Masculine lips against her shoulder pulled Aisling from her musings. She moaned when Zurael’s hand left her breast and slid downward over her abdomen, before slipping between thighs she parted willingly for him.

“You’re remembering the night,” he said, his voice husky with satisfaction as his fingers bathed in her arousal, then went to her stiffened clit.

“Yes,” she whispered, need for him rising to a flash point with his touch, his attention.

Words Zurael had never spoken to any female fought to escape as Aisling pressed against him in subtle offering and sweet submission. He wanted to demand that she acknowledge his dominance, wanted to hear her say she belonged to him in all ways and always would.

The very strength of his desire to possess her so thoroughly revealed how dangerous she was to him, had his heart and his mind urging him to erect an emotional barrier.

There was no future with her. He couldn’t remain in her world. She couldn’t enter his.

Fear sliced through him like an angel’s icy sword. He had yet to ensure she would be safe from the Djinn.

“Aisling,” he said, desperate to keep her safe. Unable to fight the feelings she engendered in him, the need that was more than physical, though he knew only the physical could be satisfied.

She edged upward, whispered his name as her hot, wet cunt lips kissed the tip of his penis. He shuddered and let her engulf him in the fiery heat of her tight channel, gave up the uncertainty of the future in favor of the ecstasy to be found in the present.

AFTERWARD they showered and dressed. Aisling went to the kitchen, and Zurael found himself once again lounging in the doorway, watching her as she prepared their breakfast.

Her movements were smooth, assured, pleasing in a way that surprised him. Until Aisling, he’d never given much thought to the effort behind the meals served him. They were prepared by servants, served by servants, the remains taken away by servants, all at his command.

Even by the standards of the poorest Djinn, the meals Aisling made were meager, and yet… His chest filled with emotions he didn’t want to identify as he watched her combine the leftovers of the previous night with what she had available. He knew he’d prefer a meal made by her hands to the most extravagant feast presented to him by servants.

Aziel joined them for the meal. He chirped and chattered in between bites, then stood on his hind legs and stared into Aisling’s face when the plate she’d placed on the chair seat was clean.

Her laughter made Zurael smile. The simple joy she took in teasing the ferret about becoming fat and lazy as she slid the last bite of food from her plate to his, made Zurael want to take her into his arms and press his lips to hers in a joining of souls.

“Do you know what he says?” Zurael asked, his curiosity about Aisling’s pet renewed.

She hesitated slightly. “Only in the spiritlands. And only if he chooses it.”

“He was there the night you summoned me.”

“Yes. Sometimes he goes with me.” She stood and gathered their dishes, her unbound hair becoming a curtain hiding her face from him.

He let the conversation drop, not wanting to admit to her that he no longer felt even an ember of the fury and rage he’d experienced when she’d whispered his name on the spirit winds and commanded his presence. Not wanting to admit he trusted her as no Djinn should ever trust a human.

Zurael followed her into the kitchen and stopped behind her as she washed the plates and silverware. Her body vibrated subtly against his, telling him without words how much she craved the physical contact.

She moaned when he cupped her breasts, whispered his name as he stroked and pet her, nuzzled the silky fineness of her hair and luxuriated in the feel of it against his chest.

He wanted to undo his pants and let the golden beauty of her hair cascade over his cock. He wanted to once again see it spread across the bed, interwoven with the raven black of his.

“We need to go to The Mission and the library,” she said when the last dish was drying in the rack next to the sink. But she didn’t move from his arms.

His cock pulsed in protest. His hands lingered at her waist. Images of pushing her pants down and bending her over the counter, as he thrust through gold satin and found heated ecstasy, invaded his thoughts-warred with images of urging her to her knees, of thrusting into her mouth as her hair wound around his legs and pooled at his feet like sunshine.

“I know,” he said, forcing himself to step away from her.

A final shiver slid through Aisling. Somehow she managed to leave the kitchen instead of begging Zurael to touch her again.

Her vulva was swollen, the folds slick, but she knew the day needed to be faced and the task of finding the ones responsible for Ghost and the human sacrifices resumed. She went into the bedroom and gathered all of Henri’s clothes. She returned to the kitchen only long enough to stuff them into a burlap bag, then went to the workroom and did the same with the clothes Zurael had stripped from her attacker.

“You’re taking them to The Mission?” Zurael guessed from the doorway.

“Yes.” At home nothing was wasted. Cloth was salvaged and reused until it eventually disintegrated.

He took the sack from her as she passed him, and the gesture made heat flare in her heart. Aziel waited at the front door. At her nod he climbed up to drape across her shoulders.

A quick touch to her front pockets confirmed that the bus pass and folded money were there. The sudden dampness of her palms revealed her nervousness about leaving the house after coming back to it and being attacked.

Zurael’s hand cupped her cheek and forced her gaze to his. Heat flared again in her chest, not the hot burn of lust but something deeper, something that would leave a gaping, charred opening when he was gone from her life.

His thumb brushed across her mouth. “Trust me to protect you.”

“I do.”

It was several blocks to the bus stop. As they walked, Aisling could feel the eyes of her neighbors. Watching. Speculating. She wondered what Raisa had told them, if any of them had witnessed her assailant letting himself into the house, if they’d also taken note he never left it.

The bus was old, a belching shell of salvaged metal and parts. The woman driver squinted when she noticed Aziel. “Keep him under control or I’ll put you off,” she said as Aisling ran the card Father Ursu had given her through the slot twice, worried as she did so that he’d get a record of it and know she didn’t travel alone.

They walked past cages full of squawking chickens to claim vacant seats at the back of the bus. A dog barked from the arms of an elderly woman. A young boy turned, talked excitedly to his mother and pointed to Aziel while the other passengers averted their eyes.

It was a long trip to The Mission, not because of the distance but because of the number of stops the bus made. They traveled past the church, past the library, skirted the edges of places where the wealthy lived, before entering a section where the poorest of the poor lived.

The bus stopped. Its driver announced they were at the route’s end point.

Only Aisling and Zurael remained. As soon as they were clear of the doors, the bus drove away.

Few signposts stood. Aisling was thankful The Mission’s location appeared on the map Father Ursu had given her. Without a word, Zurael passed her the sack of clothing so both of his hands would be free. They began walking toward the bay, then along its edges.

Houses huddled together in clusters, like tiny outposts of civilization reclaimed from the horror of the past. Rubble, burned-out buildings and cars, blackened remains, all crawling with heavy vines, separated one group of salvaged buildings from the next.

In theory, any abandoned property was up for grabs, belonged to whoever was willing to restore and defend it. Aisling doubted the reality here differed from the one in Stockton. There would always be the rich preying on the poor, the strong bullying the weak, demanding payment or tribute.