Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

H old it together.

Ripping off her own arm would have been easier than yanking her gaze from him, but she managed it before she had time to absorb anything except her certainty it was him. She should have registered that dense energy and inhaled his scent well outside the yurt, but she'd figure out why she hadn't later. First things first.

Lady Lyssa and Lady Yvette sat in two velvet-cushioned, polished wood chairs. A table holding one delicate teacup and one snifter sat between them. Lyssa's tea was jasmine; Yvette's half empty glass held an alcohol with the scent and color of bruised oranges.

Ruth dropped to one knee for Lady Lyssa, then rose and executed a respectful waist bend to Lady Yvette. "My ladies. It's an honor to be here."

She pushed confidence into her voice, building a wall around her and the women that excluded anything else.

If he started doing his sex-her-up whispering thing, she would stab him with both of her knives.

Lyssa's parentage had been a Japanese vampire mother and a High Fae father. Ruth assumed her long dark hair was from her mother's side of the family, as well as the piercing slant to her jade eyes, a narrow, vibrant view to a compelling yet hazardous world. Her dress looked like something Fae spirits might wear to dance in one of their magic circles. The deep purple color with hints of green showed off tiny sparkles on the close sleeves and nipped waist. The flowing skirt framed matching purple boots. Raw jade mounted in a beaten gold collar rested against her sternum, just above the hint of cleavage the dress's V-neck offered.

Ruth noted a ring on her left hand, a sapphire stone framed by a silver fairy. Her tiny hands were upon it as she lay in the clasp of her lover. Their intertwined bodies formed half of the band, as well as the setting for the stone. Because it was a simpler, more sentimental piece, Ruth wondered if it was a gift from Jacob.

Yvette wore sleek black leggings tucked into matching boots with a sturdy three-inch heel. Her blouse, made of a transparent gold fabric, had full sleeves and an unlaced neckline that exposed high, firm breasts in a lacy black bra. An array of silk corded pendants rested in their cleft. Garnet earrings brushed her long neck.

Her hair was plaited in slim golden braids, most wound around her head, but some spread over her shoulders. Those braids were threaded with bronze beads that picked up the luster of her skin. Her eyes, fixed on Ruth in a blatant assessment, were a mix of gold and gray. Before colored contacts, Ruth couldn't imagine how Lady Yvette would have passed as human. She reminded Ruth of a lion, born without the imposition of civility or the degradation of natural spirit that captivity could inflict. Such a creature could be as wild as the elements themselves.

Ruth liked her immediately.

Adan had said no one knew Yvette's exact age, but the Circus had first drawn notice in the 1700s.

A crop with metal-tipped tassels was tucked into Yvette's boot. She uncrossed her long legs, bracing both feet on the ground, and rose. Her gaze continued to travel over Ruth, examining every detail. Lyssa took another sip of tea.

Ruth had made her greeting. Further conversation would be invitation-only. She met Yvette's gaze. No matter that she often felt a nearly unbearable natural compulsion to do otherwise, Ruth had learned to do that with stronger vampires. Usually she countered that dangerous compulsion with bitch-face attitude, but that wasn't the best option for this scenario.

"What do you know of why you are here, Ruth?"

"You have a protection detail that needs reinforcement."

"No. Not reinforcement. Just an extra set of eyes."

She didn't recognize the male voice, but she'd been vaguely aware another male stood near the one she was so studiously pretending wasn't in the room.

"If only eyes were needed," she said, "A smartwatch could provide that."

Okay, she had grabbed for the snark. Regardless, it had been a mistake, because a distinct chill gripped the room, from the speaker's direction.

Biting back a curse, she pivoted toward him. She made sure she chose the direction that would keep her biggest distraction out of her direct view.

Holy fucking shit. Later, she'd knock her head against the wall for her preoccupation with her island tormentor, which had made her ignore who stood next to him.

A freaking angel.

