Demon Forged (31 page)

Irena smiled, pleased. Carrying out a human life on top of a Guardian’s would be difficult, but she could see how Bradshaw’s position was necessary. She glanced over at Alejandro; he seemed pleased as well, though she could not decide the reason for it. So much of him was still a mystery to her.

Good
, she replied, then spoke aloud to include Taylor and Preston. “Were any demons among Rael’s staff? Did any know what he was? His household employees did not.”

“Nor did his office staff.”

Disappointment wound through her. A demon like Rael would have subordinates; she wanted to know where and who the demons closest to him were.

“What about the staff in D.C.?” Preston said. He’d produced a bag of peanuts from somewhere; the crinkle of plastic and the scent filled the car. “He’s got an office there, right?”

“Yes, but I met with each of them as Senator Brandt. They are not demons.”

Taylor frowned. “So where are all of his flunkies?”

“We believe they are at Legion,” Alejandro said.

Not in government, but in the corporate world. Irena had no real knowledge of either. She turned to look out the window, once again feeling the uncomfortable fit of this role.

“And how short does he keep their leash?” Taylor asked.

“Not tight enough to choke them.”

Alejandro’s voice was soft—and nearer to her. Irena looked at him, startled as he reached across and pressed at the buttons on her door. Glass lowered. Night air and frigid drizzle washed her face.

But she did not breathe easier. Her eyes locked with Alejandro’s, and she watched their color deepen.

That was the only alteration in his expression. His psychic blocks prevented her from sensing anything else of his emotions.

She wanted to tear the blocks away. To see what lay beneath. To strip away everything that hid him from her, to examine him piece by piece, not just the bits he let slip through.

He wasn’t looking at her hands, so she couldn’t sign to him. But she could not speak to him in French. That language was for watching her words—and those words had helped hold them apart for four hundred years.

“I want to rip you apart,” she said beneath her breath in Russian.

There. Something in his expression. Was it hurt or anger? She didn’t know. She wanted, needed to know.

In Spanish, he murmured, “I do not look down at you.”

I want to destroy you.
Yes, she remembered when she’d said that, too. But her words held a different meaning now.

She shook her head. “So that when I put you back together, I will see what you are made of.”

And there, in his eyes—another change. It looked like wonder, or hope. He laid his hand on her thigh, his grip bold and possessive. “Do it, then.”

He challenged her. Everything within Irena called for her to rise and meet it.

But if she did, a piece would still be missing. Something that she had not given him. Something she was afraid to give him.

She had to tell him the truth about what had happened in that iron-locked room.

Her mouth was dry. She tried to moisten it and felt as if she’d swallowed razors. And she could have answered Taylor’s question now: There was little difference between humans and Guardians. As both, she’d felt fear and dread. As both, there’d been pain.

But, before the demon, there had never been this much shame. Not for anything she’d done, or anything done to her.

Pain hadn’t stopped her before, though. She couldn’t let shame do it now. Not if she wanted to move forward; not if she wanted to move
beyond
an overturned rock and a bargain.

How laughable that, even as old as they were, Irena did not know if either she or Alejandro could do it. He was only human, as well. Would he feel disgust? Pity? Betrayal? His every possible response would add to the hurt. And she wanted to see his emotions, piece by piece—but she only wanted to see his reaction to this after he’d had time to accept it.

Still, she couldn’t step away to give them space and time. Four hundred years of separation hadn’t made it easier. She had to tell him, face-to-face. And if it hurt
him
, she couldn’t run away from that. She’d never been a coward. She wouldn’t let the demon make her one.

And she hoped that the presence of Taylor and Preston would force them to be mindful of their responses.

“Have you already backed down?” He still spoke in Spanish, his voice soft and challenging. “If you have, Irena, I will come after you.”

Would he? Fear became ragged claws tearing at the back of her throat, scraping at her eyes. She had not known fear could bring tears. She laughed at herself, hoping to push the fear away, but her laugh came out tattered by it.

Alejandro’s hand tightened on her thigh. Abruptly, he let her go.

She caught his wrist. He must have thought his touch had caused this fear. And why wouldn’t he? Alejandro could read her face, her laugh, but he didn’t know what lay behind them. She’d never told him.

For the first time in her life, she wished that she had pretty words. Some manner of speech that wasn’t as blunt as a hammer strike. But she only had what she was.

Though it would be easier to sign than to speak, she did not let go of his wrist. If he signed a reply, she would have to watch his hands. She wanted to see his face.

She spoke quietly in Russian, as he had in Spanish, and her voice was as ragged as her laugh had been. “What the demon did in that room when I made that bargain—it was not what you thought.”

His pulse jumped beneath her fingers. He still didn’t understand, though. His silence said he waited for her to continue.

The claws in her throat became daggers. “He never intended to use pain. He wanted my body to respond to him.” The last part was the worst, but she forced the words out. “And I did.”

She braced herself for disgust and pity. She forgot to prepare for relief.

He didn’t—or couldn’t—contain it, and his relief lifted through his psychic scent, a sweet release.

“He didn’t hurt you?” His voice was hoarse. His throat worked, and the rest was a grateful whisper. “
Gracias, Dios mío!
”

He thanked God?
Her rage and pain exploded. She swung, backhanded him across the face. His head snapped to the side, struck the opposite window. Glass shattered.

Preston choked. “Jesus Christ! Were we shot?”

No. Irena stared at Alejandro, horrified. She’d hit him. The back of her hand was numb from the force of her blow. Vivid red marked his cheek. His eyes had darkened to black. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

His lips drew back in a terrible smile. “Do that again.”

