Her dress bunched at her waist, pushed by his impatient hands as his mouth traveled down her throat into her open neckline. Her heart pounded. Her body went loose and liquid everywhere, dark lust pumping through her veins, her fingers scrabbling at his zipper. He caressed the top of her thigh, his fingers just brushing the edge of her panties and dancing away, brushing the edge, then dancing away, until she realized she was shifting her hips, trying to get those fingers where she wanted them, frustrated that they weren’t there—

At first she thought the knock at the door was just her imagination, the voice calling her name even more so. Until it came again, more insistent. So loud she couldn’t ignore it.

Greyson was outside her door.

Chapter 22

Nick realized it only a second after she did. They sprang apart as if they’d just found a dead cat in the bed between them.

“Megan, please open the door. I need to talk to you.”

The mirror above the dresser showed her a wild woman, hair bunched up in the back and falling in tendrils down the side of her face, the straps of her gown falling off her shoulders. Her lips looked bruised, her mascara smeared. She looked as if she’d just been doing exactly what she’d been doing.

Nick turned shame-filled eyes toward her. “Shit, I knew he’d do this, fuck, I—”

“Just calm down, okay?” She tucked her hair back behind her ears, yanked out the pins holding it up, and tried to fluff it out. “We didn’t do anything.”

Greyson’s voice through the door again. “Meg, please. I know you probably don’t want to talk to me but . . . shit, please.”

“We didn’t not do anything.” Nick seemed to be fighting some sort of minor war with his shirt; he tucked it in, then apparently decided that didn’t look right and tugged it back out, then repeated the process. “I mean—shit, I’m drunk—we did do something. We did.”

“No, actually, we didn’t. A little kissing is nothing.”

“It won’t be nothing to him,” Nick muttered.

Megan was inclined to agree and furious about it. Why the hell was she worried he might find out? They’d broken up, hadn’t they? What fucking business was it of his whom she kissed? Or let feel her up, a little bit. She refused to feel that guilty about it; they hadn’t gone any farther than a couple of high school kids might have while their parents went out to pick up pizza. What was it, first base? Possibly second? She had no idea, but she was pretty sure third was bare skin, so—oh, whatever. It hadn’t gone very far, was the point.

“Bryaela, I know you’re awake, I can see the lights on. Please don’t make me say this through the door.”

One more glance in the mirror, a quick swipe under her eyes and over her mouth in an effort to normalize. The doorknob pressed cold into her hand while butterflies jumped in her stomach. It was not really the most comfortable sensation, on top of the nerves, fear, and misery. Not to mention the sex energy still simmering in her blood.

“I’m begging you, please—”

He was leaning against the door frame, looking every bit as drunk as he had earlier but considerably less elegant. Dark circles edged his eyes; his shirt hung open, and a splotch of what she was pretty sure was spilled scotch decorated his chest. The smell of scotch and cigarette smoke blew through the doorway in waves. Not unpleasant but worrisome; fire demons, especially, smoked sometimes. It gave them energy. But he didn’t do it often, and never in such quantities as to reek of it.

Seeing him was like hitting herself in the chest with a hammer.

They stood there, staring at each other, for what might have been a minute or maybe an hour. She didn’t know. Her head still spun; she didn’t know if she should yank him into the room and hold him or tell him to fuck off and leave her alone. He’d lied, yes, and she was still pissed off about it. Still incredibly hurt by everything else.

But she loved him so much. And he looked so sad, and she missed him, God how she missed him.

“Thank you,” he said. “May I come in? Please?”

She nodded; given half a chance, she was pretty sure her voice would squeak or croak or something else both embarrassing and unflattering. Voices had a way of being sneaky like that. So she just nodded and stepped back, closing the door behind him.

“Meg.” He started to reach for her, then stopped. His gaze stayed fixed on her face. “Meg, I’m so . . . fuck. I’m, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner, I fucked up. I fucked everything up, and I’m so fucking sorry.”

Her mouth fell open.

He’d never said that before. Never. Not to her, not to anyone; she’d never heard the word “sorry” cross his lips about anything. Her eyes stung. Of all the things he could have said, he probably couldn’t have picked one that would have meant more to her.

Maybe he knew that. Maybe he didn’t. Ordinarily she would have thought for sure he did, but he didn’t indicate it, didn’t pause to see if his words had any effect. “But I know we can . . . I’ve been thinking about this. About us. We can work this out, can’t we? Figure something out. I can’t . . .”

His fingers touched her cheek. Her eyes fluttered shut. Now she was crying, damn it. “I know I never said—oh. Hey, Nick.”

Megan turned her head to see Nick standing just outside the bathroom door with his hands deep in his pockets and his gaze cast down. “Hey.”

“Listen, would you mind giving Megan and me a minute? I just need to talk—”

He stopped so short Megan didn’t realize at first what was happening; for one wild second she thought he’d finished his sentence and she’d simply misunderstood the words.

Then she realized he was glancing around the room, an expression of pure horror spreading across his face. His fingers pressed tighter against her cheek, dropped to her hand and squeezed. His energy breezed over her hand, up her arm, a weak imitation of what it would be had they been closer but still enough that she felt it slip over her, felt it recede. “No.”

What? No what? What had he—

She looked again. Saw Nick, his hair mussed. Saw the faint smear of lipstick on his throat, the rumpled cover on the bed, the two glasses cuddled together on one of the small bedside tables. Oh fuck, oh no, oh shit—

Greyson shook his head. “No. No, tell me—I’m, shit, I must be crazy, right? Drunker than I thought?” His forced laugh echoed in the dead air. “Please, please tell me—”

Megan opened her mouth, ready to say something—she wasn’t sure exactly what. Probably something along the lines of “What are you talking about?”

She never got the chance. She didn’t know what did it—the look on Nick’s face, maybe, shameful and distraught. Or possibly it was that when he touched her—when he slid his power over her—he felt Nick’s energy, felt the last vestiges of that screaming, desperate lust that had engulfed her before. It could have been either, or any combination of the two, or anything else. He wasn’t a stupid man; he hadn’t gotten where he was without being quick on the uptake, without noticing things.

And it didn’t matter what tipped him off. What mattered was that one second he was looking around the room as if the bodies of his nearest and dearest hung on the walls dripping blood, and the next he was gone. Halfway across the room before she realized what was happening.

His fist slammed into Nick’s face with a sound unlike anything she’d ever heard before. Nick fell against the wall, his hands up. Not fighting back.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, but that was all before his head snapped back from another punch.

“Greyson, stop!” She ran over there, then hesitated, feeling like some goddamn weak girl in an action film but genuinely unsure what to do next. Nick was on the floor, blood running from his nose and smearing down his cheek. Still not fighting back as Greyson hit him again, yelling something in the demon tongue. Should she try to pull him off, should she—