He must be the one Adan had told her was with the Circus. Since she'd never been in the presence of one, she'd assumed she wouldn't know when she was. But facing him, taking in everything about him, there was no confusion about it. His existence spoke to something deep inside her, as if long before her current soul had inhabited this body, it had known his kind.

Her mother's stories said babies were guarded by angels in the Hall of Souls. Maybe they rocked the new souls in their cradles, carried them around.

Just as she had for Lyssa, she dropped to a knee and bowed her head. "My lord, forgive me. I spoke with the desire to assure my audience that I won't be intimidated in ways that endanger who I'm here to help protect."

Total silence. Then she heard a chuckle with an edge to it. A mean one. Scorn was in the tone.

Now that he was standing next to one, she couldn't believe she'd thought the incubus might be an angel. He was as far from being one as she was.

Even so, the tone of the laugh tightened her lower belly, sending a quake through her limbs. She squashed that reaction. She didn't know why the incubus was mocking her, but she didn't give a shit.

The angel stepped toward her. He wore sandals with straps that wrapped around his taut calves. "You deny pride factored into your reaction?"

His baritone told her he could bark out an order that would be heard halfway across the Circus's vast grounds.

"I do not, my lord. My apologies again."

Another pause. "Apology accepted."

"You can rise." Yvette's order held amusement. "Genuine deference annoys Marcellus. If you can't keep holding your own with him the way you just did, before you knew what he is, you might as well take your tough act back home."

Ruth rose to her feet and deliberately lifted her gaze to Marcellus's. What she saw startled her enough to drive her back a step.

His eyes had no whites. Darkness filled the area, framed by thick lashes. His square face was framed by thick brown hair to his shoulders. Dark green feathers layered his wings, arched over his broad shoulders. If he spread them out, the tips would brush the yurt walls.

Guards on his forearms were crafted of gold metal, etched with symbols and words in a language she didn't recognize. His biceps shimmered with similar markings, and then they were gone, like a hidden tattoo.

He wore the same kind of battle skirt the incubus had worn on the island, a crimson red linen skirt beneath the leatherlike straps. A sword harness crossed his bare chest, the weapon evident over his shoulder. Set in the hilt was a blazing red jewel, surrounded by black stones. A faint scar ran beneath the hold of the harness.

"My father said it's your woman I'm here to help protect." Again, she might be running her mouth without thought, but she went with her intuition. He didn't confirm or deny, so she continued. "I'll do whatever's needed. I have no experience in this kind of work, but I'm a good fighter. I pay attention to details, and I think things through before acting."

Mostly. When it was important to do so. And when her head wasn't clouded by psychotic winged incubi.

"Your desire to prove yourself, that kind of pride, can lead to mistakes. Most of being an effective protector is being smart. Anticipating before a problem can become a threat. Knowing when to call for backup."

Though Marcellus's eyes made it hard to know what was going on in his head, and he could obviously dice her into salad fixings, he reminded her of her father, when he was teaching her something he damn well expected her to learn on the very first pass.

"I won't let pride interfere with the most important thing. Keeping her safe, however you think I'm best suited to do it."

Marcellus studied her. "How you fight says a great deal about how you think. I will see your skills."

She was going to spar against an angel? Fucking hell.

"You'll spar with Merc."

Marcellus dipped his head toward the section of the tent she'd turned into a mental black hole, ordering all her senses away from who inhabited it.

Only her vision had successfully complied. Throughout the conversation with the others, she could smell his heated scent, hear the shift of his movements. She could feel him against her skin, like one of the sanctuary's housecats when they twined around her. Even that scornful laugh had sent shivers up her spine.

Danger and an insane level of sexual vibes had never been part of that feline attention, but the overwhelming insistence to be the center of it? He excelled at that.

"She hasn't noticed me, Marcellus. Before she can be trusted to watch your gypsy fortune teller, her observation skills need improvement."

You absolute prick. A cannonball of irritation knocked those ten pins of sexual attraction flat. Deliberately, Ruth pivoted toward him.