“What the fuck are you two doing?”

Taylor’s voice jolted Irena into motion. Her hand came screaming back to life as she reached for the door. She shoved outside and onto the sidewalk.

Sickness roiled in her stomach. She wanted to curl up, wanted to cry, but she walked, seeing nothing but his face. How could she have lost control? She’d known what she could do if she succumbed to her anger, and she’d done it with
Olek
. It didn’t matter that a backhanded slap was nothing compared to tearing the demon apart. Both had been done without thought, without any attempt to check her actions.

And once again, she’d left.

She stopped, her breath shuddering. She couldn’t walk away from this. Irena turned—and saw Alejandro had kept his promise.

He’d come after her.

Alejandro didn’t know what surprised him more: The harsh pleasure he’d felt when she’d hit him, or that a few moments after she’d done it, he realized that she’d lied to him. The demon
had
hurt her. Alejandro hadn’t seen the evidence, but he’d scented it. Irena’s blood had been spilled in that room.

He wiped at his mouth and tasted his own blood. Mother of God, he didn’t know why she’d tried to revise history or why she’d struck him, but he would not stop until he found out.

Rain splashed against his face as he bolted out of the car. Taylor had pulled over on a street not far from SI. Businesses lined the sidewalks, shabbier than their downtown counterparts. Awnings streaked with dirt were leaking. The scents of nail salons and sandwich shops drifted out through the damp. The sidewalks were almost empty. The humans moved quickly through the drizzle, using papers and umbrellas to shield their hair.

Irena passed each storefront without looking left or right. Her head was down, her shoulders hunched.

Her posture ripped at his heart. He was damned if he’d let her get far enough ahead to escape. Not without settling this between them.

God knew if they could.

He glanced back at Taylor and Preston, each standing behind their opened car door. Alejandro held up his hand, silently asking them to wait.

Preston nodded.

Alejandro took off, narrowing Irena’s lead to a few meters. She didn’t look to see who was running up behind her. Was she that oblivious to his pursuit—and leaving herself open to attack? Anger joined his worry.

In the shadows between two of the storefronts, she stopped. Getting ready to fly?

Not a chance. When she turned, he charged.

She didn’t raise a hand to defend herself. Shocked anew that he
wanted
her to strike him, he caught her waist and lifted her. He’d been hard since her hand had connected with his face, and he fought the hot pleasure of holding her against his body, his erection caught between them. This wasn’t going to be about sex. His only intention was to question.

When her back hit the side of the building, his intentions went flying. Amazement shot through him. He stared down into her wary eyes, disbelieving the evidence in his hands.

She was so small. Irena weighed no more than a human. In the conference room, had he been too blind with arousal and surprise to notice it? Because until this moment, even knowing,
knowing
that Guardians were no heavier after their transformation, he’d imagined lifting her would be an effort. Irena had always been so solid, so indestructible in his mind, as if he thought she’d been made out of metal—but she was fragile flesh and blood beneath his hands.

Her jaw set, but he didn’t just see strength and stubbornness. She expected a blow in return. Dear God. He leaned his forehead against hers, feeling as if he’d lost his footing, trying to regain it.

Instead, the demon had used Alejandro’s face and . . . forced her to enjoy his touch?

Rage mounted in him, as it always did when he thought of the demon with her. But his feelings on
her
behalf were the same. Relief. An emotion that had made her strike out.

Irena’s wet palm cupped the side of his neck. She had to feel his pulse racing. Must hear his heart pounding.

He could barely hear the quick beat of hers over it.

“Olek.” She pitched her voice low, and he was astonished to realize that she was trying to calm
him
.

He lifted his head to look at her, and struggled to keep his shields strong. Tried to sound less shaken than he was. Despite that effort, he only managed, “You ran.”

Her gaze shifted from his eyes to his cheek, though the mark from her hand must have faded. The back of his head felt as if his skull had shattered—but he could ignore the pain. The shock of the slap had affected him more than the blow.

And her stillness, her silence now—was she afraid she’d hit him again?

He didn’t care if she did. “Why did you not tell me before?”

She closed her eyes. What was she hiding? What did she fight?

Then he felt it, faint as a whisper behind closed doors: shame in her psychic scent.

“Oh, Jesus.” He tried to find words again. “There is no shame in it, Irena. Forced to feel pleasure is no different than being forced to feel pain.”

Her eyes flashed open, glowing a brilliant green. “You stupid ox. Do you think I do not know that?”

He felt her anger, rising hot. His footing was gone, but this was familiar.

And that told him something else; she had not hit him out of anger. She’d been angry many, many times. Always, she had controlled it. This was something different.

“You do not hit me now?”

“You thanked your god, you
grateful
pig. Thanked him, when there was nothing the demon could have done that would have been worse. I’d rather he’d torn my flesh. Would rather have felt pain.”

Because it wouldn’t have touched her. Because she could guard against it.

Horror shook his veins as he began to realize. He fought to find his footing again. “You did feel pain. Your blood was in that room.”

She closed her eyes again, breathing shallowly.

“Irena.” He imprisoned her face between his hands. “Tell me, or hit me.”

She snarled. “He put his mouth on me. I would not let myself feel pleasure again. I . . . used my dagger on that part of me.” Her snarl faded, and she shook against him. “But he only waited until I healed, and bound my hands so that I could not do it again. Then I bit off my tongue so that I could not beg him to fuck me. Over and over, I did that.”