Page 18 of Diamond Angel

Taylor skewers me with a glare before she turns back to him. “Please?”

He eyes me sidelong, but to his credit, he doesn’t pick another round of this losing battle. “You’ll call me?” he asks her.

“I will,” she insists. “Tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he sighs. With a grimace, he turns and limps down the alleyway.

It’s a fight to keep from smirking as Taylor turns on me. A losing battle in its own right.

“Did you have to be such an asshole?” she hisses.

“If you remember correctly, it’s what I do best. Now—where to?”

She struggles with several choice curses before her shoulders slump. “Come on,” she says, gesturing for me to follow her out of the alley.

I let her get in a head start, mostly so that I can stare at her ass as she walks. Still as pert and perfect as ever. Maybe even more so now.

She stops at the sidewalk and waits for me. We cross together, making our way toward the river slicing through the heart of the town.

“Your guard dog’s still on duty,” I point out.

Sure enough, Blondie is lingering by the front of the diner, watching us walk away with a morose scowl on his face. I get perhaps a little bit too much pleasure out of that.

“You didn’t have to humiliate him like that,” she says flatly. “He’s a good man.”

“Just not good enough to be your boyfriend?”

She glares.

I chuckle.

This is going to befun.

9

TAYLOR

I’m expecting him to break the silence. But we’ve been walking for a while now and he still hasn’t said a word. I look at my feet, in the distance, at the sky above, but there’s nothing to see except grass and trees and cloudy gray skies.

I feel horrible about Callan, but not horrible enough to regret what I said to him. I’ve suspected it for a while, and now, the proof is in the pudding: my inexorable transformation from compassionate human to cold, hard bitch.

I glance at Ilarion. I havehimto thank for that.

“Do you bring Adam here?” he asks suddenly.

“Almost every day. He likes open spaces. He likes running around.”

I can’t read his expression. Does that little morsel, as meager as it is, make him emotional? Happy? Sad?

“Who does he look like?”

“From the moment he was born, he’s looked like you,” I admit. “He’s got your eyes and everything. He’s not prone to violence, though, so at least his personality is all me.”

“I seem to recall you stealing my sister’s firearm and threatening her at gunpoint.”

I wince. “Forgot about that.”

“Chose to forget, you mean.” He stops walking and turns to me. I don’t meet his eyes, because as long as I don’t look at him, those icy blues can’t strip away the armor I’ve spent five long years building around myself.

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