"I'm sorry," she said sweetly. "You seemed…invisible to me."

The exchanged glances between the others covered the several strong heartbeats where she lost awareness of anything but her first visual impression.

The irises were so dark red they were almost black, like dried blood. While not covering up all the whites like Marcellus's, they did take up more space than most humanlike species. Traces of silver bled into the white. Lightning.

His hair had thick waves and some curl on top, but was shorn at the nape and sides. The color reminded her of fallen leaves in the mountain habitat. Particularly once they'd been on the forest floor long enough to pick up deeper shades of brown. After rainstorms, the angles and tips gleamed.

His wings were folded close to his body, cloaking his shoulders. They weren't as broad as Marcellus's, but wherever skin was visible, he was smooth, touchable muscle.

Marcellus wore what she'd associate with a biblical angel. Maybe the authors of those texts actually had seen angels.

Though Merc had worn something similar on the island, today he had a different fashion statement. Grunge rockstar angel sex demon? A day or two's growth of beard added to the look.

A black tank shirt revealed distracting biceps and nestled close to his upper torso—she didn't blame it. She assumed it was altered in back to accommodate his wings. His jeans fit the way any man with a mouthwatering lower body to share with the female world should be required to wear them. Snug over hips and thighs. Creased around the groin area without being too tight, but suggesting what was there needed more room than it had.

No shoes. Long toes, elegant arches. The man had nice feet. Jesus.

When her gaze returned to his face, her attention was caught by something she'd missed on the first pass, because his wing had shadowed them. Four long scars disappeared over the curve of his shoulder.

She knew that wound pattern. One of their big cats had gotten him. Alarms went off, but if any of the cats had been harmed, she would have known before she left home. Every one of them was checked daily.

She hadn't forgotten she was in the middle of an interview, but she wanted to know who he'd wrangled with. As she opened her mouth to demand an answer, his gaze flashed, a warning.

He didn't want the others to know about their meeting. Interesting. For his benefit or hers?

Until she knew, she would stay silent. But they were going to discuss that smartass comment he'd made, too.

As he held her gaze, the pulsing need in her body increased. Perspiration brought coolness and heat both to her nape, planting the thought of having his mouth there.

Son of a bitch.

"Merc." The warning in Marcellus's tone drew Merc's gaze toward him. When that intensity was replaced with indifferent insolence, the feeling lessened.

"Can you handle this?" Marcellus asked curtly.

Merc's lip curled, showing the tip of one fang. "You trust me around harmless children. She's no different."

Anger spurted at the undisguised condescension, but Ruth was catching up. It was all a test. If she failed to learn the pride lesson after just being schooled on it, Yvette was right. She might as well go home.

Merc's provocation might be planned. Even if it wasn't, she adopted a flat calm, as impenetrable as a wall of black diamonds. Look at the pretty shiny stuff. The hardest substance on Earth. Whatever happening behind it was nobody's business but her own.

"Shall we take the fight outside?" Yvette's attention rested on her.

Lyssa rose, a tacit agreement. Ruth was tempted to lunge for the tent opening, to seek the hopeful lessening of Merc's effect on her in the open air. Fortunately, she had enough self-possession not to shove in front of the Council head, the Circus owner and an angel.

However, before she could follow them, Merc closed in on her. She could have bolted. Maybe he hoped for that. Instead she spun to face him.

"Going to run?" he murmured.

She went still as he slid a finger with sure intent under the slim chain at her throat, though it was buried beneath the bolo strap and turquoise rosettes.

She could slap his hand away. She was staring daggers at him, but her heart thudded under his touch. He followed the chain past the tank shirt's neckline, tracing one bra cup before finding the wing feather.

Merc stroked the feather's edge while her breath shortened, and her body vibrated.

She couldn't do this. Whether part of the plan or not, he'd taunted her in front of them. Questioned her ability. Did she want contempt from a man who could command her?

