Demon Chained (Shadowfae Chronicles) (8 page)

She blanches, her eyes wide, and tugs hard on the rope for the next stop.

I laugh, my ribs hitching. Serves her right for not minding her business. Gavain catches my eye, and for a moment we giggle together like drunken banshees, awkwardness seeping away. Now's the time to say
thank you
and mean it. I start to form the words, but a thick bubble bursts in my mouth, sour like old apples, and I have to turn away to spit it out.

Very smooth, Tam. Have I got all the moves, or what?

My place is a crumbling old terrace in North Melbourne, crammed in at the end of a row next to a photocopier shop. The garden's dead, the paint peeling on the iron lace porch. Rudolph's mewing in the window, white tail wound around his flabby ass, but he scampers away when he sees Gavain. Or maybe it's me he's running from. Pudgy little traitor.

Gavain plucks the keys from my pocket, his deft fae fingers barely a whisper, and levers me into my living room, where the stairs lead up and a corridor goes back through to the kitchen. He turns the light on, and there's crap everywhere, newspapers and dog-eared paperbacks and unopened mail. My couch is enwebbed with white cat fur, the nasty brown-swirled carpet looks like it hasn't been vacuumed since I moved in—funny, that—and the place smells of dust and Rudolph's litter box, strong and sour.

Home, sweet home. Before I died, I cared what my place looked like, even if I was hardly ever there. These days, who gives a shit? No one's ever going to see it. Except for now.

I lean on the scratched white banister, pretending I'm not about to fall over. My burst ear still squelches, cold fluid coating my earlobe, and my head spins. "Thanks, mate. Look, you don't have to stay—"

"Just shut up, Tam." Gentle but relentless, he drags me up the carpeted stairs into the dark. I drop the bag's strap over the end of the banister at the top. He fumbles for the light switch, and in the dim orange halo he glances both ways, and chooses the bathroom.

My shower's in the bathtub, a paint-splashed green relic from the seventies with a big round shower head. Gavain swipes the grimy-edged curtain aside, his claws clicking on swirled plastic. "Get in."

"With you perving on my ass? Get real." I don't know why I'm acting so flip. Tonight is the nicest thing he's ever done for me. Hell, it's the only thing he's ever done for me, apart from give me the creeps with his long-lashed stare and make me feel dirty like some weird fairy child molester just for looking at him. But tonight that helpless waif is gone, and I see spirit and courage and some goddamn personality and I don't know how to behave.

Story of my life. Serve me right if he said
fuck you
and left me here.

But Gavain just grins at me, crooked, his rosy lips bright. "Nothing left of that sweet ass soon. Get the fuck in." He grabs my elbow and helps me, and I struggle out of my shirt and jeans and climb over the edge. My damp feet slide out beneath me, and I crack my elbow on the side of the bath and land on my ass, with a nice splat as my bruises split.

I stay there, weak-limbed, my breath thick and difficult. The porcelain sticks on my back, cool, soothing my skin. Maybe he's checking me out. God, I hope not. Don't get me wrong, I'm as vain as the next devilishly handsome cat burglar, but my look just isn't what it used to be.

He reaches for the hot tap. I so want hot water, to burn and shiver and hack some feeling into my rotting nerves, but heat's the last thing my flesh needs in this state.

I shake my head, muscles rasping in my throat. Ice first, to halt the decay and wash me clean. Then worry about healing. "Cold."

He switches to blue and twists the tap on full. For a few seconds it's warm from the pipes, and then icy shards needle my skin, force into my hair. The shock is glorious, shivering, crawling over my body like fresh frostbite. My lungs jerk, forcing in cool air and stinging my heartbeat into life. I turn my face up to the spray, letting it wash into my mouth, spill over my chin, rinse the mess from my forehead.

Nerves sparkle fresh, prickling under my skin. The chill digs deeper, piercing my sick muscles, skimming over my bones. Already I start to feel better, like meat swelling in the sun suddenly shoved into an ice-box. Okay, so my balls are whimpering and trying to crawl right back into my body, which isn't exactly a flattering look. But I can almost see the bacteria running for cover beneath my skin, the mottled darkness firming, even fading.

