Demon Huntress

She led him to a building roaches wouldn't call home, and after picking up a key at the office, they climbed two flights of rickety stairs. When she opened her door, she swore.

"Mickey!"

Ming jie stepped inside the apartment, not bothering to hide his shock. The place was a dump. Not filthy—Shu lan obviously cleaned—but she didn't have a lot to work with. The ceiling, stained by generations of water leaks and mold, bowed as though on the verge of collapse. Gray paint peeled like shredded skin from the walls, and holes the size of his foot pockmarked the vinyl flooring.

And scattered throughout were bits of foam that had once belonged inside one of the cushions on the orange seventies-style sofa.

"What happened?"

"Mickey. My ferret."

"You have a pet weasel?" Said weasel poked its brown head out of the ragged hole in the cushion.

"He's a ferret." She moved into the kitchen, which could barely be called such. The fridge, more rust than metal, rattled like it was on its dying breath, and if the ancient stove worked, he'd sell one of his brothers into Neethul slavery. He might do that with Yuan, anyway.

Maybe The berus wasn't involved in the demon organ ring, after all. If they were, they could afford to pay their people more.

"He must be starving," she said, pouring what he assumed was weasel food into a plastic margarine container. "How long was I in the hospital?"

"Three days."

"My poor baby." Her voice was a soothing croon but it did the opposite to him, and when she bent to place the bowl on the floor, he watched the way the scrub pants molded to her rounded a.s.s. His mind fuzzed out, and he realized he'd taken three steps toward her. The way she stroked the weasel's narrow head, yeah, if she'd touch him the way she was touching the little animal . . .

Shit. He halted in his tracks, feeling flushed and hot and way too short-fused to be anywhere near any female, let alone a female like Shu lan.

The weasel tackled the bowl, flinging pellets everywhere. Shu lan straightened and turned, a smile curving her full lips that he was suddenly picturing on his.

He had to get out of there.

She dug an orange out of a bag on top of the stove, which was pretty much her only counter space, and then grabbed a bag of marshmallows from one of the two cupboards.

"Three days that felt like three years." She bit into a marshmallow and watched him, her gaze secretive, and he wondered what was going on in that pretty head.

He knew what was going on in his, and she'd probably kill him for it.

"Look, I have to go. If you need anything—"

"Like what?"

Like, for instance, help when you grow horns and scales as your demon DNA kicks in.

"Your wound. The stitches will need to be removed."

"I'll do it myself."

"I'd like to follow up with you." He drew a card from his pocket and placed it on the TV tray that must serve as her kitchen table. "Here's the hospital phone number. Say the words on the back before you dial."

"An underworld communications system?"

"Something like that."

"Are you this dedicated to all your patients? Or am I special?"

"Both."

Under normal circ.u.mstances, he couldn't have cared less if a human lived or died. But the half-demon mating-gone-wrong thing fascinated him, and the Berus issue guaranteed that he wasn't going to let her go that easily.

Then there was the fact that just looking at her made his blood run hotter than his normal body temperature of one-oh-nine.

Gods, she was thin, but as hard and sleek as a Trillah demon, but he knew firsthand how soft and pliant she could go beneath his touch. Knew how her slim h*ps could take his thrusts, how her long legs wrapped around him to hold him deep.

And her scent . . . damn. Her scent, deceptively appealing, the way cyanide smelled like sweet almonds, drove him mad.

He burned. He ached. He had to get back on track and fast, because he needed to find a mate before it was too late, and every second spent with Shu lan was a second wasted.

"I have to go," he repeated, but his feet didn't move, because she was striding toward him.

He gazed at her, at the blood smears still darkening her cheek, at the smooth, tight skin everywhere else, and his own skin tightened and shrank as if it no longer fit.

"Thank you for saving my life." She halted a foot away, close enough to smell the marshmallow on her breath. "But don't think this changes anything."

"Everything has changed, Shu lan," he said softly, reaching for her. He put two fingers to her throat, told himself he was probing for any signs of illness, fever, progression of her DNA transformation. Told himself whatever lies he had to in order to pretend he wasn't touching her for the sheer p.l.e.a.s.u.r.e of it.

"I hate it when you put your hands on me," she whispered, but the way her pulse ticked violently beneath his fingers betrayed her.

He breathed deep, seeking her scent like a hellhound on the track of a hellbitch in heat. He slid his thumb down along her clavicle. Fragile. Delicate. He could break the bone with a flick of his wrist.

Or he could run his tongue over the silky skin there. It was insane the way he wanted her, the way his body sought the thrill of something as forbidden and dangerous as an Berus killer. The instinct was so strong that images of the ways he'd take her swamped his brain, short-circuiting his control.