Page 42 of Marked by the Demigod

He sits back, sudden, blinking. "Oh." And it's awkward again, before he drapes his arm around her shoulders, casual and possessive. He surveys the crowd, eyes sharp.

It feels artificial, so she pokes him in the side. "Why'd someone stab you last week?"

He doesn't even blink at the direct question. "They didn't like me."

"Katya says your brothers protect you."

No change. "Katya doesn't know everything." He scans the bar, before smirking. "The boy you were flirting with found another target." He nudges, points, and indeed the burly librarian is flirting with a girl wedged up next to the bar. He's obviously drinking the martini he got for her.

"Is that why you came?" She asks, intentionally leaning into his space, and he presses into her side in an unconscious reply. "Were you jealous that some librarian was buying me drinks?"

He half smiles, the arm over her shoulders tugging her closer. "He's just a librarian." But his voice lacks the smug, smooth nature of his accent before, and she knows she hit it right on the button.

She stands and slips out of the booth. "Come up to my room?" Her heart pounds again, pounds for this man who had fucked her and then left, had slept injured in her bed and then left, and who thought that taking her to an icy wasteland was impressive.

He blinks up at her, slow, then slides out of the booth in one long motion, and they leave the crowded bar, up the tiny staircase in the tiny little inn, and to her tiny little room with a view of the starlight over the ocean.

He slips his hands underneath the jacket draped over her and slides it off, folding it over the chair, his hands warm on her skin.

"You're freezing," he says, his voice clipping over the consonants, accented. "I didn't think you'd get so cold so fast."

"I wasn't dressed for it." She toes off her sodden shoes, the carpet plush and dry.

"Next time I'll take you somewhere warm, somewhere tropical." His hand plays with the small hairs at the nape of her neck, and she tries hard not to lean into that touch. "Did you...did you change your hair? Since we..."

She nods, reaching out and fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. "Why'd you leave last week?" She asks, slipping the first button off.

He blinks at her, slow, eyes down at her fingers. "Why does it matter?"

She tugs at the shirt, her mind racing a bit too much, but he's here and it's a bit too overwhelming. "Because you had been shot, and it hurt, and then you were gone."

"Bullet wounds usually hurts."

"But this time it hurt me, and now I'm asking why you left."

"If I recall," he starts, then stops, abrupt. His eyes meet hers, and the moment stills, suddenly too potent. "It was your friend who showed up to check on you."

"You could've stayed. Been introduced." She slips another button off, because his shirt is still on and it's almost distracting. "I didn't even know you could disappear."

"I can do a lot of things you don't know."

She looks up, sharp. "Is that a pick up line?"

He gestures at the room, amusement in the lines of his shoulders. "Do I need one?"

She lets her hand fall away from his shirt, stung. "I don't know about need," she says, feeling her eyebrows pull down. "I just… wanted to know what that was about."

"Didn't know who was coming through the door, wasn't feeling like explaining why I was here to another person." This time, he reaches out, a large warm hand on her hip, solid and soothing. "I wasn't having the best week."

And that answer feels vaguely unsatisfying, like the way fat free whipped cream tastes when you don't know it's not regular whipped cream and use it on some premium apple pie. But she finds herself leaning into his touch anyways. "The sleeping thing. It was nice."

"Yeah," he says, his hand circling her waist. "Yeah it was."

"Why'd you pick me?" He's so close, so very close, and her heart starts pounding again.

He pauses, for just a second, then brings their mouths together in a brutal kiss.

She arches her back into it, grabbing his hair and twisting her fingers through the strands, and he groans, deep in his chest. He hooks his hands in the waistband of her jeans, tugging at them without breaking the kiss.

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