I turn my palms up to the water, and blood rinses off, splashing the green porcelain. I can see bare muscle there, a shiny bone or two where the skin's torn away, but already the fibers look fresher, the smell sweetening.

The plughole gurgles, pearlescent trails of mess swirling down the drain. My long wet hair sticks to my chest, dragging in the raw wound on my ribs, and when I tug it away, a soapy blob slides over my wrist.

I look up. Gavain halts, the shampoo bottle tilted in his hand. "It's filthy, Tam. Can't I?"

I stare at those long fairy fingers, and swallow fresh spit. "Okay."

He tips more golden shampoo into his palm and squats beside the bath, curling my hair into a ball and squeezing to rub it in. Bubbles slide down his dusky forearms. He slips his fingers up behind my ears, massaging warmth into my skin despite the chill water. A shiver ripples through me, bumps forcing out on my scalp. Damn, it feels good just to be touched. His claws scrape lightly, and my sluggish pulse reacts, forcing warm blood into my crinkling skin. My nipples tweak, and the skin draws up even tighter over my balls.

Whoa, baby. When they say
take a cold shower,
I don't think this is what they mean.

Gavain tilts the showerhead away from me so he can soap my hair properly, wiping carefully around the splintered bit, and I close my eyes and enjoy his deft touch, the pressure of his clever fingers walking over my scalp, the scent of peaches from the shampoo growing ever stronger. Cool bubbles slide over my shoulders, refreshing, spreading delightful sensation all the way down my spine and through my limbs.

He brings the water back to rinse off, and I brace for another icy onslaught. But warmth shocks me, slides over me, splashing through my knotted hair, down my face, licking heat down my back and over my chest. Delicious shivers flower on my skin, the wonderful ache sinking deeper and deeper. God, it's glorious. Even my cock reacts, awakening with a stretch and a blissful sigh, and desire shocks me, shiny and desperate.

Is he doing this on purpose? If I was still alive, I'd say he was hitting on me, and right about now I'd be jumping out of this bath with a nervous laugh and desperately trying to think up some way to say
thanks, but no thanks
without sounding like a selfish fae-bashing prick.

But there's no way he's hitting on me. In case you haven't noticed, I'm kind of unattractive right now. The water sloshing from my hair is sour with soapy slime, and bloody ooze still slides fresh onto my face where I got whacked in the nose. My skin's dusky with color that shouldn't be there. And I sure don't smell the best.

So he'll finish washing my hair, fake me a smile and then duck out to the kitchen so he can scrub his hands before he leaves. Who am I kidding, to think he'd want to touch me? This is just Gavain's fae-weird effort at taking pity on me.

If there's one thing I can't stand, it's pity.

I risk looking at him, my pulse thudding hard and fragile. His shirt's wet in patches from the spray, grey cotton sticking to his body, his cocoa-dark hair dragging damp over dusky shoulders. Soap glides up to his elbows as he strokes his claws though my hair and tugs out wet tangles. A drop of water collects on his bottom lip, and he just has to lick it off, doesn't he, sucking his lip over those wicked teeth with his wet tongue.

My temper ignites, a sizzle of gunpowder through my blood, and my knuckles itch to hit him. He knows exactly what he's doing. I don't know what his game is, but I won't put up with his shit.

I struggle to keep my voice even. "Gavain."

"Uh-huh."

"Don't fuck with me." I grab his thin wrist to make him stop, and trap his ruby gaze with mine.

He's stronger than I think. Deftly he twists his flexible arm from my grip, but he doesn't pull away or let his gaze shift. Instead he reaches for my face, drawing one long finger through the blood sliding from my nose. His claw scrapes my bottom lip, and my mouth tingles.

Slowly he lifts his shining finger to his lips. Slides it between them. Sucks.

Oh, shit.

I stare, dark currents quickening in my blood. He averts his face, shy, his claw still caught on his teeth like he doesn't want to let it go, and if I didn't know he was screwing with my mind I'd swear that bloody blossom in his cheeks was a blush.

