Page 29 of The Scribe (Irin Chronicles 1)

Malachi watchedthe edge of the water where the waves crashed up against the embankment as a giant freighter glided through the narrowest part of the Bosphorus. It was a normal sunny day along the water, so why was his mood so dark?

“What’s with you today?” Ava nudged her foot against his knee. She was relaxed again. The change in her temperament would last for a few days after each appointment before the agitation would start again. It was a curious cycle, but one he couldn’t question more without arousing suspicion. He caught the tip of her shoe in his hand, pinching her toe under the leather before he released it. Another curious thing. He found himself finding ways to touch her without contact with her skin. A brush of arms as they passed each other. A hand on the small of her back as they walked through a crowd. It was fleeting and probably unwise, but he couldn’t resist.

He didn’t really want to.

He frowned when he realized he’d never answered her question. “I’m fine.”

“You’re being all broody, Mal.”

He muttered, “I really wish you’d stop calling me that.”

Ava picked up her glass of tea and sipped before she answered. “It’s good to want things… Mal.”

He couldn’t help it; she made him smile. He shook his head, relieved that she hadn’t wanted to do anything more strenuous than stroll along the waterfront and shop a bit. She’d bought an embroidered purse for her mother, earrings and a scarf for herself. The earrings were so long they almost brushed her bare shoulders, and the scarf held her hair back, its colors vivid against her dark curls. He felt it again, the pull to put his hands on her. To stroke the skin where the jewelry touched. To pull the scarf from her hair.

They’d retired to a café, one of Malachi’s favorites, to drink tea and grab a quick bite to eat. Bread and cold salads covered the table, a mezze platter of eggplant and yogurt and the spicy tomato salad she loved. Black olives and oil-soaked cheese. Ava tore off a piece of bread and dipped it, still tapping her foot against his.

“Have you always fidgeted?” he asked.

“Yes. My mom says it’s the reason I’m so thin. Couldn’t keep still if my life depended on it.”

“Even though you eat constantly.”

“Hey, you burn through a lot of energy when you contain this much awesome.” She winked, but the smile on her lips held a trace of bitterness.

He fell silent again, thinking about going out on patrol that night. He wondered why Damien was insisting on it. The watcher hardly needed to worry about Malachi being battle-ready. He’d done almost nothing but fight for over two hundred years. First in Germany, where his parents had been killed, then in Rome for a time. Buenos Aires. Chicago. Johannesburg. Atlanta. He’d traveled the world, killing the Grigori who had slaughtered his family, then others—any others—he could find. He’d become known for his quick, brutal killing style and relentless drive. He was focused and disciplined in battle, though reckless regarding his own safety. Nothing and no one came between Malachi and his target once his sights were set.

Her foot just kept tapping…

Hot tea spilled on his pants.

“Oops!” Ava laughed. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine.” He picked up a napkin, dabbing at the tea as he watched her from the corner of his eye.

She was jiggling her foot, tapping it to the rhythm of the street musician playing on the corner. The woman burst with life, more than any human woman he’d ever met. When Malachi looked at her sometimes, he wondered how her skin could even contain her personality. Her eyes might have held pain and exhaustion at times, but her body was in constant motion.

For a moment, he reveled in the fantasy that she had enough energy even for his touch.

Fingers linked. Arms wrapping around her slight frame. Drawing her to his chest as his mouth descended to her skin. Laying his rough cheek to the satin of hers. Pressing his lips to her neck. The curve of her jaw. Her lips. Feeling the pulse of life seep into his skin. Her fingers digging into his neck. Gripping his hair at the nape. The touch of her mouth to his.

The touch…

He banished the rebellious thoughts, disgusted with himself. He was no better than a Grigori.

“Hey,” she whispered, her own cheeks flushed as if she shared his thoughts. “Malachi, where did you just go?”

He blinked and looked up. Nothing had distracted him in two hundred years.

Who was he kidding?

He swiped a quick hand over his face and shook his head to clear it. “Sorry. Didn’t sleep well last night.”

“And then I dragged you out.”

“It’s fine, Ava.” He grabbed an orange from a dish on the table, letting the bitter spray from the peel wake him. “I’m just a little tired.”

“We could head back,” she said. “And don’t you have some kind of backup? I mean, not that I don’t prefer your company, but surely you have someone who can… fill in for you, or something. If you’re sick?”

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