Not in this lifetime.

She stepped back and pulled the feather into the open between them. Yanking it free of the clasp, she let it fall.

"You're about to lose more of these," she said.

He smiled, showing both fangs this time. Most vampires avoided doing that, to maintain the appearance of civility. That didn't seem like a big priority for him.

"You're trembling," he said. "I'm not worried."

He didn't understand her reaction. If ever she gave herself to a Master, he would earn the right. He would fight her for it; otherwise she wouldn't respect him. She might be a submissive, but she would give that gift only to the Master who treated her as she deserved to be treated. She wanted the bond her parents had. And while it had to be with a being stronger than herself, he'd love and respect her. Even as he owned her in all the ways she desired.

There was nothing simple about her needs. But that lack of simplicity was her greatest protection from her own kind. And now possibly from a being she couldn't identify, except to know he was more powerful than she was, at least on every physical level.

"Stop fucking with my head or I'll tell them how we met," she said.

Bull's eye. His jaw tightened and he stepped back. After a brief staring contest, during which her trembling increased, but so did the jut of her jaw, he gestured to her with exaggerated courtesy. An invitation to precede him.

Not far from Yvette's tent, a large square had been marked out. A trio of acrobats were using it to practice some impressive gymnastics. When Yvette informed them the space was needed, they withdrew without complaint, but they didn't go away. Other Circus members not-so-subtly positioned themselves to watch the show.

Ruth moved into the sparring area as Marcellus stopped Merc outside it. As she stripped down to the essentials of leggings, tank and boots, she kept a peripheral eye on what they were doing. Perhaps discussing what tactics Marcellus wanted Merc to use, to prove her fight skills. Though in the yurt she'd noted a combative edge between the men, Merc's attitude here was attentive. Giving Marcellus a short nod, he turned toward her. He stretched out his wings in a quick snap, showing the lightning pattern. The air currents from the movement reached her, feathering over her skin.

She ignored them, and braided the loose waves of her hair. By the time she'd tucked the braids into the top knot, he'd folded the wings in again.

"No hair pulling?" he observed. "Shame."

He did a cartwheel from the outside of the arena into it, pausing on the palm of one hand and studying her from the upside-down position before he flexed his thighs into a split, bent his knees and brought one foot down into the sparring space, then the other, his body flowing back into an upright position, every muscle on rippling display. The feathers brushed against the jeans, his arms and shoulders, wings arching up and then settling again.

"I'll pull yours later, while I fuck you up the ass," she responded. "If you ask nicely. But we better do this first."

A murmur went through the observers, punctuated by a bark of laughter. She didn't know if the murmurs reflected disapproval of her trash talk, or shock at her taunting an opponent who could possibly do her real damage, but their reaction wasn't her concern.

This was one of those important forks in life's road. How she handled it would either take her forward or worse, leave her at the fork, with nowhere to go but back the way she already knew.

"You'll pay for that comment." His voice was calm. The still fix of his gaze told her he didn't mean here and now.

"Only if you have something to offer worth paying the price," she retorted.

The trash talk stopped when Marcellus brought a crate into a corner of their sparring space and sat down on it. He settled his dark green wings on either side of him. "I am the person you are protecting," he told Ruth. "Proceed as you would if you were dealing with Merc as an approaching attacker. Keep him from getting to me."

Ruth nodded. After considering how she would prepare her charge for such an event, she drew close to the angel and spoke to him in a low voice. "Go now. Follow the escape strategy you and I reviewed and tested a hundred ways before this moment, in case something like this happened. Find a place to hide where he can't find you, or seek help. I'll hold him as long as I can."

Marcellus's eerie eyes flickered. "So sure you will lose?"

"He's a stronger and faster opponent. I don't plan to lose, but I likely will. I can buy you time before he kills or disables me. If I beat him, we'll have agreed on where to meet."

Marcellus rose and stepped out of the marked space. "Good. I have left the area to do as you instructed. Show me your fight skills."

