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He blew me a kiss, then his body evaporated into wispy gray mist, sliding between the bars of the wrought-iron gate and into the air.
I heard the slide of steel, a sword being pulled from its sheath. Through the alcove stepped Jude, the real one, black-eyed and fuming with an iron weapon in hand. My body slipped against the brick wall, falling toward the pavement. He caught me. It seemed Jude was always catching me before I hit the ground.
“A prince,” he grumbled, gravelly voice vibrating against me, cutting like shards.
He held me close, a fiery blaze against the bitter cold chilling me to the bone. At first I thought he was squeezing me, but he wasn’t, even though the air was being sucked from my lungs. I gasped. Then I could breathe again. The next thing I knew, we were standing in his living room.
“Whuh…”
I was dizzy, but I didn’t pass out. First, we were standing in the alcove, then we were standing in his house next to the sofa in less than a second. I trembled even more. He sheathed his sword and set me down on the sofa, dark eyes assessing. He slanted my chin to the side, catching sight of the bite.
“Fuck!”
“What?” I asked through chattering teeth.
I didn’t know if I shook from the cold, the trauma, the arctic touch of the prince, or the abrasive, angry manner with which Jude was handling me.
“You’ve been marked.” His voice cut the air. “What did he look like?” he demanded while grabbing the fleece blanket from the armchair and wrapping it tight around my shoulders.
I could hardly speak through the quivering. He stood up and did something near the fireplace. A sharp crackle, and a fire came to life.
“What did he look like, Genevieve?” He stood directly in front of me, gaze hard and focused.
“Y-you.”
Jude went still—predator still, deathly still, grim-reaper-standing-on-your-doorstep still. His eyes roved over my open blouse, the loose threads where buttons once held it together, my swollen lips, the abrasions and bite on my neck. His voice dipped so low and so soft I could hardly understand him.
“Did he tell you his name?”
His eyes fixed on me in such a way I thought that if I moved a muscle, the tiger would pounce. I was afraid, knowing the demon boasted about who he was and wanting Jude to know his identity. I’d not forgotten the image of a younger, tattoo-free, rage-filled Jude locked in a warlike embrace with this same demon prince.
“Answer me.”
“He said his name was Danté.”
Black. Black. Black.
Irises, pupils, and the whites of his eyes blanched of all color but the deepest pitch. He seemed to be something so other, I feared he might transform into a supernatural beast right before my eyes. A blazing aura whipped in the air. Razor-edged energy cut and slashed in waves around his body, slicing outward across my skin.
“You’re hu-hurting me,” I whispered.
He wasn’t even touching me. He closed his eyes, trying to rein in the turbulent rage filling up the room. I scooted back onto the sofa. He spoke, articulating three words in a deep, guttural, almost-animal voice.
“Do. Not. Move.”
He vanished. If ever I was in doubt of whether or not he was human, the answer was absolutely, irrefutablyno.
I sat there for I don’t know how long, wondering if I should flee the premises. Who was I kidding? I was too terrified to go anywhere. Jude obviously had some otherworldly ability to do great harm, but that harm was always directed at the bad guys. The monster that caught me on the street would definitely harm me.
I tucked my knees to my chest, willing the scene away from my mind. I’d given myself over so willingly, thinking he was Jude. I hadn’t objected for a single second.
All my lofty thoughts of considering Jude just a platonic protector flew out the window. I wanted him. Bad. My body had responded automatically to his lips—no, nothislips. I was going to be sick. I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth, wishing I could erase the demon’s touch.
“Ow.”
The cut was puffy and swollen, stinging. Minutes passed. Still no Jude. I knew he told me not to move, but this was ridiculous. I sat there, exposing way more than made me comfortable.
I crept into his room—stark, neat, and clean—and took a brown T-shirt from the top drawer. I felt a little embarrassed going into his personal things, but I wasn’t going to stay like this till he came back. Heading into the hall bathroom, I jumped at my own reflection. A ghostly pale girl with a trickle of blood dripping from one of the puncture wounds stared back at me.