I drag his chin back around, my fingers digging in. "Are you listening? Don't. Fuck. With—"

Gavain twitches, light like a butterfly, and before I can go
what the fuck?
he's on me, thighs straddling my hips, a dark water stain spreading on his jeans. The shower gushes down on him, soaking his shirt, pasting his hair flat on his narrow face and rinsing bright fairy sweat down onto me. I stare up, at his oh-so-scratchable body and mad-drunk fae eyes, and my blood quickens, pumping through my organs, even swelling my cock, not quite to hardness but at least to a semblance of life.

Suddenly, it's hard to breathe.

This is like some weird dream. I can't say I've never imagined it, him and me. More than once, actually. Usually involving scratching and biting and shackling him to my bed with wire. But I always thought I'd have to make the moves, hold his hand, tell him what to do.

Apparently not. "Um. Look—"

Gavain curls closer, his breath hot on my lips. "Don't say another fucking word."

God, I want to kiss him. I want to feel that slick warmth, taste his lips, drown in raw sensation. I don't care about him, don't care if I bruise his pretty face or make him cry. I don't even want him, not really. I just
want,
skin and sex and heat and all those delicious things I can't ever have. I want to feel alive.

But I can't. It's too wrong. Even I'm not that much of an asshole.

A shudder creeps over me, and I twist my face away. He won't like kissing, not the way I am. But he grabs my hair, yanks me back to him and seals his berry lips over mine. He kisses me hard, sharp teeth stinging my lips, and the blood squelching to my head dizzies me.

I can't help it. I force my tongue into his mouth, delving into him, twisting, searching. I'm so hungry for the taste of him—of anything—that I groan. Blood, mine and his own, sweet like rust-tinted lemonade. I suck on his tongue, and he pulls back with a deep-throated purr. His balls grind into me, rough in their wet denim casing, and my pulse flips a crazy cartwheel, thudding in my throat, my damaged ear, my cock. Now I'd call it a hard-on. Most definitely.

"Tam," he whispers, and drops another lick over my lips. At least he got my name right. "You taste like . . . butterscotch. Makes my throat ache."

I'm too busy ripping his shirt off to tell him he's full of shit. I want his skin on mine, the slickness of blood and water. I scrape the wet cotton over his head, tug it from his wrists and toss it away with a splat. Damn, he's beautiful, that dark fairy tint to his skin, his narrow chest slanting down to slender bony hips that beg to be bitten and licked. Muscles hot and smooth under my palms, his dark nipples tight. He hisses when I scratch my nails over them, and strikes like a snake for another hot mouthful of my tongue.

This time I swallow, and his coppery taste coats my throat. I love tasting him, mixing his flavour with mine, and something in the way he whimpers into my mouth tells me that if I hadn't been so fucking stubborn, I could have done this a long time ago.

I reach up to twist the hot tap on harder. The water surges, stinging me with burning needles, dragging my hair down over my arms in a delicious fiery flood. Steam clouds, wreathing my body in white. God, I can feel the heat, so forceful and scorching that I sigh and shiver. I can smell it, the iron tang of the pipes and the hot meaty spice of flesh.

He snarls, wet breath splashing my lips, and drags himself down my body. I close my eyes, fresh water sluicing my face. He bites my nipple delicately, clean blood stinging free, and pain claws my skin into crinkles but I love it, damn, he can do that all night, and I strain up into him, searching for more.

He licks my ribs, trailing simmering sensation down to the ragged bruise on my hip, and I bite my lip with a groan and try to squirm away. He's not really gonna . . . he sure is. He slides his muscular tongue into the wound, and the skin pops, a sharp sting. Warm liquid seeps out and trickles down my hip, and he catches it with a little laugh, swiping it away with a sweet lick and a graze of sharp teeth.

My desire sizzles, but at the same time I'm mortified. He doesn't understand what he's doing. It's like I'm seducing a child. I should push him away, smack his beautiful head into the porcelain to snap him out of it, but I'm clutching the side of the bath so hard my knuckles pop. I'm quivering all over, every muscle clenched. I'm swooning in the sensation of his hot skin slicking over me, his teeth teasing me, and I don't have the will to stop him. He tastes so strong, so visceral, his smell so dark and edible. I want to chew his skin until it bleeds, bite his balls, gnaw on his fingers and his cock, shove my tongue inside him and swallow.