Ready set go . Ruth turned and moved forward.

Merc did the same.

He came at her fast. She dodged and slid under him, flipping around to kick his knee. He was already gone, but a slower opponent, a human one, would have been disabled, the fight over. But if they expected her to fight humans, she wouldn't be sparring with Merc.

Apparently some electronics worked in this in-between place, because someone nearby had cranked up their music. "Too Much Time On My Hands" by Styx. The beat worked.

She used it, even as she blocked her awareness of her audience, and the pressures associated with them. She was back on the preserve, where she'd gloried in any opportunity to fight and outmaneuver an opponent.

She took a blow to the face that somersaulted her backwards. She landed hard on her ass but rolled away, sweeping Merc's leg. He used the damn wings to counter, keep himself from falling next to her, but it was an awkward maneuver and she sprang from the ground, pouncing on the outstretched wing and jamming her fingers hard into the shoulder joint as she rammed a foot into his lower back.

He used the wings to flip them over. He would have crashed down on her, breaking her nose in the resulting face plant, but she twisted and took the impact on her shoulder. The mind-numbing bolt of pain announced dislocation, but that could be fixed. She had another arm.

She punched him in the abdomen. There was no give there, at all. Lightning fast, she adjusted her angle and hammered the solar plexus. The flurry of blows succeeded in driving him back a step, and giving her enough room to regain her feet, but he was on her again in an instant.

She'd been right. This fight wasn't about defeating him, but about the time she could give to her protectee. So she kept her full focus on keeping him occupied and not getting too quickly disabled.

Vampire speed was a boon, and she'd worked to be faster. Play with cats wasn't play at all, but hunting skills. That and the martial arts and other fighting skills she'd accumulated helped her now.

The fist she drove into his face was hard enough to crack his eye socket. The eye blazed with pain, but also rage and then…

A blast of pheromone-infused heat hit her, weakening her knees, making her shudder, jerk. Fucking hell. Was he really trying to make her orgasm in the middle of a fight?

Well, any weapon was fair game, and two of them could play it. She dropped to a knee, rolled, and punched him between the legs. It was a shame, because the man had nice, heavy testicles. But if she did him permanent harm, he'd asked for it.

"Stop. Merc, stop."

The order lashed out from two directions, Yvette and Marcellus. As she tuned in to their surroundings, trying to control her breathing and stop her shuddering, she saw there was a literal whip around Merc's throat, digging into the skin aggressively enough to draw blood and constrict his breathing. Yvette was holding it, her other hand lifted toward the incubus. He'd dropped to a knee, but was fighting to stand, though an invisible force seemed to be holding him down.

He snarled, the light in his gaze promising hell to the sorceress, if he could get past her magic.

He was still battering Ruth with that energy, dragging her toward the precipice. She was barely keeping her feet, swaying, resisting the wave of sexual desire with everything she had.

You never say no to me.

Marcellus was next to him. "The fight is over, Merc. You have done as I asked."

A slight head shake. Merc's gaze didn't leave her. The power of the energy increased.

No. No.

"Don't touch me," she managed in a harsh rasp. Not to him, but to whoever had approached her on the left. She didn't look that way, because she couldn't chance losing this battle. She was not going to give the bastard the victory of a forced orgasm in the middle of a crowd.

"Back…the…fuck…off."

That was to him.

At long last, he gave a brusque nod. Whatever was driving her arousal, compelling her to release, started to ebb. She kept her gaze on his, fighting not to look away. If she did, she was sure he would ramp it back up, pushing what he was doing to its natural conclusion.

Marcellus had asked for a test of her skills. Physical, mental. Endurance, will. Merc had tested all of it in short order. Marcellus had said she'd passed.

She should be satisfied about that. But she was soaked with sweat and felt weak. The lightest touch would set her off. But then the reduction of sexual arousal brought back the pain in her shoulder.

