Page 19 of Fangbanger

“What is your history with him?”

“My history?” she whispers angrily. “You almost bit him. He’s fixing my hallway. He’s a friend.”

“What kind of friend?”

Her face reddens. “Not like that. He wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

Her gaze darts away. “I tried to kiss him,” she says. “He rejected me. It doesn’t matter. Now he thinks I’m with you. Which, thank you for that, by the way.” She glares. “It’s going to be all over town by the time the moon is up. Weres gossip like old ladies.”

“You’re upset by this.”

“Perceptive of you.” She turns away and examines the price tag on a piece of wood. “Ash is best, but I can’t afford much of it.”

I grip her shoulders and turn her toward me. She brings out all my worst instincts. She makes me feel feral and hungry, the way I did as a boy. I hate it even as I seek more of her.

“Why did the were reject you?”

She shrugs. “I’m not his type, I guess.” She tries to wriggle away. “Are the stakes for death or torture?”

Her question is astute, but I’m more focused on what she isn’t saying. “How can that be?”

She stiffens. “I’m not the type for lots of males. It’s fine.”

A rumble builds in my chest. I assume Dean is simply pursuing her more slowly. As any predator would. My thumb skates over her collarbone. I move closer.

Dean won’t be stealing my mate today.

“Is he watching?”

Her gaze darts. “Yeah,” she says, slightly breathless. “Step back, vampire. You’re making a scene.”

I want just one hit of her intoxicating scent. I brace my hands on the shelf above her head. She is utterly lovely like this, her eyes large and wary, fringed with thick lashes. Her lips are parted. Her pulse pounds at my nearness, and I like that I am the one to set its pace.

“What are you doing?”

“Examining the goods,” I say blandly.

Her eyes narrow. I dip my chin and rub my face over her hair. It’s silky, dense, and warm. Everything about her is so at odds with my being—warm where I’m cold. Full of life and movement when my world so frequently feels leached of color. I confess, I had not noticed the lack until this moment.

Her breath hitches.

“Vampire,” she warns. “Step away.”

“Marcus,” I tell her. “My name is Marcus.”

“Marcus,” she whispers.

The air seems to spark between us. Her inhale is sharp and goes straight to my groin.

I step back, and we continue to shop. She darts wary glances my way as we do.

She appears intrigued by me, as I am by her. And while she might be a slayer, she wanted to cry when she heard about my past. I saw it in her eyes. Under all her scowling and her snappish words, there is a tender heart. She is not evil.

Admitting it is the very worst thing I can do.

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