but he was very… well-sculpted.

“I missed an opportunity,” she noted. “If I’d turned around before you landed, I could have looked up your skirt. Boxers, briefs or commando?”

When he dropped to a knee beside her, she didn’t draw back. He leaned in, nostrils flaring. Like a cat, he was assessing if the object of his interest was something to consume right away or play with, aka torment, first. His muscle tension showed the readiness to pounce.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to stare at me like you wanted to eat me,” he murmured.

“Don’t recall giving you permission to treat me like a submissive.”

Your submissive. She looked toward the water, pushing down the uncomfortable surge of feeling that came with the thought. Not about him specifically. Just the wish, always there, controlled by cold reality. No sense whipping herself into a frenzy over the Christmas gift she’d never get. Though Merc made her want to toss the desire into a blender and hit exactly that setting.

“I need to report that run-in to Yvette,” she said, ignoring her internal idiocy. “I don’t want her to think I’m trying to hide it when Pholos complains to her.”

Merc settled onto his heels, his forearms resting on his knees. The wings adjusted out, and the left one brushed her back, an incidental contact. Or a presumptuous one. She decided not to comment on it.

“I doubt Pholos will mention it. Despite the posturing, he gets that it was an honest mistake, and you’ll learn from it. Or his kids will have more live target practice. Works for him either way.”

She curled a lip, but she wasn’t going to let his obnoxious personality keep her from being courteous. “Thank you for keeping me from being impaled. It would be a poor first day on the job if I ended up dead. But I will tell her. And maybe not just that. Why don’t you want Marcellus and Yvette to know you met me at the preserve?”

“They’re in my business enough as it is. Didn’t care to share.” He shifted. “Can you smell my blood?”

The abrupt subject change told her there was more to it, but since she understood the desire to keep some things private, she went along with it. “Yes.”

“Is it different from a human’s?”

“Yes.”

“Does that mean it would taste different?”

“I expect so.” Her pulse started to thud. She reminded herself she’d had a recent meal, with dessert.

She was sure he wasn’t offering her his blood. He liked to taunt, get a rise out of his prey, get them stirred up over something. Was it because he liked the spice of that emotion in his food?

He drank sexual energy. She drank blood. Neither source was divorced from the emotions, pleasures and agonies that went with them. Based on what she’d been repeatedly warned about when it came to Merc, she had a good idea what his favorite seasoning was.

Fear.

He wasn’t getting that from her. He should know that by now. “So why are you dressed like that?” she asked.

“Marcellus wanted me to accompany him on some angel business. This is a more familiar and accepted look for that.”

“Does he ever wear modern clothes like you do?” She couldn’t imagine it on the austere and commanding male.

“On performance nights, for Yvette, he wears the security team uniform. He cloaks his wings so no one sees them. If he participates in the Promenade, he reveals the wings and changes back into Legion wear. That’s been his uniform for hundreds of years. Anything else feels like playing dress-up to him.”

She glanced over her shoulder as one of the feathers teased the nape of her neck, thanks to the light breeze. “I know you can do the invisibility thing, but can you cloak just your wings, too?”

“Yes. I wasn’t aware I could do that until I met him. He’s helped me look deeper into the abilities my angel blood gives me.”

“You sound like that bothers you.”

The black blood and silver eyes flickered. He had a straight, patrician nose. Thin, sensual lips. Cheekbones cut from smooth marble. “I’m an incubus. That blood holds the angel side in contempt.”

“Maybe I’m contrary, but that would make me all the more determined to figure out what it doesn’t want me to know about that side of myself.”

He said nothing, but his expression shifted to something she couldn’t interpret. “What?” she asked.

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