"I can give you medical attention." The female voice to her left spoke. It pulled her attention away from Merc, the soothing tone an oasis in the storm of pain, laced with lightning bolts of unwanted pleasure.

"I'm all right. I'm a vampire. Everything heals on its own."

Well, most things. And not as fast as they should for her age. So if the woman could speed that along, that wasn't a bad thing.

Merc's focus had changed. She could tell he didn't want her to look at him. Not when they had him on his knees, pinned down like that, the whip collaring his throat. It was in his burning gaze.

It didn't make him look weak to her. He reminded her of the damaged cats they brought to the island. The ones who'd reached the limit of being told who and what to be, being forced to be what they weren't. They would kill without thought, because tearing, rending and destroying gave them a taste of freedom, experienced in the most destructive way possible. It matched the rage in them, the terrible fear of ever being that helpless again.

Everything else, even the results of their own savagery, was bearable.

Because she understood it, she dropped to one knee, her other hand pressed to the ground, and dipped her head. An acknowledgement to a worthy opponent.

She could see it startled him. It also helped to calm him, though Ruth was pretty sure he'd never lost control. Proving it, at least to her, Merc turned his head toward Yvette and put his hand on the whip, gripping it firmly, no matter that it looked as if the contact burned. Yvette nodded, and the bespelled whip, glowing with a flame-colored energy, fell away. It left angry marks at his throat, as well as on his palm. Marcellus offered him a hand up, but Merc refused it, raising himself to a standing position.

Feathers drifted against his bare feet, because she'd attacked his wings several times to keep him from using them as a lift advantage. As the wind took them away, she wondered if others in the Circus would collect and keep them as she unwisely had.

The four slashes on his shoulder had broken open. Blood was in his right eye, probably from that head shot she'd landed. A cracked eye socket didn't seem to bother him, and she wondered what his own healing abilities were.

He came toward her, ignoring how Yvette and Marcellus shifted, positioning themselves in case they needed to intervene. Lyssa sat on a chair someone had brought for her, no expression on her face. Jacob stood behind her. Ruth detected some anger in the servant, as if he thought they'd let the fight go too far. He was protective of women, she remembered. Even his Mistress, the strongest of all of them.

Ruth would reassure him later that she was fine. Right now, with the fight adrenaline draining away, it was hard to think past the dislocated shoulder.

The owner of the gentle voice was a woman so thin she made Catriona, whose core spirit tree was the willow, look like a voluptuous Mae West.

She was also barely five feet tall and human, but the energy she carried held…more. Her long reddish gold hair, freckles, and pale skin made her look young, but Ruth thought she was in her thirties. Her cloudy blue eyes and the way she tilted her head toward voices without eye contact said she was blind.

She was also someone's second marked servant. Vampires could detect that ownership, though not always the identity of the owner. She might be Yvette's. Ruth would figure it out once pain wasn't screaming through her collar bone, shoulder and all the connected muscles.

When Merc moved in her direction again, she was ready to fight, but he shook his head and closed his grip over the limp fingers of the arm that was dislocated. He put a surprisingly light hand on her shoulder, telling her what he was doing.

Her skin vibrated around the touch. He'd turned down the sexual energy, but she still responded to his presence as if he were a magnet, drawing that reaction back to skin level, pulling her toward him.

But again…sex and vampires. While obviously not immune to it, she was a drinker with an exceptionally high tolerance. For form's sake, she bared her fangs. "Stop doing that."

"I'm not doing anything. The fight is over."

"It's over for now," she corrected him.

She forced herself not to draw her hand out of his grasp as he dropped to his heels and supported the arm. When he slowly extended it, she fought not to throw up.

She wondered if he'd try to cause her more pain on purpose, since she'd kicked him in the balls and torn out more of his feathers.

"Charlie," he spoke to the redhead, "Tell me when."

"Let me give her something so it will be easier."

Merc's gaze rested on Ruth's. "She doesn't want easier. The muscles will heal."

Charlie sighed. "You fighting types. You make things so difficult." Her slim hand overlapped his, readjusted his grip, and she checked the position of Ruth's shoulder.

"This would be a good time to beg for mercy," Merc observed. His voice had that heavy rain quality, and the earthy need in Ruth drank it in.

"I'm listening," Ruth managed. "Whenever you want to start."

His mouth curved. Not a smile, but a promise of temptation held out of reach until need became a raw and bleeding open wound.

"What did Marcellus tell you right before the fight?" she said, not wanting to think about what was about to happen. Maybe some pain meds wouldn't be so bad.

"Not to kill you. Just to push you past your threshold, so he could see how you handled that."

"How do you know where that threshold is, other than seeing me on my ass on the ground?"

His lips pursed. "It's one of my many gifts."

"I call it pushing someone's buttons. You're pretty damn good at that. What are you?"

"Incubus. Angel. Human. The worst parts of all of them."

He said it without deprecation, owning it. His face showed her the monster. The meanness. But his hands on her weren't rough and he handled her carefully, attending to what Charlie was doing. She also noted that when he was feeling something strongly, or concocting some deviltry, the silver streaks around the black blood irises sparked.

As a result, she was partially braced for the renewed shot of sexual desire. A cry broke from her lips, body jerking back. At the same moment, he pulled and twisted the limb.

Ruth hadn't seen Charlie's nod, but it was better not to know it was coming.

Merc made it a smooth, easy move, the shoulder clicking back into place. White hot fire surged through her arm and upper body, but the anesthetic effect of the sexual compulsion had balanced it. It was done. Back in place, bringing the relief she'd expected. Also some terrible residual muscle pain, but he was right about that. As a vampire, in a couple hours she wouldn't feel it at all.

If it had been Adan or her father, that relief would have arrived in fifteen minutes, but she'd take what she could get.

Charlie's hand remained on her. Ruth noted a flush to her face, a moistness to her lips, that suggested Merc's act hadn't entirely contained itself to Ruth. Perhaps it wasn't something he could help when another woman was this close. But his gaze never left Ruth, absorbing everything, from the pain he'd caused, to the relief he'd offered, and the sexual desire she'd experienced.

Leaning forward, he put his head alongside hers. Not touching her, but his breath stirred her hair. "I can take or give. Your behavior determines which response I choose."

Having grown up understanding what vampire compulsion could and couldn't do, she realized her reaction to him wasn't wholly manufactured. She couldn't blame it all on the incubus thing.

And that sucked.

She turned her gaze to meet his. His physical proximity gave her no intimacy. Just enough of a taunting hint of it to tempt her onto the field of battle with him again. If he recognized that, then it was calculation, with motives she couldn't trust.

"Maybe you should be thinking the same about me," she said.

His arched brow made her want to smooth her fingers over it, feel the hard bone beneath. He drew back, tossing Charlie a look. She responded with a mildly reproving one, though Ruth noted it was brief, as if Charlie had difficulty meeting his gaze—or knew it was unwise. Which gave Ruth a weird spurt of jealousy.

Her mind was obviously scrambled. And not just because of that. The woman was blind. How could she…

"Well done," the healer said. Ruth wasn't sure if she meant her exchange with Merc, who was now headed back toward Marcellus, or how she'd handled the shoulder adjustment. "An ice pack will help, until your accelerated healing kicks in."

Ruth lifted a hand in front of Charlie. A corner of the woman's mouth twitched with good humor. "I can see. Just not in the traditional ways. I see auras. It gives me as much detail as a person who sees the way you expect. It's a different language of seeing, if that makes more sense to you. It's also how I see health and sickness."

Charlie had brought a cooler with her first aid kit. When she flipped open the top, Ruth saw the ice pack she'd mentioned. "After Yvette confirms the terms of your employment, you can share lunch with the other Circus staff. I'm pretty sure you've been hired."